Death is like a petulant child, you would rather ignore her, but you know you can't.
Death is like mystery novel, except you don't know when the last page is.
Death is like a rainy day, it usually ruins whatever you had planned.
Death is like a friend that you don't really like but they always seem to pop up in your Facebook feed anyway.
Death is like that old person at the grocery store writing a check, it seems to take forever but you know eventually it will be your turn.
Death is like a life; it's not fair.
Death is like God, mysterious and full of wonder.
Death is like a blockbuster summer movie, full of hype but usually disappointing.
If you liked this post, you weirdo, you might like, Life is like.... written two years ago.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Friday, August 14, 2015
The Wonder Years: Sophomore Year 1992-1993
This is the second of four posts on my high school year. I have dubbed it "The Wonder Years" series. Here is the first post.
The Nightmare of Lunch
Most people get a chance to grow up and get into high school, for some it's a great time for others it's horrible. Personally, my sophomore year was my high school year of purgatory. Here are the fragments to prove it.
The Nightmare of Lunch
If I could sum up my sophomore year of high school in one word it would be: lunch. Yeah, lunch. As I detailed in the first "Wonder Years" post, I had ONE friend to eat lunch with my freshman year. Of course, going into my sophomore year, I was hoping and praying my sophomore year would be different.
It turned it it was different. My sophomore year I had ZERO friends in my lunch. Now, it wasn't like my social life was teeming with friends, but this was a bad case of bad luck. All possible 7-8 people I could have had lunch with had the other three lunch periods.
My first day, I scanned around the cafeteria, my head on a swivel. I didn't see anyone I knew. Not even a pal. Not even a good acquaintance. I spun around and headed back outside (our campus was open and the buildings connected by covered walkways). I milled around, trying to look busy. God forbid that it looked like I DIDN'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS.
That was my whole school year, lunch by myself. I was ashamed to even tell my friends or family about it. Eventually, I had a whole routine for the Loser Lunch Half Hour.
When the bell rung, I would walk as fast as I could to the cafeteria without looking crazy. Once in cafeteria, if the line wasn't too long, I would head for the "fast food/snack line". I would usually grab a chicken sandwich or hamburger (sandwiches were conveniently wrapped). If the traffic on the way to the cafeteria had been crazy and the line was too long, I would go the the snack machines and buy a pack of Lance Cracker Sandwiches (which I am still a fan of). I would then walk straight outside and covertly hide my food in my backpack. Then I would head into one of the academic buildings.
At this point, I would walk around in circles in the biggest academic building. I walked in a random pattern because, duh, I didn't want anyone to know I was a loser. I would stop in the men's room just to waste time and stop circling. If someone came in, I would have to pretend I was washing my hands and head out to my next stop. At some point, the most humiliating part would come because I was so hungry. I would find an empty and somewhat clean bathroom (usually near the science wing) and eat my food in a stall. If it stunk like poo, I couldn't do it.
Sometimes, out of sheer boredom, I would walk around in our other buildings. Occasionally a teacher would ask for a pass and I would have to confess I didn't have one and head back outside. Most of the time, they didn't even ask because I was a nerdy looking white kid, OF COURSE HE HAS A PASS. This did teach me an important life lesson though: if you look like you belong or know what you're doing, people will let you get away with a lot. White privilege plays a big role in that as well.
When I got home, I would eat way too much snack food to make up for the fact that I wasn't eating much at school. Sometimes, I would pack something from the house and eat it before lunch or in my class after lunch, as that class was out of control and the teacher didn't care.
It was basically terrible, but after awhile, I got used to it. Every so often we would have testing or something else would mess with the typical schedule and I would have lunch with my friends. What a heavenly joy that was!
Academically, my sophomore year mirrored my freshman year. I was beyond underwhelming and it was likely my low point in my sub standard academic life. I would make a mix of B's, C's and D's with an occasional A or F from time to time per grading period.
Back Row Blues
My first period English class was the most eventful and memorable of classes. Our teacher was a first or second year teacher and she was hot. She was a blonde beauty that had been a UT cheerleader. It didn't get any better than that (still didn't make up for lunch though). She was a pretty okay teacher and while I loved reading, I just couldn't get into most of the class.
I sat on the back row with a old buddy from middle school band, Marcus (saxophone), a stoner named Mike (I think that was his name), and a gang member, Fernando. We were a motley crew but we shared a love of slacking off, joking around, otherwise, being stupid. I am sure if I had sat elsewhere in the classroom, I would have done much better. I have no idea why she never moved us. I remember really hating poetry and Haiku in particular. I think I wrote a really stupid Haiku just to make a point.
At the end of one grading period, our teacher was calling us up to her desk to show us our grade for the term. I was excited because I might get to look down her blouse (and I did). I figured I had a D. This was no big deal to me - it was still passing! However, I was more shocked to find I had a 58. "There's gotta be a mistake!" I said. "You honestly should have been even lower than this - you have six zeros!" the teacher said softly so that the class couldn't hear. "Oh...." I said and stumbled back to my desk. My parents were furious about the 58, I had failed before, but never this bad. The last grading term, however, I would have a turnaround and have one of my few high school victories (more on this later).
The Hopeless Romantic, Hopeless
My love life pretty much mirrored everything you've seen above. It was non-existent. I had crushes on 10 different girls but didn't talk to many of them and most of them probably didn't know who I was or if I liked them. There were no leads in my classes, just losers and students who didn't much care.
My biggest crush of the year was ironically, Stacey's friend, Marissa. This is ironic because all of my freshman romantic interest had been centered on Stacey. However, she was taken and I became quite taken with her friend (clever, eh?). She was very cute but the most I did was make awkward small talk with her. I'm pretty sure she didn't have a clue I was interested in her. What made the crush less likely to go anywhere is that she went to a different school, so if I was going to see her, it had to be at a youth event for church. It didn't stop me from putting her on a pedestal and dreaming about her constantly.
Although our church probably had over 500 members, the youth group was pretty small. There were four older girls that I wasn't much interested in and a few more our age that were also not interesting or exceptionally pretty. Then there was Stacey, who, again, was off the market at this point. My friend Doug and I were so bummed. We dreamed about a new girl showing up some random Sunday. When we would go to city wide events, we would stare at the pretty girls but were much too shy to actually talk with any of these girls.
The Fight
Meanwhile, back at school in PE, we played basketball almost every day. Six different hoops surrounded the court and we would divide into 12 teams of 3 on 3 or 4 on 4. There was no instruction in class and no supervision. The coaches would just call roll, open up the bins with the balls and the coaches would head back to their office. Needless to say, the coaches were stereotypical douche bags. However, I loved basketball so this set up was fine with me.
We settled into some familiar teams. Of course this would lead to serious, epic basketball games. One guy in particular I remember banging with in the post nearly every day. He was bigger than me and a little taller, but I somehow I was one of the taller guys that could play in the post. Holy cow, those were some battles. Think Celtics-Pistons 86-90 or Bulls-Pistons of 87-91.
One day it got real heated and as everyone else was headed back to the showers. We squared off as we insulted each other. I didn't want to fight him as he was bigger than me. I knew would likely lose but what was I to do? He came towards me and I kicked him as hard as I could in the groin. It was a direct hit. I remember one of our teammates say something like, "Woah!". Most of the class and even the coaches hadn't seen anything. I waited for him to respond but the guy was hunched over in serious pain. My battle was over. I jogged back into the locker room, got dressed quickly and within seconds the bell rang. While I am not an advocate for violence, he never challenged me again to an actual fight. We even teamed up a few times, and usually, when we played together, we would win.
The Trouble with Notebooks
Just like in English, I sat in the back row in history class (with another crappy teacher), I really hammed it up with this Puerto Rican kid. He was tough and kinda gangsta cool so, I kinda admired him. One day I found a way to impress him. Some poor sap had left his notebook in my desk from earlier in the day. He was in ROTC and I hated ROTC guys, because well, I was just wired that way. I took his notebook and wrote all sorts of obscene things on it. I mean, really, really bad, weird stuff. Things that didn't make any sense just to laugh it up with this cool kid that sat next to me. My plan was to leave this folder in another desk or somewhere else, but I was stupid and forgot all about it. I ended up leaving it right in my desk.
The next day, our teacher began class and she said, "N, does this look familiar?" "Huh?" "Did you do this?" My cool friend laughed out loud. I couldn't deny it and I was sent straight to the office. One of the VP's took me in and looked at the notebook. "Do you know him?" "No." "Why did you do it?" "I don't know." "Well, you're going to call your mother and tell her what you did right now. Then you are going to replace this notebook and bring me a new one tomorrow." I called my Mom at work to tell her and she was upset. Like the quiet shocked upset. The kind that makes you feel really bad because you let your mom down. Ouch.
I was pretty mad at myself. I thought about what my Mom and Dad would do when they would see this crazy, curse word-filled notebook.. I mean, the F word was scrawled all over it. THE F WORD. I don't think I had ever cursed in front of them at that point in my life. This was going to kill them. What's a boy to do?
Then, waiting for the bus after school, it struck me like lighting. I started drawing over the worst of it. I remember making weird ugly faces out of the words and drawing sharks and crazy monsters that covered over the curse words. Of course, I kept some of it, but I had saved myself serious trouble. No one ever found out about that one. Until NOW. (Lost "Boom" sound effect).
The Try- Out
Another big event happened early in the fall when I tried out for the basketball team. My freshmen year, they only allowed the kids that signed up for the special Basketball class try out (my 8th grade coach was an asshole (I don't use that word lightly either) and refused to sign me into that class, because I wasn't in "athletics" period of 8th grade). Anyway, it was me and maybe 6-10 other guys.We were invited in to a JV practice one Saturday morning. I knew my chances were slim, even though there were clearly guys on the JV team that were only on the team because they played football or because they were big. There were even a few short players and I knew I could take some of them one on one. Even still, I knew my only shot was to play up a particular role.
So, I went balls to the wall playing the hustle/crazy-defense-white-guy-that-will-likely-never-play-in-the-games-unless-they-are-blowouts. I had to guard a very good player and I made his life a living hell, I was draped all over him and I am sure I probably fouled him quite a bit. I think I got the ball twice, and the one time I got it, of COURSE I shot it, and missed. I got a few boards, played good D (my man scored once on a tough shot in 20 minutes) and you can guess what happened.
(I didn't make it, in case you couldn't figure it out).
The Shame
Some time during the year, probably when I was in some dark place I started listening to country music. I still look back in shame. You have to understand that country music in San Antonio in 1992 was HUGE. To my credit, I did like some credible stuff like Dwight Yoakam. Look, don't hold it against me, I was young and stupid. I grew out of it by the summer before my senior year.
Actually, this is a pretty solid song. I would listen to this one on my Walkman, over and over and over.
Still with all my defeats, my life wasn't all bad. I was reasonably happy. I had friends. We had fun. I have a ton of memories of spending the night at friend's houses and renting a NES, Genesis or SNES game and staying up really late. We played a lot of street basketball after school and my YMCA basketball season was fun. I was involved in our church youth group and we had a lot of good times. My family life was mainly good (except when my report card would come in).
The Victory of '93
Even though I didn't act like it, I really did like English class. I loved Animal Farm, An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge and Julius Caesar, but I just wasn't consistent in my efforts. I was stupid (Exhibit A: the fact I was a fan of country music). A few years ago, I spotted my sophomore report card at my parent's house. My grades for each term in English were something like this: 82, 73, 91, 71, 58, 84. I am sure I was a perplexing student for my teacher.
Anyway, at the end of the year I finally found a project I could get into. The assignment was to present a novel to the class as one of it's characters. We would basically summarize the plot, characters, etc. and have the class ask questions about our story. I had just read Micheal Crichton's Eaters of the Dead (which, I recently re-read this past May and discovered that over 20 years later - it just isn't that good). So, I went with the lead of the book. I also borrowed a costume from my dad that he had made for a church VBS production (he was David in his prime). Because the main character is from the Middle East, I began practicing my Arabic accent, although looking back it probably sounded more Indian. I spent hours getting my facts down straight about the novel and practicing my accent. I figured everyone was going to do that sort of thing.
Boy, was I wrong. Most everyone held their note cards in their hand and just read off their report in first-person. It was boring. I think one other student dressed up, but I was the only one to give it in an accent as an actual character. Looking back I am proud I wasn't afraid to perform. I guess I knew I did a hell of a job and wanted to show off. The students in class looked shocked when I came into the room to present (I had stepped out to change in the restroom). They were even more shocked when I started talking. After all, I was pretty quiet in class and didn't answer too many questions. No doubt about it, I did great and it felt good. I ended up getting 110 for dressing up and a nice note from my teacher on my score sheet. I kept that sheet for a long time. It was a small victory but small victories in purgatory sure do mean a lot.
It turned it it was different. My sophomore year I had ZERO friends in my lunch. Now, it wasn't like my social life was teeming with friends, but this was a bad case of bad luck. All possible 7-8 people I could have had lunch with had the other three lunch periods.
My first day, I scanned around the cafeteria, my head on a swivel. I didn't see anyone I knew. Not even a pal. Not even a good acquaintance. I spun around and headed back outside (our campus was open and the buildings connected by covered walkways). I milled around, trying to look busy. God forbid that it looked like I DIDN'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS.
 |
| Not really but my sophomore year really could be summed yup pretty well with Awkward Penguin. |
That was my whole school year, lunch by myself. I was ashamed to even tell my friends or family about it. Eventually, I had a whole routine for the Loser Lunch Half Hour.
When the bell rung, I would walk as fast as I could to the cafeteria without looking crazy. Once in cafeteria, if the line wasn't too long, I would head for the "fast food/snack line". I would usually grab a chicken sandwich or hamburger (sandwiches were conveniently wrapped). If the traffic on the way to the cafeteria had been crazy and the line was too long, I would go the the snack machines and buy a pack of Lance Cracker Sandwiches (which I am still a fan of). I would then walk straight outside and covertly hide my food in my backpack. Then I would head into one of the academic buildings.
At this point, I would walk around in circles in the biggest academic building. I walked in a random pattern because, duh, I didn't want anyone to know I was a loser. I would stop in the men's room just to waste time and stop circling. If someone came in, I would have to pretend I was washing my hands and head out to my next stop. At some point, the most humiliating part would come because I was so hungry. I would find an empty and somewhat clean bathroom (usually near the science wing) and eat my food in a stall. If it stunk like poo, I couldn't do it.
 |
| This isn't my high school but it captures the feeling. Just picture it more dingy, dark and depressing - as my high school was older and less well-lit. Just seeing this takes me back, to those icky, awkward days. |
When I got home, I would eat way too much snack food to make up for the fact that I wasn't eating much at school. Sometimes, I would pack something from the house and eat it before lunch or in my class after lunch, as that class was out of control and the teacher didn't care.
It was basically terrible, but after awhile, I got used to it. Every so often we would have testing or something else would mess with the typical schedule and I would have lunch with my friends. What a heavenly joy that was!
Academically, my sophomore year mirrored my freshman year. I was beyond underwhelming and it was likely my low point in my sub standard academic life. I would make a mix of B's, C's and D's with an occasional A or F from time to time per grading period.
Back Row Blues
My first period English class was the most eventful and memorable of classes. Our teacher was a first or second year teacher and she was hot. She was a blonde beauty that had been a UT cheerleader. It didn't get any better than that (still didn't make up for lunch though). She was a pretty okay teacher and while I loved reading, I just couldn't get into most of the class.
I sat on the back row with a old buddy from middle school band, Marcus (saxophone), a stoner named Mike (I think that was his name), and a gang member, Fernando. We were a motley crew but we shared a love of slacking off, joking around, otherwise, being stupid. I am sure if I had sat elsewhere in the classroom, I would have done much better. I have no idea why she never moved us. I remember really hating poetry and Haiku in particular. I think I wrote a really stupid Haiku just to make a point.
At the end of one grading period, our teacher was calling us up to her desk to show us our grade for the term. I was excited because I might get to look down her blouse (and I did). I figured I had a D. This was no big deal to me - it was still passing! However, I was more shocked to find I had a 58. "There's gotta be a mistake!" I said. "You honestly should have been even lower than this - you have six zeros!" the teacher said softly so that the class couldn't hear. "Oh...." I said and stumbled back to my desk. My parents were furious about the 58, I had failed before, but never this bad. The last grading term, however, I would have a turnaround and have one of my few high school victories (more on this later).
The Hopeless Romantic, Hopeless
My love life pretty much mirrored everything you've seen above. It was non-existent. I had crushes on 10 different girls but didn't talk to many of them and most of them probably didn't know who I was or if I liked them. There were no leads in my classes, just losers and students who didn't much care.
My biggest crush of the year was ironically, Stacey's friend, Marissa. This is ironic because all of my freshman romantic interest had been centered on Stacey. However, she was taken and I became quite taken with her friend (clever, eh?). She was very cute but the most I did was make awkward small talk with her. I'm pretty sure she didn't have a clue I was interested in her. What made the crush less likely to go anywhere is that she went to a different school, so if I was going to see her, it had to be at a youth event for church. It didn't stop me from putting her on a pedestal and dreaming about her constantly.
Although our church probably had over 500 members, the youth group was pretty small. There were four older girls that I wasn't much interested in and a few more our age that were also not interesting or exceptionally pretty. Then there was Stacey, who, again, was off the market at this point. My friend Doug and I were so bummed. We dreamed about a new girl showing up some random Sunday. When we would go to city wide events, we would stare at the pretty girls but were much too shy to actually talk with any of these girls.
The Fight
Meanwhile, back at school in PE, we played basketball almost every day. Six different hoops surrounded the court and we would divide into 12 teams of 3 on 3 or 4 on 4. There was no instruction in class and no supervision. The coaches would just call roll, open up the bins with the balls and the coaches would head back to their office. Needless to say, the coaches were stereotypical douche bags. However, I loved basketball so this set up was fine with me.
We settled into some familiar teams. Of course this would lead to serious, epic basketball games. One guy in particular I remember banging with in the post nearly every day. He was bigger than me and a little taller, but I somehow I was one of the taller guys that could play in the post. Holy cow, those were some battles. Think Celtics-Pistons 86-90 or Bulls-Pistons of 87-91.
 |
| In high school, I wanted to play like Charles Barkley. In reality, I was more like Bill Laimbeer without the height or shooting touch. Although when I got hot, my good buddy Eric would call me "Larry Legend" (but that's just because I am really white). |
One day it got real heated and as everyone else was headed back to the showers. We squared off as we insulted each other. I didn't want to fight him as he was bigger than me. I knew would likely lose but what was I to do? He came towards me and I kicked him as hard as I could in the groin. It was a direct hit. I remember one of our teammates say something like, "Woah!". Most of the class and even the coaches hadn't seen anything. I waited for him to respond but the guy was hunched over in serious pain. My battle was over. I jogged back into the locker room, got dressed quickly and within seconds the bell rang. While I am not an advocate for violence, he never challenged me again to an actual fight. We even teamed up a few times, and usually, when we played together, we would win.
The Trouble with Notebooks
Just like in English, I sat in the back row in history class (with another crappy teacher), I really hammed it up with this Puerto Rican kid. He was tough and kinda gangsta cool so, I kinda admired him. One day I found a way to impress him. Some poor sap had left his notebook in my desk from earlier in the day. He was in ROTC and I hated ROTC guys, because well, I was just wired that way. I took his notebook and wrote all sorts of obscene things on it. I mean, really, really bad, weird stuff. Things that didn't make any sense just to laugh it up with this cool kid that sat next to me. My plan was to leave this folder in another desk or somewhere else, but I was stupid and forgot all about it. I ended up leaving it right in my desk.
The next day, our teacher began class and she said, "N, does this look familiar?" "Huh?" "Did you do this?" My cool friend laughed out loud. I couldn't deny it and I was sent straight to the office. One of the VP's took me in and looked at the notebook. "Do you know him?" "No." "Why did you do it?" "I don't know." "Well, you're going to call your mother and tell her what you did right now. Then you are going to replace this notebook and bring me a new one tomorrow." I called my Mom at work to tell her and she was upset. Like the quiet shocked upset. The kind that makes you feel really bad because you let your mom down. Ouch.
I was pretty mad at myself. I thought about what my Mom and Dad would do when they would see this crazy, curse word-filled notebook.. I mean, the F word was scrawled all over it. THE F WORD. I don't think I had ever cursed in front of them at that point in my life. This was going to kill them. What's a boy to do?
Then, waiting for the bus after school, it struck me like lighting. I started drawing over the worst of it. I remember making weird ugly faces out of the words and drawing sharks and crazy monsters that covered over the curse words. Of course, I kept some of it, but I had saved myself serious trouble. No one ever found out about that one. Until NOW. (Lost "Boom" sound effect).
The Try- Out
Another big event happened early in the fall when I tried out for the basketball team. My freshmen year, they only allowed the kids that signed up for the special Basketball class try out (my 8th grade coach was an asshole (I don't use that word lightly either) and refused to sign me into that class, because I wasn't in "athletics" period of 8th grade). Anyway, it was me and maybe 6-10 other guys.We were invited in to a JV practice one Saturday morning. I knew my chances were slim, even though there were clearly guys on the JV team that were only on the team because they played football or because they were big. There were even a few short players and I knew I could take some of them one on one. Even still, I knew my only shot was to play up a particular role.
So, I went balls to the wall playing the hustle/crazy-defense-white-guy-that-will-likely-never-play-in-the-games-unless-they-are-blowouts. I had to guard a very good player and I made his life a living hell, I was draped all over him and I am sure I probably fouled him quite a bit. I think I got the ball twice, and the one time I got it, of COURSE I shot it, and missed. I got a few boards, played good D (my man scored once on a tough shot in 20 minutes) and you can guess what happened.
(I didn't make it, in case you couldn't figure it out).
The Shame
Some time during the year, probably when I was in some dark place I started listening to country music. I still look back in shame. You have to understand that country music in San Antonio in 1992 was HUGE. To my credit, I did like some credible stuff like Dwight Yoakam. Look, don't hold it against me, I was young and stupid. I grew out of it by the summer before my senior year.
Actually, this is a pretty solid song. I would listen to this one on my Walkman, over and over and over.
Still with all my defeats, my life wasn't all bad. I was reasonably happy. I had friends. We had fun. I have a ton of memories of spending the night at friend's houses and renting a NES, Genesis or SNES game and staying up really late. We played a lot of street basketball after school and my YMCA basketball season was fun. I was involved in our church youth group and we had a lot of good times. My family life was mainly good (except when my report card would come in).
The Victory of '93
Even though I didn't act like it, I really did like English class. I loved Animal Farm, An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge and Julius Caesar, but I just wasn't consistent in my efforts. I was stupid (Exhibit A: the fact I was a fan of country music). A few years ago, I spotted my sophomore report card at my parent's house. My grades for each term in English were something like this: 82, 73, 91, 71, 58, 84. I am sure I was a perplexing student for my teacher.
Anyway, at the end of the year I finally found a project I could get into. The assignment was to present a novel to the class as one of it's characters. We would basically summarize the plot, characters, etc. and have the class ask questions about our story. I had just read Micheal Crichton's Eaters of the Dead (which, I recently re-read this past May and discovered that over 20 years later - it just isn't that good). So, I went with the lead of the book. I also borrowed a costume from my dad that he had made for a church VBS production (he was David in his prime). Because the main character is from the Middle East, I began practicing my Arabic accent, although looking back it probably sounded more Indian. I spent hours getting my facts down straight about the novel and practicing my accent. I figured everyone was going to do that sort of thing.
Boy, was I wrong. Most everyone held their note cards in their hand and just read off their report in first-person. It was boring. I think one other student dressed up, but I was the only one to give it in an accent as an actual character. Looking back I am proud I wasn't afraid to perform. I guess I knew I did a hell of a job and wanted to show off. The students in class looked shocked when I came into the room to present (I had stepped out to change in the restroom). They were even more shocked when I started talking. After all, I was pretty quiet in class and didn't answer too many questions. No doubt about it, I did great and it felt good. I ended up getting 110 for dressing up and a nice note from my teacher on my score sheet. I kept that sheet for a long time. It was a small victory but small victories in purgatory sure do mean a lot.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Dog Days of Summer Fragments
There's no doubt about it, it's the longest and most dreary part of the year (at least for South Texas). It's downright miserable outside.
I am not the most patriotic guy, in fact nationalism goes against my natural inclination but due to the in-laws we found ourselves at a local suburb's small 4th of July parade. At the very end of the short parade, I could believe what I saw. It was a "Sons of Confederates" group marching with drums and the occasional gun shot. Of course this was right on the heels of the recent events in South Carolina, I was dumbfounded. It was so tone deaf and offensive. However, a moment of shame came with pride, my oldest, C (age 9) started booing them and I followed her lead. Definitely a proud papa moment.
H (age 3) continues to grow like a weed. He has always loved animals and has grown to love to pretend to play "Cheetah Simba", which is just like Simba from the Lion King but he is a cheetah who just happens to "blow fire". He came up with that all on his own. Typically, I am "Uncle Scar" and we plot the overthrow of Musfsa and/or Simba. Also, we fight a lot to determine who will be the King (or sometimes who will be the "boss").
E (age 6) is swimming like a pro. She swam the length of the pool last night and I asked her if she was tired, and she was shocked I would even ask. Awesome. While all the kiddos are imaginative, she seems the most capable of being completely in a world of her own by herself. She craves alone time to play on her own more than the other kids. Sometimes I will go by the door and hear her belting out a tune, or playing teacher or mother with her dolls. She's very coy about it and doesn't like to share exactly what she was playing or saying if you ask.
Summer II drones on but it's is almost over. I taught Maymester, two Summer I's an now two Summer II's. Am I brunt out? Maybe a little but next week will work wonders on me (my one week "off" even if it is filled with meeting and prep work).
There's a veterinarian clinic near our house that still proclaims:
"Go Spurs Go, NBA Champs!"
After the summer of 2014 went by, I kinda thought it was cool they left it up. Like, "Hey, this could be the last go-around, let's celebrate and appreciate this championship, people!"
Then the 2014-2015 season started and I still thought that was cool, like, "Yeah, man, we're the defending champs until you knock us out!"
Then in May we lost in the playoffs and days, weeks went by and the sign stayed up. It was clear we were not going to be the champs again, but I guess technically, we were still the champs.
Now, even after the finals, even this very day the sign is still up. It's time to let go. It's time to let go.
Speaking of the Spurs, they had a great summer. My good friend Phil sent this to me, and it's been floating around the SA social media/interwebs.
That's all party people, drink lots of water, don't eat so many carbs and slow down and watch of out for dogs and cats crossing the road, you'd hate to run over someone's pet wouldn't you?
I am not the most patriotic guy, in fact nationalism goes against my natural inclination but due to the in-laws we found ourselves at a local suburb's small 4th of July parade. At the very end of the short parade, I could believe what I saw. It was a "Sons of Confederates" group marching with drums and the occasional gun shot. Of course this was right on the heels of the recent events in South Carolina, I was dumbfounded. It was so tone deaf and offensive. However, a moment of shame came with pride, my oldest, C (age 9) started booing them and I followed her lead. Definitely a proud papa moment.
H (age 3) continues to grow like a weed. He has always loved animals and has grown to love to pretend to play "Cheetah Simba", which is just like Simba from the Lion King but he is a cheetah who just happens to "blow fire". He came up with that all on his own. Typically, I am "Uncle Scar" and we plot the overthrow of Musfsa and/or Simba. Also, we fight a lot to determine who will be the King (or sometimes who will be the "boss").
E (age 6) is swimming like a pro. She swam the length of the pool last night and I asked her if she was tired, and she was shocked I would even ask. Awesome. While all the kiddos are imaginative, she seems the most capable of being completely in a world of her own by herself. She craves alone time to play on her own more than the other kids. Sometimes I will go by the door and hear her belting out a tune, or playing teacher or mother with her dolls. She's very coy about it and doesn't like to share exactly what she was playing or saying if you ask.
Summer II drones on but it's is almost over. I taught Maymester, two Summer I's an now two Summer II's. Am I brunt out? Maybe a little but next week will work wonders on me (my one week "off" even if it is filled with meeting and prep work).
There's a veterinarian clinic near our house that still proclaims:
"Go Spurs Go, NBA Champs!"
After the summer of 2014 went by, I kinda thought it was cool they left it up. Like, "Hey, this could be the last go-around, let's celebrate and appreciate this championship, people!"
Then the 2014-2015 season started and I still thought that was cool, like, "Yeah, man, we're the defending champs until you knock us out!"
Then in May we lost in the playoffs and days, weeks went by and the sign stayed up. It was clear we were not going to be the champs again, but I guess technically, we were still the champs.
Now, even after the finals, even this very day the sign is still up. It's time to let go. It's time to let go.
Speaking of the Spurs, they had a great summer. My good friend Phil sent this to me, and it's been floating around the SA social media/interwebs.
That's all party people, drink lots of water, don't eat so many carbs and slow down and watch of out for dogs and cats crossing the road, you'd hate to run over someone's pet wouldn't you?
Thursday, August 6, 2015
Peru Fragments: Part VI: Coming Back Down to Earth
In the summer of 2014, I taught a short-term study abroad in Peru. Here are the fragments. Part V can be found here.
It was the late afternoon when our bus descended from Machu Picchu and we finally came back down to earth. Some students wanted to do a little shopping near our hotel, while others wanted to grab a bite before we were to board the train in the early evening back to Ollantaytambo.
I didn't want to shop nor was I hungry but I hung out with my colleague and three other students. We actually played pool in a nearly deserted bar for about 20 minutes but people were hungry, so off we went. The restaurants on the main drag in Aguas Calientes look pretty much the same and most look to be serving the same exact food. Many offer a free drink just for stopping in. I wasn't hungry, so I let everyone else make the selection.
We sat down, everyone ordered (sans me) and one of our female students went to the restroom. When she came back she informed us, there was "poop on the wall", no toilet paper (of course that explained the poop on the wall) and no soap at the sink. My colleague (a male) decided he would check out the men's room. He reported there was no toilet paper and no soap either.
I said, "I sure hope they have soap in the back."
That soon started a discussion on if we should stay or go. It was all so panicked and quick because while they had taken our drink and food orders, nothing had been brought back yet. I simply stated I would do whatever they wanted to do, but that if it was me, I wouldn't eat there. I remember saying that if we were going to jump ship, we ought to go "one or two at at time" but suddenly someone got up and the next thing you know, we were all standing up, heading for the door, fighting to not be the last one out.
We found ourselves running down different directions on the 45 degree slanted street, laughing as we ran. Many of the other patrons and workers at the other restaurants were laughing and smiling as we made our escape. We had left in such a rush, we had made no plans on where we would meet up at. Eventually, we all made it back to the hotel, laughing and in high spirits. Thankfully, we didn't have to pass the restaurant on the way back to the train station. Some of us got snacks at the woeful train station snack bar, while I waited for a solid tomato and cheese sandwich on the train.
It had been a wonderful day and we were exhausted but still buzzing from a fruitful and fun day. After our short train ride, we quickly boarded a bus back to Cuzco. The next day was to be a "free" day for everyone. Some wanted to go white water rafting but it was an all day investment (9:00 AM or so to 7:00 PM) and I just wanted some downtime in Cuzco to do what I wanted. Besides, I am more interested in culture than adventure.
The next morning, one team went rafting while we the rest of us decided to go horseback riding in the early afternoon. This also appealed to me because it was cheaper and at age 36 I had yet to even ride a horse in life!
We got to the "farm" after being stuck in the rush hour traffic. I awkwardly climbed up onto the horse and thought of all the bad scenarios possible. The horse was going to take off and I was going to have no idea how to stop him. I was going to fall off and hit my head, etc. etc. As you'll find out, my thinking wasn't as far-fetched and paranoid as you might think.
I have to admit, as silly as it sounds, it was cool riding a horse. Here I was, finally doing something that for much of human history was pretty much THE mode of transportation. So, this was what it was like, eh? My horse was trotting all up and down this insanely rocky path and I felt really bad for him. I was thinking, "Oh, watch out for that stone!"; "Ooh, that had to hurt!", etc. etc." I couldn't tell if he was old or hurt or what, but boy was he slow. He would stop and occasionally graze on some stubby grass. I didn't mind at all because I figured he earned that little bit of stubby grass. The horses were obviously well traveled because the supervision for us was nil. They knew just where to go. What a boring life for the horse though.
When we got to the "halfway point" we got off our horses and allowed them a 15 minute break to eat and get some water. It was at this point where I made my mistake. You know in the US when they tell you way too much information and safety precautions? This was the one time it would have come in handy.
My horse was eating and I figured, why not pat him on the side as he ate? After all, we had bonded on our trip. Why not pat him, like, I'm an old cowpoke and this here, is my old horse taking me on one last journey.
My horse was not having it. I patted him and I could feel his whole body move. My Spidey-Sense went off. This is one of those moments I wish someone had been recording so I could watch this in super slo-mo. Using both arms, I shoved off of his body as he turned on me and kicked me in the chest. My shove had worked handily and his hooves only grazed my chest. It still packed quite a wallop though and knocked the wind out of me. Although my chest felt like it was on fire, I was okay. After that, all compassion for the horse went out the window. No more breaks for stubby grass, ya jerk.
I have pretty much have no recollection of what we did for dinner that night (Hmm..maybe waiting to write this a year later isn't such a great idea...??) Wait. It came back to me, it was snacks from my backpack. Later that night and I meet a few students for dinner at the hotel later that night and scammed some bread off the table and maybe had an appetizer of some sort.
The next day was another travel day to Puno. It was a 10 hour bus ride. Sure we stopped at a really old church somewhere, some ancient ruins somewhere else, stopped at another market and a tiny little museum and finally onto Puno. I didn't mind the stops but on the other hand, it felt a little frivolous and silly after coming from the heights of the Sacred Valley.
My next post should be the last post in my Peru series. Up until this point out trip had been about as perfect and dream-like as I could have imagined but little did I know how my trip would come to a soul-crushing and sad end.
It was the late afternoon when our bus descended from Machu Picchu and we finally came back down to earth. Some students wanted to do a little shopping near our hotel, while others wanted to grab a bite before we were to board the train in the early evening back to Ollantaytambo.
I didn't want to shop nor was I hungry but I hung out with my colleague and three other students. We actually played pool in a nearly deserted bar for about 20 minutes but people were hungry, so off we went. The restaurants on the main drag in Aguas Calientes look pretty much the same and most look to be serving the same exact food. Many offer a free drink just for stopping in. I wasn't hungry, so I let everyone else make the selection.
We sat down, everyone ordered (sans me) and one of our female students went to the restroom. When she came back she informed us, there was "poop on the wall", no toilet paper (of course that explained the poop on the wall) and no soap at the sink. My colleague (a male) decided he would check out the men's room. He reported there was no toilet paper and no soap either.
I said, "I sure hope they have soap in the back."
That soon started a discussion on if we should stay or go. It was all so panicked and quick because while they had taken our drink and food orders, nothing had been brought back yet. I simply stated I would do whatever they wanted to do, but that if it was me, I wouldn't eat there. I remember saying that if we were going to jump ship, we ought to go "one or two at at time" but suddenly someone got up and the next thing you know, we were all standing up, heading for the door, fighting to not be the last one out.
We found ourselves running down different directions on the 45 degree slanted street, laughing as we ran. Many of the other patrons and workers at the other restaurants were laughing and smiling as we made our escape. We had left in such a rush, we had made no plans on where we would meet up at. Eventually, we all made it back to the hotel, laughing and in high spirits. Thankfully, we didn't have to pass the restaurant on the way back to the train station. Some of us got snacks at the woeful train station snack bar, while I waited for a solid tomato and cheese sandwich on the train.
It had been a wonderful day and we were exhausted but still buzzing from a fruitful and fun day. After our short train ride, we quickly boarded a bus back to Cuzco. The next day was to be a "free" day for everyone. Some wanted to go white water rafting but it was an all day investment (9:00 AM or so to 7:00 PM) and I just wanted some downtime in Cuzco to do what I wanted. Besides, I am more interested in culture than adventure.
The next morning, one team went rafting while we the rest of us decided to go horseback riding in the early afternoon. This also appealed to me because it was cheaper and at age 36 I had yet to even ride a horse in life!
We got to the "farm" after being stuck in the rush hour traffic. I awkwardly climbed up onto the horse and thought of all the bad scenarios possible. The horse was going to take off and I was going to have no idea how to stop him. I was going to fall off and hit my head, etc. etc. As you'll find out, my thinking wasn't as far-fetched and paranoid as you might think.
 |
| At the start of our journey. |
 |
| My only real picture of the horse. I still don't like him. |
My horse was eating and I figured, why not pat him on the side as he ate? After all, we had bonded on our trip. Why not pat him, like, I'm an old cowpoke and this here, is my old horse taking me on one last journey.
My horse was not having it. I patted him and I could feel his whole body move. My Spidey-Sense went off. This is one of those moments I wish someone had been recording so I could watch this in super slo-mo. Using both arms, I shoved off of his body as he turned on me and kicked me in the chest. My shove had worked handily and his hooves only grazed my chest. It still packed quite a wallop though and knocked the wind out of me. Although my chest felt like it was on fire, I was okay. After that, all compassion for the horse went out the window. No more breaks for stubby grass, ya jerk.
After our horse ride, we grabbed a quick lunch, walked around town and went shopping for tourist stuff in a nearby market, near our hotel (Eco Inn on Av El Sol, which, by the way, was fabulous and it's right across from this pretty little park). The market was like a nice flea market and generally had good prices. It's called the "Handicraft Center" if you're interested. Just know, there are a billion places to find this stuff and it's all pretty much the same. If you see something unique though, grab it. I really do think the best prices were in Cuzco but maybe that's where I did my most serious looking.
I have pretty much have no recollection of what we did for dinner that night (Hmm..maybe waiting to write this a year later isn't such a great idea...??) Wait. It came back to me, it was snacks from my backpack. Later that night and I meet a few students for dinner at the hotel later that night and scammed some bread off the table and maybe had an appetizer of some sort.
The next day was another travel day to Puno. It was a 10 hour bus ride. Sure we stopped at a really old church somewhere, some ancient ruins somewhere else, stopped at another market and a tiny little museum and finally onto Puno. I didn't mind the stops but on the other hand, it felt a little frivolous and silly after coming from the heights of the Sacred Valley.
My next post should be the last post in my Peru series. Up until this point out trip had been about as perfect and dream-like as I could have imagined but little did I know how my trip would come to a soul-crushing and sad end.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Who Would Jesus De-friend? The Problem with American Christianity
One of my FB "friends" posted this the other day:
"If you in any way, shape, or form support Planned Parenthood, please unfriend me now. You are no friend of mine."
Of course, this was in response to the recent Planned Parenthood controversy. Of course, she is a conservative Christian.
My mind instantly contrasted her attitude with that of Jesus'. So, I thought of questions I could send her:
Of course I didn't send them.
I am sure she posted out of sheer anger and frustration. I am sure she felt compelled to preach the "truth" to others because she (and I) feel like we have little control over a crazy world around us. I suppose the real question to ask is:
When will Christians figure it out?
Love is the answer, not judging.
You will not change minds by being angry. You will not change minds by screaming at people in person or online on Facebook. You will most certainly not change minds by allying yourself with politicians. 20th century Christianity sold it's soul for 3 more decades of "cultural relevance" but its alignment with politics has left it bankrupt in the mind of the public.
Christians are seen as walking in lockstep with the GOP. Christians are often seen as mean, judgmental, anti-poor, even anti-tipping! Christians are generally seen to hate homosexuals and even science. The stereotype ain't that far off, either. They are defined by fear, repression and basically the word "no".
Judging others dismisses their perspective and makes the other person feel angry and not valued.
Love includes others in the conversation, listens and gains respect of the other person.
I don't blame my "friend" for the downfall of American Christianity, but she sure ain't helping either.
"If you in any way, shape, or form support Planned Parenthood, please unfriend me now. You are no friend of mine."
Of course, this was in response to the recent Planned Parenthood controversy. Of course, she is a conservative Christian.
My mind instantly contrasted her attitude with that of Jesus'. So, I thought of questions I could send her:
- Who would Jesus "unfriend"?
- Wouldn't you be more likely to change a friend's mind on abortion if they remained your FB "friend"?
- Might your attitude help reinforce stereotypes of the "Judgmental Christian"?
- Could your attitude help foster ill will towards your political allies and more importantly, Christianity?
Of course I didn't send them.
I am sure she posted out of sheer anger and frustration. I am sure she felt compelled to preach the "truth" to others because she (and I) feel like we have little control over a crazy world around us. I suppose the real question to ask is:
When will Christians figure it out?
Love is the answer, not judging.
You will not change minds by being angry. You will not change minds by screaming at people in person or online on Facebook. You will most certainly not change minds by allying yourself with politicians. 20th century Christianity sold it's soul for 3 more decades of "cultural relevance" but its alignment with politics has left it bankrupt in the mind of the public.
Christians are seen as walking in lockstep with the GOP. Christians are often seen as mean, judgmental, anti-poor, even anti-tipping! Christians are generally seen to hate homosexuals and even science. The stereotype ain't that far off, either. They are defined by fear, repression and basically the word "no".
Judging others dismisses their perspective and makes the other person feel angry and not valued.
Love includes others in the conversation, listens and gains respect of the other person.
I don't blame my "friend" for the downfall of American Christianity, but she sure ain't helping either.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
Art Post: Toucan Sam & Fragments on Cereal
Sometimes art imitates life and sometimes I imitate cartoons.
Inspired by picking up some Froot Loops from the hotel lobby this morning, I drew Toucan Sam. My mom would never let us get sugar cereal so it was a little cathartic for me to draw Sam. I loved cartoons. I loved sugar. So, why couldn't she just buy me Froot Loops once, just once!?!?
I loved staring at the colorful boxes at the store. Each cereal had it's own cool cartoon character. I was a cartoon manic so I would just look up in wonder. Also, how could any kid resist the little toy inside the box. Wow, what a temptation. Whoever invented that was a genius! So mysterious, so cool and yet most kids would be likely to lose all interest in it by the end of the day - if you ever got your little grubby hands on it to begin with!
I loved the special offers and contests too! I would read the back of a cereal box like it was a map to a hidden treasure. It just made you feel like you were losing out on life if you didn't get that particular box.
Ok, so my Mom caved a few times. One time I ordered a magnet set of the Monster Characters (ya know like Boo Berry and Count Chocula). That was epic. I had those forever and I might still have Boo Berry somewhere.
One time when my Grandma was in town visiting, I went to the grocery store with her and begged her for Ghostbusters cereal. It worked! I couldn't believe it! My mom was perturbed when she saw it sitting on the counter.
I loved staring at the colorful boxes at the store. Each cereal had it's own cool cartoon character. I was a cartoon manic so I would just look up in wonder. Also, how could any kid resist the little toy inside the box. Wow, what a temptation. Whoever invented that was a genius! So mysterious, so cool and yet most kids would be likely to lose all interest in it by the end of the day - if you ever got your little grubby hands on it to begin with!
I loved the special offers and contests too! I would read the back of a cereal box like it was a map to a hidden treasure. It just made you feel like you were losing out on life if you didn't get that particular box.
Ok, so my Mom caved a few times. One time I ordered a magnet set of the Monster Characters (ya know like Boo Berry and Count Chocula). That was epic. I had those forever and I might still have Boo Berry somewhere.
One time when my Grandma was in town visiting, I went to the grocery store with her and begged her for Ghostbusters cereal. It worked! I couldn't believe it! My mom was perturbed when she saw it sitting on the counter.
Update from the next week:
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