bring the noyz

Singing, good morning America, how are you?
Saying, don't you know me, I'm your native son?

Okay, so the song's about a train, not the city. But it's what came to mind and somehow seems to fit my perception of the current reality.

So cut me some slack, puffy brotherman, it just feels right.

I've spent most of the day with the cable news channels on in the background, watching through the corner of my eye Katrina gyrate, twist, turn, and direct its wrath towards New Orleans like some cranked-up Bourbon Street stripper in the midst of a hi-octane meth-acid binge fueled by steroids washed down with ample quantities of the substance they named the street after.

That's what I'm talking about.

Well, to be perfectly honest my dear reader, a glass of wine or two with a slice of leftover pizza later and the mind begins to wonder as it wanders.

Every network has their own clip of the endless streams of traffic fleeing New Orleans on both sides of the road. As nothing has really happened yet they have little else to show. So they show it over and over and over again accompanied by an endless stream of meaningless speculation, hyperbole and blah blah blah de fucking blah.

It's got me thinking.

What would you take?

If you only had a few hours to load up your proverbial wagon and get the hell out of Dodge what would you take with you?

If you knew with an almost absolute certainty that what got left behind will be destroyed or just plain gone, blown and washed away. . . poof. . . out of your life. . . forever. . . what would you take with you?

How do you prioritize a life's worth of memories and materials into what you can fit in the trunk of your car?

I imagine there is a moment of almost zen-like clarity and calm when the decision is finally made, although I do not envy anyone forced by circumstance into such a state of trancendence.

All I can think is that it must really fucking suck.

Yeah. . . mostly it must just really fucking suck.
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"He loved explosions," Thompson's widow Anita said.

"And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon."
- Roger Waters

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This letter went out in today's mail:

August 20, 2005

Senator Ken Armbrister
3205 East Mockingbird
Victoria, Texas 77904

Dear Senator Armbrister,

Yesterday on local radio news reports discussing the end of the 2nd Special Legislative Session I repeatedly heard an audio clip where you lamented yourself and your fellow legislators being referred to as “clowns” and “idiots”. While many would argue that this is an accurate description given the Texas Legislature’s repeated inability come up with a plan for school finance and property tax reform, I completely disagree.

I commend you sir, for this is without a doubt the most honest and accurate statement I have heard from an elected official in many years. You and your fellow legislators are definitely not clowns or idiots.

Clowns are entertaining and amusing, and any fool will tell you that even an idiot gets it right sometimes. Neither can be said about you, your colleagues on both wings of the Capitol Building, or the Governor.

Clowns and idiots would not have squandered away the opportunities of two Regular Sessions and not one, not two, but six Called Special Sessions to provide relief and reform to a system widely believed by a majority to have been broken for years.

Clowns and idiots would have lacked the audacity to push through legislation that boosted their benefits or gave sweet deals to their corporate buddies in the telecom industry while completely disregarding the needs of the school children of Texas.

Senator Ambrister through your actions or lack thereof, you and your legislative colleagues have demonstrated that you are vain, grandstanding, egocentric, and self-serving. You and your colleagues demonstrated a greater concern towards bettering your own fortunes and for the next election than you did for the concerns of those you claim to represent. These are neither the characteristics of clowns nor idiots.

Most clowns and many an idiot would recognize the cruel irony in mandating that the public school children of Texas pledge their allegiance every morning to a flag and to a state that has completely turned its back on them.

So again sir, I agree with you. You are definitely not clowns or idiots.

You are something far more insidious.

Good day.

The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz
Public School Teacher, NBPTS - Exceptional Needs Specialist
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I think something bit me.

I don’t know what it was. I only hope that it was big, mean and ugly. Or at least two out of three.

Otherwise I will be really pissed that I’ve spent about the past hour and a half waiting at a nearby minor emergency clinic.

This past Friday I noticed I had a small bump on my right knee, like a mosquito bite.

Except maybe a little nastier.

By Sunday afternoon it was swollen to about the size of a dime, red and warm to the touch. Today the redness and bump is at least as the size of a quarter and it’s growing. If you look at it from the proper angle it appears as though my kneecap has grown a kneecap. There is a painful feverish warmth extending an inch and a half or so out from that. My entire knee has this kinda dull burning constant ache.

This afternoon I showed one of our school nurses. Without trying to alarm me (you've all heard that tone of voice in medical professionals before) she recommended I talk to my doctor, sooner rather than later.

I called my doctor’s office and described the previously mentioned symptoms to whomever it was that I was speaking with on the phone. Without regard to whether I was alarmed or not (which was in fact somewhat alarming) I was instructed to go to the emergency room or a minor emergency clinic, again sooner rather that later as apparently my symptoms cannot wait until later in the week to see my doctor.

It would make me angry to learn that I was given medical advice by his receptionist. My gut feeling however, tells me that is likely what happened.

So now I am sitting in the exam room at the nearby minor emergency clinic. Cash or credit card upon service as they don’t take my insurance. Blasted insurance! I could have gone to the ER to use my insurance but the savings of money versus the cost of three or four hours of my time and hassle of an urban ER just didn’t add up.

Sure, it's fun to sit there for hours reading old magazines and religious pamphlets, waiting along with the indigent, desperate, and sometimes arrested to be treated for various injuries and ailments.

But not that much fun.

Or so it seemed an hour and a half ago when I walked through the door of this clinic. Now I'm starting to wonder.

So I am waiting for some doctor who doesn’t know me from Adam (and likewise in reverse so I just have to assume the doctor is knowledgable and trustworthy) to come in and look at my knee.

For some reason I am reminded of that scene in "The Meaning of Life" where the British officer wakes up in the morning and is told by the doctor that something, presumably a tiger (“a tiger. . . in Africa?”) bit off his leg during the night.

We shall see, my dear reader, we shall see.
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Okay, maybe nothing bit me.

"Cellulitis. Caused by something. Don't know exactly what."

That's basically what the doctor told me. It probably started out as a little unnoticed scratch and some nasty opportunistic bacteria moved right in. . . and are building a condo complex. Damn microbial squatters.

The doctor also said something about having a staph infection. She also mentioned something about the possibility of it being MRSA, an antibiotic resistant superbug, but at least the tone of her voice was not alarming.

She gave me a couple different types of antibiotics and sent me on my way.

Then she said something about me maybe having to come back in a couple of days so that they could slice the bump open and drain the pus.

Fucking great.

Ah well, all this for exactly one dollar and thirty cents more and about half the time than if I had gone to the ER.

And it was the first day of school. It's going to be a great year.
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Or Another True Story of Brave Parenting Adventure

WARNING: As I trust you can discern from the title of this posting I am about to unravel a tale that is not for the squeamish or faint of stomach. If, my dear reader, you find that you are of a more delicate and sensitive nature and are by chance leisurely reading this with your morning coffee and a danish, you may want to first finish your meal before proceding. May I suggest you check out the headlines at Salon or find a few moments amusement at The Onion before returning to this humble story. Although on your next morning outing when you order breakfast and are given the option of something such as pancakes and sausage or a fruit cup, I trust you will remember this and order the latter.

First, a bit of schooling:

Peristalsis.

It's one of those wonderful things our bodies do without us thinking about it. And that's a very good if sometimes messy or potentially embarassing thing.

It frequently does not work well in non-ambulatory people and others who don't move around alot, particularly in the lower regions. That's why there's older folks in lots of those laxative ads. Something about walking and the movements of everyday life helps to keep things moving down there.

And when things aren’t moving down there. . . well, it pretty much boils down to simple math. If you’ve got more going in than you’ve got going out. . . we’ve all seen the ads, we know what happens.

Well, as The Boy is non-ambulatory this has always been an issue.

This has been compounded by The Boy’s history. Due to the still unaccountable Ms. Von Munchausen’s evil insistence that The Boy had stomach problems he does not have, he lived on a liquid diet fed nearly continuously through his gastrostomy tube for the first two and a half years of his life. The formulas that are used, while wonderful for providing complete balanced nutrition, frequently have the side effect of gumming you up quicker than pouring cake batter in your gas tank.

This has left The Boy, for lack of a better less medically descriptive explanation, shall we say, perhaps a little bit stretched out on the insides.

Needless to say by now, The Boy has issues when it comes to regularity.

He's really not. He's typically an every four or five days type of guy.

You read that right. Every four or five days.

If after four or five days it don't come out on its own, which is frequently the case, well. . . if it ain't coming out somebody needs to go get it.

I'll spare you the detailed description of that procedure and say only that it involves direct manual stimulation of some of the muscles involved. Use your imagination, or not. Fortunately, it's a borderline minor medical procedure and as The Wife is halfway to her RN license she typically spares me from the details as well.

Which is not to say I haven't done it.

You do wha'cha gotta do. Ask any parent, they'll tell ya. It's your kid, man.

On those times when The Boy independently initiates this blessed and much heralded in our home bodily function we go balls out to encourage it and facilitate the process.

Particularly if it's been like a week.

Can you imagine, or even do you want to, going a fucking week without, um. . . oh fuckin'ell, let's just speak plainly and let it all out, so to speak. . . shitting?

Not a pretty picture is it? Get's ya a little uncomfortable, don'it? Perhaps even now you're feeling a little bloated.

Such is the Life of The Boy.

I will now proceed with a descriptive account of earlier events.

As today marked about six days since his bowels last moved, The Wife and I had planned the intervention to get the proverbial ball rolling for this evening. As it turns out, our plan was not needed.

I was sitting on the couch with The Boy in my lap when I felt his beginning efforts to push and strain to um. . . yeah that.

"Honey! Quick! The Boy is trying to poop!" I holler out to The Wife sitting at this computer on the desk across the room. With well practiced precision we spring into action. We have learned with experience that The Boy's bowel movements are a little like a frightened turtle, if conditions aren't just right, he won't come out of his shell. And we have actually witnessed it going back in. We've learned through much trial and error that positioning is everything.

So we assume the position. I recline on the sofa and place The Boy on my chest in this kinda halfway like he's crawling halfway like he's Muslim and Mecca is in the direction of my head position. As I steady him with one hand, I am loosening his pants and diaper with the other.

The Wife approaches and as I lift The Boy slightly she places a large disposable pad between The Boy and myself. She then completely removes his pants, leaving his diaper unfastened but still covering his bits and parts.

The Wife then stands, holding on to the diaper, like a quarterback under center waiting for the snap.

We wait while speaking words of encouragement and praise.

As it had already been a week, we didn't wait long.

A push here, a grunt there and presto. . . we have poop! Major, massive, nicely formed like a small melon tapered at one end. Seriously and literally big shit.

The Wife carefully wraps it in the diaper and scrambles off to the bathroom dispose of this minor miracle in the toilet. Plop. . . flush. . . finished.

Or so we think. . . until about half hour later when I enter the bathroom to heed nature's call.

Turn on the light, raise the lid, drop trou, aim and. . . Whoa Nelly!

The massive poo is still there.

I flush the toilet as I turn it off and tuck it back in my boxers.

The poo does not move. I nervously watch the water level inch upwards towards the top of the bowl. I scream, "Aaaagh! No! Please don't overflow, please don't overflow!"

With millimeters to spare the water level slowly begins to subside. The monumental poo mocks me from the bottom of the toilet bowl.

The Wife hears the commotion and joins me in the bathroom. We stand side by side staring in awe and amazement down into the toilet. Gahdamn! The kid's only four! And he craps like an NFL linebacker a day or two after All You Can Eat Steak Night at The Golden Corral.

I must confess to having a brief moment of strangely twisted parental pride, "That's my Boy!"

In disbelief I flush again. Again the water inches slowly up towards the top of the bowl while the massive poo stoically sits, static at the bottom of the bowl.

Damn. Now what?

Well, if it won't go down in one piece. . . what to use? I go out into the carport and snoop around, finally settling on a small scrap of plywood, about an inch wide and two feet long.

Chop. Chop. Chop. Flush.

It leaves the bowl, but as is quickly evident by the rising water it does not pass through.

Double damn.

After about twenty minutes of cussing and plunger work the flushing of the toilet slowly returns to normal.

Longo.
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It's time to start another school year, new beginnings, and all that blah blah blah. . .

Every year, for some reason that I'm sure sounds great to a bunch of central office administrators, the school district finds it necessary to bring all of the teachers together for some big important training on This Year's Great New Education Best Practice to Improve Student Learning Idea or Initiative. Like before, blah blah blah. . . The thousands of teachers in the district divide by grade level and subject area and travel across town to whatever campus to gather with others of their ilk.

Sounds like a great idea, right?

Um. . . yeah. . .

I have dutifully attended these gatherings for the beginning of the past thirteen school years. Each gathering has been a tremendous waste of my time and energy and provided zero useful information for me to use. It is a tremendous waste of time and energy because none if it ever applies to me or my students.

You see, my dear reader, when it comes right down to it the educational system as a whole really doesn't give a rat's ass about the population of students I serve. They don't care all that much about kids with multiple significant physical and cognitive disabilities because those kids cannot be tested using the standardized tests. Those that can even hold a number two pencil are just as likely to try to stab you with it as to try to mark on a piece of paper.

Because they are not tested they are not included in the current methods that assess schools for performance. Not being included in the assessments means they are not included in the spanks and the handslaps schools receive for not having enough kids pass the standardized tests. So quite honestly, the majority of principals don't care as long as the special kids stay quiet and out of the way and don't disrupt the other kids who do have to take the stupid standardized tests.

Sad but true.

It is my avid opinion that the population of kids I serve, those kids with the most serious physical and cognitive multiple disabilities are still very much left behind.

Some may say that they are not, some may say that the education system cares about all children, but as I have stated, this has not been my experience. Outside of a small group of hardcore pathologically dedicated people such as myself and my coworkers, others in education typically come across in kind of a condescending "ooh, isn't that cute" or "how special for them" way.

Color me cynical, but this is what I have learned.

This point is further illustrated by the fact that when my large urban district with over 100 campuses publishes the lists to instruct teachers which campuses they are to go to for the big district wide bruhahahs, my campus is never included on the lists.

While further making myself and my fellow teachers feel like the bastard red-headed stepchildren it does afford us a degree of freedom.

We can pick where we want to go. Since none if it ever applies ever it really doesn't matter where I go, as long I go somewhere.

I go somewhere because it is a requirement and they have sign-in sheets which go back to Important Administration Types to make sure you show up. Then they break us down into small enough groups to make it obvious if someone gets up and leaves.

The bastards.

This morning, I chose the high school campus nearest my home. Simple geography. I did not even know the subject area until I arrived.

Well, as it turns out, I picked the campus where all the secondary level math teachers were meeting.

Math teachers meaning, of course, math teachers. Secondary meaning not elementary, grades 6 12.

They had all the teachers assigned to classrooms based on their grade level and campus. Since my campus is never on the lists I picked a classroom where the 6th grade teachers were meeting. I picked 6th grade because that's as low as I could go. My students mostly don't even know what a number is.

Yes, this kinda makes it hard to work on lots of math, but I do what I can.

So first thing this morning I found myself sitting in a room with about 3o 6th grade math teachers.

And what did I learn about?

That's a damn fine question, and I tell ya the answer, sort of.

I learned about this (according to the first slide in the Powerpoint presentation):

Organizing for Coherence In & Across Curriculum, Assessment, and Professional Development Ensuring Equal Access to a Rigorous Curriculum for All Students To Support The Success of EVERY Student

Seriously.

I'm joshing you negative. That was the title of today's important mandatory professional development training session.

Just what the hell is that? Fuck if I know.

I had that same question this morning. I sat through it for about six hours until I couldn't take it anymore and opted not to return from a 10 minute break.

I still have the same question.

Mostly I just sat quietly with my best faux attentive look wondering about the guy with an eye patch wearing a Hawaiian shirt (like if Jimmy Buffet turned pirate) on my right and watching the probable former sorority girl turned elementary school teacher on my left draw little hearts in pink hi-lighter on her handouts while people babbled incessantly about such weighty issues as (again, according to the Powerpoint, I only wish I could be making this shit up):

The Guiding Questions in the Conceptual Overviews Build High Level Thinking Demand by Cognitive effort that requires students to engage with conceptual ideas that support procedures in order to successfully complete the task and develop understanding.

Whatever.

It's going to be a great year.
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I have little doubt, my dear reader, that like myself you have learned something about the U.S. Army's recruiting woes. As I am sure you do, my dear reader, I also blame the liberal media for this because they have the audacity to report on unpleasant things like dead soldiers.

That's just not good P.R. for our fine military forces. We need more coverage on the fun part of war and killing: flying planes, shooting large guns, driving tanks, and more stuff like in the video games; and less on the not so fun part about possibly dying, or having your limbs blown off.

It recently seems in an effort to counteract this downward trend of volunteers eager to learn the latest in computer technology while dodging bullets and improvised explosives in 120+ degree heat the military has upped the ante on their ad campaign.

Most nights on some television networks I see repeated multiple recruiting ads encouraging the young'uns to join up and serve. In these ads I see lots of minorities eager to join up. I see rural people. I see inner city kids.

Basically, I see the poor and the disenfranchised.

The ads do not portray the children of the suburbs and affluence. I don't recall seeing a high school kid getting out of his new Ford Explorer in the driveway of his large suburban home and interupting dad's dinner with the boss to say that he's joined up. Or little Muffy telling her parents over brunch that she won't be going to Yale because she's enlisted in the Air Force.

I am reminded of the scenes in Farenheit 911 with the predatory recruiters stalking kids at the mall on the poor side of town and then Michael Moore giving recruiting pamphlets to spineless goat fucking congressmen so that their kids can enlist.

This war is being fought as have been all wars, primarily by the poor and the powerless. Those who profit the most sacrifice the least, but again, that has always been the case so what's a fella to do?

I am completely and utterly disgusted.

Please, my dear reader, do not misunderstand my point. I am not against the military. I am not so idealistic and naive to believe that the military is not needed. I recognize their presence helps to keep it safe for us to shop at Wal-Mart and go to the Taco Bell drive-thru on our way home to watch our big screen televisions as is the American Way.

I am convinced, as are most likely you my dear reader, that the American people have been lied to from the beginning about the "war on terror" or "global struggle against extremism" or whatever the fuck it's called nowadays. Whatever the reasons, we're in the thick of it now, and the purpose of this little rant is not to go off on some tangent about Bush and Bullshit. So let me get back to my point. . .

Where is the truth in marketing?

The Government makes manufacturers and marketers of other products that pose potential health risks warn consumers about those risks. Look at a beer bottle or a pack of cigarettes for easy evidence of that. Hell, there's even a label on our fucking hair dryer warning you not to use it in the bath tub.

Can you imagine the mighty hew and cry that would arise from the hallowed halls if there was any other product or service being heavily advertised on prime time television that when used properly resulted in the deaths of over 1800 people and significant injury to around ten times that many? How fast would the CEO of that company be hauled before some Congressional committee to be verbally belittled and blasted before being sent to the federal pen?

Is it too much to ask that our government be held to the same standard they hold private companies?

Am I the only one who thinks someone should mention, if only a little in the fine print a the bottom of the ad, that we are in the middle of a fucking war?

Don't you think there is some obligation to say something like, "Why yes, little Timmy, you'll learn how to fly a helicopter and we'll pay for college. . . assuming you survive with your physical and mental health relatively intact, because you will most likely be going to a combat zone where people that hate you, because they hate us and you represent us, will be trying like all hell to blow you up. Every day."

Chuck D., you da man! May your words ring true for the target market of the military's advertising:

I got a letter from the government
The other day
I opened and read it
It said they were suckers
They wanted me for their army or whatever
Picture me given' a damn - I said never
Here is a land that never gave a damn
About a brother like me and myself
Because they never did

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From this evening's electronic correspondence:

TO: feedback@current.tv
FROM: The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz

Hey dude(s) and/or dudette(s)!

I can't exactly say that I've been holding my breath waiting for Current TV to come in to my living room, but I am curious and a potential regular viewer.

After spending some time at your website I am not so sure.

You wanna be cool, hip, and relevant? Well, as it's way to late to trade in Al Gore for somebody like the guy with the dreads in the Black Eyed Peas I guess you're stuck having to find another way to reach the open-minded but skeptical.

So here's an idea, crazy as it sounds. . . BE ACCESSIBLE!

If you want people to watch your programming tell them where to find it.

I followed a link from a Yahoo! news story about the launch of the network to your website. To be totally honest, I was not really impressed with what I saw. The little countdown clock to what's going to be on and when is mildly interesting. But other than that, the whole site looked like totally MTV 2000.

While my skepticism increased, I remained open-minded and yes, interested. Because the programming looks interesting: something about new parents, Austin, and a piece on underground Iran I think I heard about from an NPR report. Cool.

But can I watch it in the comfort of my living room? Will I be motivated to turn off the PS2, put down the ipod and watch something other than The Daily Show? Is it on in my town?

I enter my zip code in the "DO I GET CURRENT" box. Ooh, where to watch in many cities. Not mine. So I click "continue".

You want my fucking address? My street address is a required field? You have check boxes about sharing my information?

I guess this time around the revolution will be televised so you can sell the ad space.

Just publish a damn list.

with all the sincerity of the new network,

-the Good Doctor Polymer Noyz

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