bring the noyz

Please my dear reader, do not think of the title to this post as reference to one of the best songs Zeppelin never wrote, unless you also close your eyes and briefly recall your adolescent fantasies about Tawny Kitaen straddling you like a Jaguar. Damn, was that ever one lucky car.

Finished?

Good. Now let's move on.

I am increasingly getting the feeling that strange and potentially nefarious things happen in these parts.

A week ago Saturday night, our car was burglarized in our driveway. The crime occurred sometime between around 1:00 am and 7:00 in the morning. I apparently forgot to lock it. I got up Sunday morning to let the dogs out and discovered the driver's door wide open. The contents of the glove box and other compartments were strewn about the interior. The Wife's iPod was gone, as was The Boy's school backpack.

Curse you bastards for stealing the iPod. I only hope you weren't so high as to feel like total shit when you looked in the backpack for your booty and found only a change of clothes belonging to a small boy. May you burn in Hell for your treachery.

Following the call to the local PD, I was finally motivated to seek out and join our neighborhood association's Yahoo! group. Aside from the anticipated lost/stray dog posting, I was somewhat taken aback to read all the postings about suspicious people, vehicles, and activities that are witnessed by the neighbors with alarming regularity.

Our neighborhood seems to be one of many potential crimes of opportunity, quick run and grabs, and potential petty thefts. Ours was not the only burglary reported that week.

Earlier tonight, while the neighborhood lie sleeping, The Wife and I spent a curious and somewhat uncomfortable fifteen minutes or so watching a circling police helicopter, spotlight blazing, a block or so from our home. When we realized it was slowly circling our direction we chose to move inside, concluding that if it was moving our direction than its intended quarry might also be heading our way.

As we were going inside, the helicopter flew away. While distance and the neighborhood homes and trees prevented us from seeing what happened, I believe it is doubtful The Man will just give up and leave once it gets to the point where there is a chopper with a searchlight shining overhead. I trust they caught the bastard they sought.

Maybe he's got my kid's backpack.

Vigilance.
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Okay my dear reader, I've been inspired.

A friend just told an interesting tale about an encounter with a vet.

Well seein' as it's still Memorial Day, the day we are required by statute to give pause and reflect upon the sacrifices of those who have proudly given all in the glorious service of the red white and blue, I just thought I might share a similar story with you.

Way back in the very early 90's, I was leaving a happy hour downtown. It was a Friday. Myself and my fellow county cubicle workers met after work at a bar known for their inexpensive yet potent drinks and for their free happy hour buffet.

As the sun was setting I found myself wandering up the side streets for the short walk to my car. My blood was full of booze and my belly was full of free buffet. As I grew near I saw a man milling around on the sidewalk beside the driver's side door. I tensed up in preparation for anything. Closer still I saw that he was most likely some homeless guy, his clothes were dingy and dirty as the street, his hair and beard were long, wild, bedraggled in appearance, and peppered with grime and gray.

I relaxed and he saw me coming. I fumbled in one pocket for my keys and in the other for a few stray dollar bills.

I don't remember who initiated the conversation, but it was laid back, pleasantries were exchanged. Yep, my instincts were correct, another hard-luck homeless story. I pulled my keys from one pocket and I reached in my other pocket for the few wadded up bucks. Smiling pleasantly I unlocked and opened the door, handed him the cash and wished him well.

He reached out and placed his hand on my arm. It seemed a pleading and inviting gesture, warm and not threatening in the least. I stepped back out on the sidewalk. He raised a nearly full 40 in a brown paper bag and invited me to sit, talk and drink it with him. He was quite thankful for my generosity and wished to show his gratitude. He was insistent, and I was enthralled as a guest running late to a wedding.

I accepted the bottle and we sat down on the curb. I offered him a smoke. We sat on the curb, passing the 40 and chain smoking Camel Lights.

Sadly I can know longer remember his name. He told me he was a vet, although of what war I do not believe he ever said. Judging from his worn and weathered appearance it could have been anything from the Civil War forward.

He told me he was traveling, he had walked and hitched down from someplace far, like Nebraska or Minnesota. He was trying to reach the Veteran's Administration Hospital that lies another hour or so's drive down the interstate. He was in need of medical care, he did not specify but I found myself hoping it was for some drying-out, detoxing, and just plain dealing with it. His borderline psychiatric issues were clearly recognizable in his speech. Oh sweet Jesus, please do not let this dude start thinkin' that he's back over there.

From there, he told me he planned to travel back across country, to one of the coasts I believe, to reconnect with an adult son he had not seen in years and meet grandchildren he had yet to see.

Given his current situation and lot in life, I found him oddly optimistic. The Lord knows but only The Devil will tell you what horrors he had previously witnessed and experienced to make him believe that things were good right now.

I do not know how long we sat there, on the curb. It could have been hours. I remember it now as one of those weird moments in life when time slows down or stops altogether.

Eventually the 40 was gone, we stood up and made our good-byes. I thanked him for sharing his story and handed him the pack of smokes and a couple more bucks I rummaged from my wallet. Again I wished him well.

As I drove off, he turned and began walking up the alley near where we had been sitting.

Wonder what he's doing now.

Yes, I remember.

Memorial Day.
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Since we're on the subject:

Ackley
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I've said it all before. While it might bear repeating, I'm just not in the mood.

At least not right now.

If, my dear reader, you are at all interested or otherwise curious, then by all means just go read it.

And since we're living in a glass onion, here's another clue for you all, the walrus is still Paul, and "Polyvinyl" is really named Bradley Jean.

To the brothas. . .
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It was one of those days.

Good night.
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I woke up this morning and got myself a beer.

While the future remains uncertain I trust that the end is not near.

It's just seems like it should be one of those days.
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Or maybe disrespectably agree.

But probably not. Who can possibly keep track of such things nowadays. So go read this and help me work through it.

I'll wait. . .

Finished reading? Good.

Granted my dear reader, I am neither a legal scholar nor the student of history I pretend and aspire to be. I take full responsibility and acknowledge that I might be sorely mistaken.

WHITE PLAINS, May 25 (AP) — A federal appeals court on Friday denied an organization permission to stage an antiwar demonstration on Saturday on the grounds of the United States Military Academy at West Point, where Vice President Dick Cheney is to deliver the commencement address.

The court said the mere presence of the vice president does not turn West Point into a public forum and is not an “open invitation” to about 1,000 protesters who had hoped to march onto the campus.

Well slap me silly and call me Sally but I beg to differ.

I agree that "the mere presence of the vice president does not turn West Point into a public forum".

But a graduation speech is a public event, isn't it?

Right? It's not like he's going there to brief the troops on his brilliant new classifed master plan or anything. I have no doubt that Cheney's cheerleading for his failed war will be released everywhere for all to see.

They tellin' you to never worry about the future
They tellin' you to never worry about the torture
They tellin you that you'll never see the horror
Spend it all today and we will bill you tomorrow
Three piece suits and bank accounts in Bahamas
Wall street crime will never send you to the slammer
Tell all the children in the arms of their mommas
The F-15 is a homicide bomber

- Michael Franti

This administration's increasing inability to tolerate dissent grows quite frightening.

So yell "fire!"

Or sit down and shut up.

we do what we're told
we do what we're told
we do what we're told
told to do

- Peter Gabriel

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And this is why:

This is the incident that prompted me to start blogging again

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Yell Fire!

This shit rocks your ass off.

"From the banks of the river to the banks of the greedy"

That is all, so for Chris'akes stop reading my shit, my dear reader. Just close your eyes, open your ears and just fuckin' listen.

You will not be disappointed.
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I don't make it a habit to be pissed off at a verb, but this my dear reader makes me angry:

Bowing to President Bush, the Democratic-controlled Congress grudgingly approved fresh billions for the Iraq war Thursday night, minus the troop withdrawal timeline that drew his earlier veto.

Bowing?

We have become a Nation of Pussies.
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Tuesday was Graduation Day at school. It was a tough day.

The Graduation ceremony is always at 1:00. The local media always shows up. They tend to be a little heavy with the hyperbole while covering the drama of kids with significant cognitive and physical disabilities graduating from school and heading off into adulthood and a much realer, meaner world, but they typically do a fairly good job of covering the story. It is always an event of highly charged and incredibly mixed emotions. You get to see grown men weep. It really is amazing to behold.

I've seen fourteen of them now, each one is unique and an incredible experience to witness and to participate in. I typically return home feeling like I ran an emotional marathon and promptly fall asleep on the couch after a few celebratory happy hour margaritas.

During the morning we held our annual Memorial Ceremony to commemorate and celebrate the lives of students we lost over the last year. It's always more than one. In my fourteen years I have yet to experience a year without a Memorial. It is one of the occupational hazards of my job. Kids with significant physical and cognitive disabilities have lots of problems. Cripes man, what an understatement. In most cases it is miraculous they lived as long as they did.

Sometimes Death comes at the end of a long slow decline and its arrival is greeted as almost a blessing, because their innocent soul has finally been released from the bounds of earthly suffering.

Sometimes Death comes quickly and unexpected, typically in the form of a seizure in the dark of night.

Either way, it always sucks.

This year there were two, Carlton and Laron. Both were my students. In both cases Death was an eventual release from progressively degenerating bodies. Guess who was asked by the Principal to organize and plan the ceremony.

It went well, both families were there, as was a pediatric doctor, a social worker, a small host of students, school staff and a downtown administrator or two.

I ended it by performing a Warren Zevon song with my Martin, "Keep Me in Your Heart".

When it was all said and done several people commented that they had no idea that I could sing. Neither did I, really. But by all accounts it sounded great.

Go figure.

I was just coming down off this weird gloomy euphoric high caused by performance anxiety mixed with grief flashbacks.

Then it was off to the Graduation. . .

This year's was exceptionally tough for me. One of my most favorite and most loved former students graduated. She's leaving school, half of the only world she has known for the past thirteen years. She's also leaving half of my world.

She's certainly not my first graduate. Like the Memorials, I usually manage one or two graduates a year. You teach, care, love, and fight for them all equally, with the dedication, intensity, and sometimes ferocity of a mamma bear protecting her cubs. But some are more precious than others. People are people, you connect and click better with some than others. It's not personal, it's personality. Rita has been most precious for years. This song was inspired by her.

In the end, with both grief and graduation, you let them go.

Graduation day is a day for saying your piece, finding your peace, then moving on.

Some years it's harder than others.

This is a hard year.

This is the piece I had to say:

I was not the first choice to speak for Margarita. Her teacher first asked a few others whose lives she has also touched deeply. But they politely declined, citing their inability to do this without crying. I am honored to stand before you today and speak on behalf of Margarita. I promise I will do my best to get through this without tears.

Margarita has been at Rosedale almost as long as I have. In a very real sense, we both have grown up here. She has spent almost her entire school career here. She knows this building as well as anyone. She enjoys running down its halls, looking back over her shoulder for her partner in her version of tag. She knows the exact location of every pleasant smelling container of spray or lotion in this building. If you take your eyes off her for a second, there is a good chance she will be gone in a flash, racing off to one of those spots for a quick fix of something yummy smelling.

While we have been acquainted since Margarita began attending Rosedale, our relationship really took off seven or eight years ago. Margarita was a student in Dedra’s class across the hall. We had two shifts then. Margarita and her classmates came an hour earlier than my older students. Almost every morning before my students arrived I would stop by Dedra’s room to get a cup of coffee. Margarita was curious about me; she was coy and almost flirtatious. Over time, we began to know and understand each other. I believe we each recognized a kindred spirit in the other. We would go for walks in the morning. Sometimes she would lead me by the hand, stopping to stand beside a wagon. I knew our relationship had reached a significant milestone the first time she allowed me to pick her up and set her inside the wagon so that I could pull her in it for our morning walk.

I remembered that story last night as I sat at home, staring at a blank screen and wondering what to say today. I remembered other amusing anecdotes and cute stories involving Rita and all the times she stole my heart with a look from her big brown eyes while trying to steal my coffee or sneak some of my lunch. I considered sharing several of them with you now. But then I realized that sharing more of those stories now would most likely lead to my breaking my tear-free promise.

So instead I thought I would try to summarize and describe Margarita. I thought of these two words: playful perseverance.

She is playful, and fun-loving. She takes on few challenges without a mischievous grin and an ornery gleam in her eye.

And as for perseverance. . .

When she was in my class a few years ago, Rita was the type of student that caused me to echo words I heard from some of my own teachers way back when (further establishing the kindred spirit connection), “If only you’d put as much effort into doing your work as you do into trying to get out of it. . . “

Work she eventually did.

Rita has had a very impressive school career, and come a long way from the little girl I first remember seeing bouncing around the classroom next door, rhythmically vocalizing while rocking and flicking the draw-string on the blinds. She has successfully mastered many things: self-help skills, sorting tasks, delivery jobs, and using her symbol based calendar system are just a few of her achievements. Her independence has grown significantly. As her independence has grown she has blossomed. In general, she is much more outgoing and interested in socializing with others than she was years ago. She is truly a testament to the belief that you are never too old to learn so long as you just keep trying.

She has progressed and persevered.

There is something in her personality that always reminds me of a stray kitten. She remains cautious and wary. While she craves your attention, she frequently acts as though she is never quite sure how far to trust you. And much like a kitten, Margarita is just about the most adorable thing in the world.

Before we send Margarita off into the world beyond these old brick walls where she learned so much, I would like to remind everyone that education is very much a two way street. I would like to take a moment to review and share some of the things she taught us.

Margarita taught us to slow down and enjoy some of life’s simple pleasures, such as the scent of a pleasant perfume.

Margarita taught us that sometimes there really is nothing more interesting than the texture of someone’s shirt.

Margarita reminds us that some can say more with their eyes than many people can with words.

Margarita is well known for her diverse tastes. Margarita taught me that everything, and I mean everything, from the entrée to desert is better with Ranch dressing. She taught us that when it comes to fine dining, you can never have too many condiments. If ketchup is good; then ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, barbecue sauce and Ranch dressing with some syrup or jam on top is better still.

Margarita teaches us to approach life playfully, and if you keep trying you will eventually persevere. Just because the teacher stopped you from stealing his coffee today doesn’t mean you should not try again tomorrow. Just bide your time, eventually you’ll catch him off guard. Then the coffee will be yours!

So Margarita, when this week is over and you have left school, I will think of you often, and hope to visit whenever I can. But I will not worry, because I know that no matter where your future takes you, you will succeed with playful perseverance.

May you and I both find our peace in this world.
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(because this one already says a thousand)

"Heya babe! I just totally texted you that I can't wait to hit that. Meet me at the Sonic. My folks aren't home. Not only do I have the keys to daddy's truck, but I also have the key to daddy's liquor cabinet. Par-tay. Yes, that's right PAR-TAY!"

Ah man, that's fucking lame. Please my dear reader, work with me, yes work with me. Together shall we then find the ultimate caption to the photo.
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So Hillary needs a theme song for her campaign?

Please my dear reader, I implore thee, help her, help her now!


What's that? No, no. . .

Oh my dear reader, I must take offense! I can not possibly believe that you do not find that song an entirely appropriate tune for the coronation of Queen Hillary.

[shudder]

Maybe you just haven't heard it in a while.
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Well my dear reader, here we are. It is now moments past eleven o'clock in the P.M.

I find myself in the rather surprising and unusual position of having really nothing much to rant about. It's not for a lack of topics: this keeps getting sleazier, this guy will always be pretty much royalty amongst the weasels, it's just not sporting to rip on the dead, and he was far too easy a target when living. And this chick's commentary about it pretty much proves the point of the punchline of every blonde joke you've ever heard ("duck Magnum, duck").

Transition looms on the horizon. Lots of it.

Two weeks ago I made my final trip to The Sprawl. I went up to help my parents move out and into their brand new bad-ass thirty eight foot full on hardcore RV motor home. They are now on the fringes of living the dream they have spent the past thirty or so years carefully preparing to fulfill. They're living in the thing. At present they sit atop a hillside overlooking a lake in a park just beyond The Sprawl. When Dad retires in January after a forty year career, the folks are hitting the road and heading off into the sunset.

Only six more days of work until my fourteenth year as a teacher reaches its inevitable conclusion. I don't wish to elaborate on the tedium of bureaucracy that comes crashing down around this time each year. Following that, I basically get a scant extended five day weekend before I return to work to begin to prepare for summer session and the coming school year. Granted that's not much of a break, but I only have to make it through June before getting a two week vacation between the halves of the extended summer session. I shall indeed celebrate my independence on the Fourth of July.

We lived happily for the better part of a year stretched to the limit slightly beyond our means. But I am a public school teacher. Do you have any idea how fucking difficult it was to find a house that a teacher could afford to buy within the limits of The City? A majority have fled to the lower living expenses of the mini-sprawl that is beginning to encircle and engulf us. Many have also fled for the higher salaries many surrounding districts offer. It's not that I wish not to toot my own horn to loudly, but I must say that I have heard rumors that this is particularly true for someone of my experience, expertise, and accolades.

But yes, we are pretty much stretched to the end of the rope. The Wife has begun the job search in earnest. She is new nurse with talent that matches the sparkle in her blue eyes. And while her modesty forbids she admit it, she is truly gifted with people, intuitive and empathetic. It is especially captivating to watch her interact with children. It is one of things that initially drew me to her. There's no denying the red Converse hi-tops and the Led Zeppelin t-shirt made very effective bait. From the moment I first saw her talking to a child I was hooked. So if by chance you live in The City and are in need of a nurse with that skill set, then please by all means send me a line.

Ah. . . and then there is the subject of children.

But I shall save that for another night.

Right now, a strange sense of peace and tranquility has settled in. All is right with the world.

I need to take a shower and go to bed.
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I should probably be impressed. You know, all full of "all hail the new Coin of The Realm!" or some such shit.

But still, despite Their shiny methods and sinister motives. . .

I am not.

"Fools and thieves are dangerous
In the temple and market place"

- N. Peart

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another item from the morning's news:

"Nobody knows that," Thompson said. "I've been very sick. ... I was very sick the day of the debate. I had all of the problems with the flu and bronchitis that you have, including running to the bathroom. I was just hanging on. I could not wait until the debate got off so I could go to the bathroom.

Ah, how refreshing! We have a new and truly appropriate topic given that most them already babble around like an over-tired three year old on a mean Dimetapp bender.

Let's discuss the aspiring presidential poo, shall we?

Okay, let's begin. . .

Tell me Senator McCain, do you suffer from occasional bouts of irregularity? Hey Obama, how's your consistency? Solid and firm? Yes, just like your handshake. Oh that's just swell!

Brownback? Well, yeah sort of. Ah dude, that's just gross. Get up off the floor, go take a shower and cut back on the fried foods for a few days.

And please pray tell me, Mr. Thompson, from your individual but sadly not unique perspective, what was it like to have your head so far up there you could actually see it coming?

"Fools and thieves are well disguised
In the temple and market place"

- N. Peart
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An item from this morning's news:

“No one knows how to define progress in such a mixed-up situation,” said Representative Jack Kingston, Republican of Georgia and a member of the subcommittee that overseas military spending. “We’re having trouble measuring it. Imagine building a house without a ruler.”

Yeah, you're running out of lumber and all your tools are fighting.

Cripes man, did you see the hammer take out that screwdriver? Fuckin'ell, that saw just totally sliced up that drill.
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if so, if so
who answers, who answers

Yes my dear reader, I too am still quite alive.

Recently I received in my electronic correspondence a rather curious letter. Out of respect for the bounds of friendship I shall share no further detail about the author. It just wouldn't be prudent, not at this juncture.

I shall however, share with you the gist of it. It posed a single question. A simple one, really. Basically, it asks only this:

So when and why did you write the song "Girls Suck"?

I apologize in advance, my dear reader, if this takes me several days of rambling before I get to the final point. But really now, what can I say.

No really. What can I say?

So when and why did you write that song "Girl's Suck"

[Here we, here we, here we go (wow reality what a concept). . .]

Well for starters I must come right out and proclaim that I am not the song's sole author. A work so great as that could surely not be the product of a single mind. It is far too, too devilishly clever, as some might say. For that particular gem, I collaborated with my dear friend Count Spew.

And worry not my dear reader, for I remember it like I remember yesterday. . .

Spew and I were nearing the end of our collegiate career and in the middle of our first "tour", sometime during the reign of Bush I. About six weeks prior he got on the phone and got us booked into four club gigs in a single week. Normally you think that'd be great, right? Well yeah, it kinda was, I guess.

Somehow Spew had convinced a handful of small midwestern college town bar managers to give us a break and let us play for tips, unseen and unheard. Again, you think that'd be great, right? Here's the kicker:

It was March. It was Spring Break. Again potentially freaking awesome and cool. . .

It was Kansas. We actually walked around asking each other, repeatedly just because we thought it was funny, "Why are there so many fucking people from Kansas?"

It was fucking cold and there was snow on the ground. It was the morning after our third night show. The previous night we had both amused and I think actually frightened a handful of the college kids from the small liberal arts school who had naught the resources nor inclination to head to warmer climes and bask amidst the nubile coeds on an endless sea of beer. All 14 of them, counting the 4 people who worked there. That was a large crowd.

After our show, a couple of the local midwestern farmer's daughters invited us to their table. We passed cans of ice cold Old Style and talked about The Replacements until the neon lights were dimmed. When it was all said and done, the hot one liked Spew. The hot ones always liked Spew. No matter, I was not known for my selectivity in those days. And some days you do wha'cha gotta do to avoid spending a second night sleeping in a bus station, waiting for the 7:15 to that speck of town on the map somewhere outside Topeka.

I still think that maybe our sound was just a little too far ahead of its time.

When morning came we realized we were bleeding money and barely making bus fare. We snuck out of a small apartment near the edge of a small private Liberal Arts college and fled like weasels.

Ah, it's only rock and roll, but I like it.

We were forced to take the bus when we had the sad realization that neither one of our cars would survive a lengthy roadtrip. Spew had already booked the gigs, and well the show absolutely must go on.

Fortunately we were only a few blocks from the bus station. But then again, this was the type of town where you could only be a few blocks from the bus station because you could only it was only a few blocks from anything until you were in the middle of nowhere.

Spew and I missed the early morning bus. There was a mid-day bus that left at 12:30.

We sat outside the station waiting. I think it was shortly after 9:30. Our few meager possessions were scattered around us, a couple of backpacks with a change of underwear and maybe a clean pair of socks, notebooks, and toiletry items. Its pockets were bulging with bits and of gear, broken knobs and every type of audio adapter cable and connector you could get at Radio Shack in those days. We had two guitar cases, and the two small jamboxes we played along with to recreate our "studio" sound live. They played at slightly different speeds, which always made for what we thought to be a very entertaining show. Only one guitar case had a guitar, my old Fender acoustic. The other held an odd combination of luggage and other oddities we had picked up on our travels.

We were sitting out in the chill of the morning, in a far-off slightly secluded corner of the parking lot, taking shelter from the bitter wind beside an out of service bus. The people at the bus station wouldn't let us drink our breakfast of convenience store malt liquor tallboys inside. The bastards.

Spew was sitting on the overturned laundry basket he used as a drumkit, tapping on it nervously with the battered sticks he got from that hairband drummer back home in Austin.
I was sitting on the luggage guitar case.

I had just lit up a decent sized roach I nicked from the ashtray on the girls' kitchen table. I held it gingerly between my thumb and forefinger as I kissed it gently and inhaled. Ain't nuttin' like the air of the dog.

From the corner of my eye I saw Spew tighten and grow tense. I too froze, and shifted my vision to my other periphery. "Jeepers," I mumbled in a whisper, "it's The Screws."
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or "a tribute to a wonderful former boss"

Tomorrow afternoon I'm going to a retirement reception for the Assistant Director of Special Education for the school district. He will be sorely missed. I first met him when he was Assistant Principal at The School I have worked at for the past 14 years.

Steve is a great guy, the kinda guy you'd take a bullet for without thinking twice about it.

Here's what I had to say for his retirement book:

Steve,

They tell me you’re retiring? Say it ain’t so.

You can’t retire. If you retire I will have to change my future career plans. I envision some future day (hopefully still a good 10 or 15 years away), when my body finally gives out on me, either through wrestling one too many times with one of those big rowdy kids with autism or through lifting one of the medically fragile ones. When that day sadly arrives, I planned on picking up the phone and calling you. You would of course have the answer and know just what to do, because you always have the answer and know just what to do. I would soon find myself sitting in a cubicle in the district’s administrative offices. From my little cubicle I would continue to proudly serve the needs of students with disabilities in a more administrative fashion, quite content to be working again directly under your inspirational guidance.

Again I say. . .

You can’t retire. The School is the magical wonderful place it is in large part to your leadership and vision of making a better world for kids. You will always be a part of The School, and The School will always be a part of you. Retiring from The School is like retiring from the Mob, and I think we both know there is only one way to do that.

You made a powerful impression on an idealistic young teacher and had a strong hand in crafting the experienced professional I have become. I cannot begin to fully express my gratitude for all that you have taught me during our years together at The School. But I can share one very concrete example of how you continue to influence my professional and personal life. I think it is quite safe to say that you are well known and loved for your ability to truly listen, your uncanny ability to find the right words, your interpersonal skill at making everyone feel heard and valued, and your gift at diplomacy. Whether I am at school or home, when I find myself in a potentially tense situation or moment of possible conflict, before I act or open my mouth I ask myself one simple little question: “What would Steve do?”

“What would Steve do?” This mantra has served me well many times in the past and will surely continue to do so in the future. I take a brief moment and try to visualize how you might act and what you might say and let this guide my own words and deeds. It is truly a gift I can never equal.

So thank you, thank you, thank you, Steve.

Most humbly and respectfully yours,

The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz

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