Home for the Holidays

What is home? Home, as I was reminded walking out to my car Christmas eve, is the way the moonlight washes blue over the snow and how the train sounds in the distance, the way the snow smells and the wind sounds blowing through the barren trees--home has a quiet and a beauty all its own, and it is like no other place on Earth. It is the squirrels and the streetlights and the smell of the fire that comes from every house and no house but has always been there. And my family is there. Home is where I was sick for most of my trip and lied on the couch watching TV for three days, but if you have to get sick, you might as well do it when you are visiting your mother. Home is where taking care of her sick son is like riding a bike, I guess, because she's still got it. I did not get out much, but it was nice not to run around like a mad man for once, and it was nice just to be "home," really home, for once. So nice that I stayed an extra day to actually spend with my parents. I miss them. My only regret is that I didn't get to spend much time with my sister and niece.

Nagativity

Today, Lib and I went to her family Christmas. When we pulled up to her uncle's house, the "Keep Christ in Chrismas" sign in their front yard was half covered in snow, and I was thinking to myself that it was a nice sentiment if you wanted to make sure that "the reason for the season" was not forgotten in all the colored lights and materialism, but did it really warrant a posted sign that looked more like an election campaign? Were we voting somewhere to keep Christ in Christmas or was it an anonymous ballot in each of our hearts? But that is not the issue--as we walked in the house, the nativity scene in front was covered in eighteen inches of snow, and only poor Joseph's head was left peering out above the snow while Mary, yes Mary, the second greatest mother of all time (love you, mom--#1), and Jesus himself were burried under the snow. Now, if you're going to post that sign, if you really want to keep Christ in Christmas, then the first thing you have to do when it snows is dig his divine little butt out.

Dreams Do Come True

I don't know if it was finding out another one of my friends is having a baby paired with getting new tires yesterday because my old, bald ones contributed to the accident I got into where I hit a pick-up truck just before Halloween, but last night I dreamed that I was driving my father's truck down a hill and got into a minor head-on collision when a woman drifted into my lane. The damage was insignificant, so I got in the truck to continue on my way, but there was one of my friends' babies in the car, and it wasn't in a car seat; so fortunely, I found a backpack that when unzipped, unfolded a car seat for the child and strapped him in, which ended up saving his life because the same thing happened fifty feet down the road when another woman drifted into my lane, and this time, she smashed the front end of my dad's truck. I felt like an idiot, and I wasn't sure how to explain to my father that I had wrecked his truck twice. But I think he understood, because in the next scene of my dream, I was riding in the truck with my father when a woman drifted into his lane and we got into a head-on collision. Thankfully everyone was OK. However, not unlike many real-life accidents, when I awoke this morining, my neck was stiff and kinked up, and I couldn't turn it. But really, what did I expect after getting into three accidents last night?

One for the Glass Cases

I was talking to my students today about Holden's red hunting cap in The Catcher in the Rye and how he gives it to his litter sister Phoebe to somehow protect and preserve her even though she is clearly growing up. That hat, to Holden, is a retreat and a reminder of childhood and he would put it on in vain attempts to be someone he used to be in a world that used to exist; it allows him to act like a child, and it protects him from the wind and cold in what he sees as a cruel world. As the kids were drawing Phoebe, they asked me to draw the hat, and as I was doing so, I remembered for the first time that I used to have a tan cap with ear flaps that I bought specifically for campfires with my friends in the cold, which were quite often. So as the kids were working on their assignments, I found myself thinking of that hat and that time period and getting sentimental and longing for those years during and right after high school. Maybe it was because those memories had been so long stored that the smell was fresh, but they were so vivid and real when they rushed back that I just wanted that hat, and those friends and a campfire. But that is not how it works. But it was nice to remember anyway. See you guys soon.

System Failure

I don't know what I should focus more on with this post: the fact that the XBox 360 is a piece of crap because, in the past week, two of my friends' machines have broken and so has Lib's; the two hour plus journey to find a T8 star torque bit to take the XBox apart, which ended in success the next day after hours of deep searching at the Englishtown Flea Market; or maybe I should write about how I ran to the store for thermal paste and when I came back, Lib had abandoned the "how to fix your Xbox" video on Youtube to watch thermal video of people farting. Either way, the attempts to fix the Xbox ended in failure and Microsoft is getting what they want because we are going to spring for a new one--you win, jerk offs!

A Carcass Carol

I think Thanksgiving is officially over. I finished my turkey lunch (six days of turkey out of the past eight) and that was the last of it. But I am proud of what I did accomplish because I know I could go for a few more days if there were turkey available; however, maybe it's time for me to put thanksgiving in the past and focus on Christmas...Shoes.

25 Days of Christmas...Shoes

I have decided to sing "Christmas Shoes" every day at work until Christmas just to annoy my coworkers. There is a clear division of those who support and sing along with me and those who scowl. This is one of those things that sounded like a great idea at the time, but three days into it, I'm not sure that I have the stamina. If I want to saturate the English Department with the song, I must be the fountain spewing forth the cloying, sentimental swill that is "Christmas Shoes", and as it becomes more stagnant with every day, I feel the ill effects of contamination. I may have committed myself to delving deep into the heart of darkness, and I am not sure that I will come out of this the same person who started this joke. I love you all.

Turkey: Five days out of seven. Two out of three meals today.

Christmas Fever

Well, turkey fever didn't last long...or did it? On Friday morning, Lib and I went to the tree farm and cut down a spruce tree in the prime of its life so we could hang lights and bulbs from it (I wonder if this is a happy fate for trees or if it's like having your dog fixed and dressing it up in your sister's clothes and jewelry while it's still groggy). Either way, it was a nice time for all. The cat seemed to take a real interest, and led Lib and I around the tree in circles as we hung the lights; then she(the cat not Lib) proceeded to bat any ornaments that weren't hung high enough or nailed down into the stairwell, collecting them at the bottom of the steps. Later, Lib dug out the Fimo (clay) and we made a couple of ornaments for the tree. What kind of ornaments does one make to celebrate Christmas you may ask? Easy...Sushi. Mine is the appetizing tuna roll with ginger and wasabi, while Lib went for the inside-out California roll with black sesame seeds. We are officially knee deep in the holiday season, people. And don't worry. I haven't left Thanksgiving and Turkey Fever completely behind. Lib and I made another Turkey on Sunday just because we wanted to and will be eating more leftovers for dinner tonight with homemade macaroni. Days I have eaten turkey: four out of the past six and counting.

Turkey Fever

I just want to say that I love Thanksgiving. I love turkey. Lib and I made a Fakesgiving meal with a roaster chicken, but it was perfect. Tis the season to unbutton your pants and pass out on the couch. I'm not saying anything new here, but enjoy the weekend; love the people you are with and thank God you are alive.

American Justice

You know that idiot that takes a left turn at a light right in front of you? Well, that was me last month, and as a result, I got into a minor accident when I slid across the rain into a pickup truck. I told the guy we should call the police for insurance purposes, just to make sure he didn't have any problems getting his truck fixed since it was my fault. Because of my consideration for his situation, I was cited and told that I would have to go to court for failure to yield the right of way.

The cop played it off like it was no big deal and told me, "We have to cite accidents, but if you go to court and talk to the prosecutor, he will take the points off your license and you will just have to pay the ticket." I appreciated his candor and figured I would just suck it up, go to court, and have the charges reduced--easy-peasy.

So, on Tuesday, I went to court. Oh the stories I could tell. The court was the most confusing, unorganized place I have ever been. No one knew what they were doing, and when anyone asked a question, the bitch of a clerk just yelled at them and made them feel stupid. There was no record for me, and she told me I had to notify them seven days before the court date, but I wasn't contesting, I just wanted the charges reduced, so she told me to go to the window and talk to them, and when I did they told me I didn't have to check in, so I took my seat. When I took my seat, they told us all if we were pleading guilty to the ticket to get in line, but when we got in line, the clerk yelled at us again and told us if we had already checked in to get sit down, the guy behind me just shook his head and laughed, and we sat back down--keep in mind I had yet to check in and wasn't even sure an hour into this ordeal if my ticket was going to be addressed.

After a few shoplifting and DUI cases, the judge took a fifteen minute recess, reconvened, tried some driving without a license cases, took a fifteen minute recess, reconvened, ignored the people like myself who hadn't actually committed a crime, tried some more cases, and took another recess while the good people of Central Jersey who had either changed lanes without signaling or failed to yield had to sit perplexed and annoyed while the criminals got to go home.

Justice is a business, not and ideal. They know they are wearing you out. After three hours you just want to go home. A girl who was driving 20-25 miles over the limit got scolded, fined and sent home. All of us who had made a minor mistake were looking around wondering why we were saved for last. We found out. You don't "talk" to the prosecutor and get the points taken off of your licence. The violation gets reported to the DMV, the DMV puts points on your license, and they report the points to your insurance provider who then jacks up your premium. So, if you want the court to reduce your violation, you have to pay them $400 to lie to the DMV. And it's all "legal." Sound like a bribe or extortion? That's what I thought too.

I Predict--VICTORY!!!!!!!!!

I don't mean to brag, and I know I haven't blogged in a while, but I did win the best costume award at the Halloween party last Friday. Now sure, it was a small party of primarily English teachers, and it was the equivalent of winning the "pork queen" title in a small Midwestern town, but it was a victory nonetheless. When I get the video, which does the costume justice, I will post it, but for now, I will post a couple of pictures here.

Notes of Pride:

• The whole thing collapsed to fit in my car and assembled in minutes.


• I ran a light from the strand into the crystal ball to light it up.


• I wrote my own fortunes that dropped from the platform into the slot.


• I painted eyes on my eyelids for an authentic plastic, creepy look (shown in photo).


• The lights were activated by a start button and played a creepy song.


• I could actually move around pretty well, even in the booth.

The Mushroom Project

This is a story that I used to tell Lib last year that I never finished. She would claim that it was something I did when our relationship was "green" and exciting; it was a story she would have me tell when she couldn't sleep and she wanted to hear my voice--it was also a story that I would tell when I was tired and wanted to sleep, but I did get some really good ideas out of it, and while it was rough and impromtu, I have wanted to refine it and write it down, so I created The Mushroom Project. I need to imbue it with some overall purpose and meaning, but the plot, while scattered, will work. I don't know exactly where it's going, but I decided to make a blog so I would have more satisfaction than just starting at Microsoft Word knowing no one would ever read it. The only real issue is that the order will be posted in reverse, but I'll worry about that when it becomes an issue. Until then: http://www.themushroomproject.blogspot.com/

Every Bald A-Hole II

Today, I was in a parent-teacher conference, and a very nice woman came to check on her son's performance. As I wrapped up the conference, she asked, "Were you in Salt Lake City this summer?" Now, I have never been to Salt Lake City, and nothing against the Mormons, but I can see no real reason for going there; more importantly, why would an woman ask a teacher if he had been to Utah? So I said no, I had never been there, and she replied, "Oh, it must have been someone else." ???????????????? I guess she thought she had seen me. Once again, I guess any bald a-hole with a goatee must be me. Speaking for rugged, bald men, I am getting sick and tired of being depersonalized--just last week, a woman asked me for help in the hardware section of Wal-Mart because obviously, I worked there, and this is not the first time: I have been asked for assistance at Costco, Home Depot, Target, and Lowe's. What the hell does a white, bald man with a goatee have to do to break through this stereotype? We just want to know how to be seen as individuals, and not some stock handyman who can help with any home improvement question. And for the record, no we do not all know each other.

Tiger Mountain Peasant Song

I first heard Lib's sister and her friend sing this with a ukulele before I heard the original Fleet Foxes version(is it really a version if it's the original?), which were both incredibly beautiful, but not as good as these two Swedish girls. Also, the girl on the right reminds me pictures of my mother when she was younger and reminds me my niece too, which is nice since I don't get to see them much.

I'm Your Ooogie Boogie Man!

I was looking through my old emails this weekend and I came across these pictures from six years ago when I went to the Hasbro Halloween party. I spent a week constructing my OogieBoogie, and it was the last time I really put any effort into into my costume.

Between a lack of inspiration and life getting in the way, I just haven't really lived up my standards, but that is all about to change. I can't reveal anything prior to this year's party because there is a contest, and if I can pull off my costume idea (which I'm not too worried about), I may be able to take the grand prize; the only thing that kept me winning at the Hasbro party was my friend Jared (right), a guy who grew his beard for over a year to be the perfect Jack Sparrow and the fact that there was no competition, but I was told we were all pretty close, even though Jared converted a case of beer to a Duff case that played the Duffman song. Not bad for competing with toy designers--a party full of teachers should be easy pickings. Mwahahahahahhaahhahahahaha!

Here's a shout out to the rest of the gang:

• Rico as Scorpion
• Phil as The Jerk
• Clint as 80's Clint
• Christie as Clint (the nail polish on the tooth was perfect!)
• Jennifer as Gem
• Travis as Slash

Was it all a Dream?

Here's an interesting story. Yesterday I was at one of the local establishments having a couple of beers (a few laughs) with some of my friends, and I discovered something very intersting about an experience I had at one of their houses.

Some time back, maybe a year and a half ago, I was staying over and slept in his basement--it was anything but restful. I had one of those waking dreams where I believed that I had awoken, but I couldn't move. There was the presence of a man walking around me who was not happy, a very menacing figure. It was a spirit;I remember him being tall and shadowy, and I remember being paralyzed and afraid of him. He had no features outside of the shape of a man, and he did not want me there; that was very clear. It came from the stairs and circled me. I kept trying to wake up, but in the "dream" I was awake. I'm still not sure, but it was very creepy. I never said anything because I just assumed it was a dream, even though it seemed real.

Yesterday, I was talking to his girlfriend, and she was telling me how when her friend came to visit who is "sensitive," they asked her about the house, if there was anything going on in his place(at this point in her story I started telling her the details before she said them to see if they jived). I said "it is in the basement"; the friend had said the basement stairs (I slept at the foot of them). I said it was not happy but not evil (the same words that her friend told her). I said it was definitely male, but I don't think the friend gave a gender. I could see that my interjections were creeping her out.

Coincidence? There is actually a pretty good chance it was coincidence. If you had to name a creepy place in anyone's house, the basement would probably be the first. His basement is finished and nice; I've never felt creeped out in the slightest down there before, and it's not like I haven't been down there since--I just don't care to sleep down there, that's all. "Unhappy but not evil?" Well, I think that would just about sum up most ghost descriptions--how many happy ghosts have you heard of? I just think it's interesting and possible.

Did You Mean This Culvert?

Well, Brandmanager, I just wanted to say: I saw your comment on my punching machine post(very esoteric), and if this is the guy you are talking about, then I agree wholeheartedly.

Bearly Funny

One of the teachers at work, a fan of Ingloreous Basterds, was telling us how he loved that movie and how he was now referring to himself as the "bear jew," a large, savage, jewish, nazi-killing soldier in the film, but not because he is any of those things (except jewish), but because he is very hairy. A half an hour later, as I was running out in the country, I thought how witty and funny it would have been if I had said, "That's funny, because my friends call me 'Gentile Ben!' I was pissed that not only had I missed an opportunity, but I missed the greatest double pun of all time, and I couldn't go back and explain it to him after the fact. Sure it's still witty and clever, but had I thought of it off-the-cuff and delivered it without missing a beat, I would have been crowned the cleverest man of all time. But I was a thirty minutes too late, and that makes all the difference.

Once in highschool, my teacher was reading us a note from his sponsored, African orphan where the kid was talking about his uncle Pepto, and I responded immediately with "Does he have an Aunt Acid?" I brought the house down. But there was no delay. No less impressive was last year when Lib drew tapeworms all over my dry-erase board in different colored markers with milti-colored segments raining from their intertwining bodies; it looked so festive that I referred to it as a "ticker-tapeworm parade". I didn't even know I was going to say it until it came out of my mouth; instead of laughter, she just grinned and nodded because she doesn't find witty things funny, but if I make a fart noise or create a new vivid string of swear words, she laughs uncontollably for minutes, which actually makes up for it because I'm vulgar and childish much more than I am witty.

Since this unheard pun had been eating at me for days, I finally had to tell the "bear jew" about my missed opportunity. I didn't want to, but I thought he needed to know--and it's funny. To my relief, I was met with laughter and a high-five, so even though it went against everything I stand for, I felt validated, and that is what is important. And since he thought it was funny, you have to read about it.

170 lbs. of Muscle

Friday night at one of the local dives, there was a boxing machine that tested how tough and manly someone was based on his (or her) ability to punch a cheap vinyl bag. The machine then registered the punch somewhere between zero (hopeless) and a thousand (boxer)--below "boxer" was "killer", which doesn't really make sense, but whatever. Dave gave it the first smash and got somewhere between 500-700 (brutal) on both his punches. I stepped up directly thereafter and registered a pathetic 490 (anemic) but then followed up with a stronger second punch in the high five hundreds to earn my "brutal" status, which made me feel a lot better, even though I feel there should be something between "anemic" and "brutal," but I'll take it. The largest guy in our party was too self conscious to play, but I let it slide since I watched him manhandling people in a comedy club fight last year as his girlfriend pinned a guy to the ground with her knee, and I tried to pull her giant brother off of another guy who he had thrown over a table. (See "Daily Sentence of Dave" September 29, 2008 for story) And I might add, Dave did come from the exit before the action ended, and disappeared into the melee. I don't know what he got into, but his wife said a couple of times that evening that she wanted to take him home so she could...well, let's just say she was turned on.

Back to the boxing machine: later in the evening, a monster of a man walked into the bar who was about six-feet-six, 250 lbs, a real meatball, so when he stepped up to the bag and was about to give it a wallop, I took my time buying a beer so I could have a better understanding of my shameful kiddie punches. He gave it a blast into the six hundreds, and it was clear from across the bar that he had only lit up the third light: "Brutal". He must have missed, or maybe the girl behind him punched it, but no! He wound up and gave it a second smash--pretty solidly, I might add--and still only registered a brutal. No kidding.

This can only mean one thing--ok, two: first, the machine could be worn-out and inaccurate, or the second possibility, which I think is more likely, Dave and I are actually bruisers who could hold our own with large muscular men, and even though they may end up taking us with their slight, high-sixhundreds edge, we would do some damage with our nearly-equal, fivehundreds "brutal" strength.

Gastrocnemesis

I tried running barefoot, really barefoot, the other day. Ok, I did cheat a little bit. I ran barefoot on a treadmill to see what it was like without having to worry about rocks, glass or syringes; and I have to say, it was great. It took some time to get used to, but once I got warmed up, it was very liberating. Without the weight and constiction of shoes and socks, I didn't even get tired. I only went a mile and a quarter at eight miles an hour, but other than trying to stay on the treadmill, it was effortless. Even though I was feeling good, my feet were getting a little raw and I was rattling the entire apartment building, so I decided to stop.

After that, I felt so good that I needed to burn off some more energy and took off on a short run in my sandals--running on the street is different because you actually have to propel yourself forward; on a treadmill you just have to move your feet. Either way, it felt good, and as I was rounding my way back to the apartment, full stride in my sandals, the universe, in order to show its support for my grass-roots return, sent a hippie on an old bike with a big red beard and thrift-shop wardrobe who cheered, "Yeah, man! Run, man, yeah." I felt like I was truly born to run. The next day, however, the universe decieded that maybe I was getting ahead of myself and crippled me with sore calves and raw feet, and two days later, I am still hobbling around(Lib says I look like Frankenstein's monster) waiting for my legs to stop hurting so I can get back out and run.

A Little Squirrely

I just remembered that at the beginning of my run yesterday, I was heading down the sidewalk when I saw a squirrel noshing on some grub at the edge of the sidewalk. As with most squirrels that have been semi-domesticated by living in housing developments, this little fella didn't seem to care that I was barreling down the sidewalk at him, but I figured that he would bolt long before it got awkward or uncomfortable. Animals generally get the hell out of the way at a pretty consistent distance. For instance, a deer will leap into the woods anywhere between one hundred yards and twenty yards. The smaller the mammal, the closer you can get, while blackbird or a robin will fly away at around ten to fifteen yards; a dumb-ass turtle dove, however, will let you get within twenty feet, and an asshole pigeon stays just long enough until you think it's not going to fly away. Squirrels are usually somewhere between a bird and a pigeon...usually. As I approached the squirrel, it didn't seem to pay much mind, and as I got even closer, I started to worry that it was going to do that frantic, unpredictable squirrel-spasm dance where it darts in front of the car changing direction sporadically until it ends up passing underneath your car unscathed or sometimes not. It's a little scarier when you're not surrounded by tons of steel, especially when you get so close to the squirrel that you can see its cataracts, and at the last second it looks up with smokey gray, glazed-over eyes and resorts to the aforementioned, panic dance. Am I afraid of a squirrel? On the record, no! Off the record, I started juking and high stepping into the grass for what would have been a spectacular five-yard touchdown run but was actually an embarrassing, shameful tantrum that required me to quickly regain my composure and run the remaining 3.9 miles like a normal human being that wasn't scared by a cute little rodent with a fluffy tail...and demonic eyes.

The Last Leg?

I know it has been a while since my last post, and I accept full responsibility for shirking my duties as a blogmaster. I haven't really been up to much, but I have been doing a lot of grading, and I feel this post getting more boring as I sit here typing it. Is this the end of my blog? Have I run out of things to say? Maybe. You don't really know something like that for sure until it actually happens. In the past week, I have made raisin bread and focaccia with my bare hands, I made chili on a grill, and I ran four miles in 28:28; however, I don't have an orginal, quirky way of describing any of it. I think school is frying my brain and tapping my creativity, but I promise you (all three of you) that I will give it the old college try--whatever that means.

Squid Pro Quo

A headline today read, "US scientists net giant squid in Gulf of Mexico." Well, anyone who knows anything about the fabled architeuthis knows that there are some really giant squid out there, the largest having yet to be seen. When a headline hits the papers like the aforementioned, you click and await to be amazed, impressed, and maybe a little emotional. Sure, I have never done anything to advance the studies of giant cephalopods or their discovery, but I have watched people on TV work very hard, and according to the narrator, they have been working for years. As a result, I too have been waiting for this discovery for years, albeit years condensed into an hour on cable. So when I get to the article and the squid is only nineteen feet long, I scoff. Come back when you catch something that can take down a large sailing vessel or at least leave giant scars in the leathery hide of a sperm whale. Ask yourself this: Can each suction cup rip the face off of a dolphin? If not, I don't want to see a headline; chum the local taverns with your fishtales. We (the researchers and I[through cable])have found some really large specimens in the past few years, and nineteen feet is bait fish. I hate being an elitist, but this is my life for an hour(including commercials) every few years. Come back when you have something to offer.

Grin and Barefoot

I'm not saying I have completely bought into the whole barefoot running craze, but that is only because I am only half way through Born to Run. Have I jumped on this bandwagon? No. Absolutely not. But I am running next to it barefoot. Or at least in sandals, and I am thinking of jumping on. I will never be a Caballo Blanco, white horse, and I will probably never run more than six miles, but I do have a heavy, heal pounding stride that will probably smash my knees and ankles. If this works, it just means I will run more naturally and efficiently. It seems primal though, running barefoot, and since I can't live in a jungle, this is as close as I get to primal. I will never be Caballo Blanco, and I may look silly running down the road in my sandals, but it does feel pretty good, and I think I will stick with it. And maybe one day the locals will refer to me as the white monkey, El Mono Blanco.

Sometimes when you arrive at your destination in the middle of a great song, you don't want to get out of your car. Especially when that song is November Rain. It was right before Slash's third guitar solo when the song takes that dark turn and then they start repeating, "Don't you think that you need somebody..." so I told myself that I would go into work, and the end of the day, it would be my treat/surprise when I finished work for the day. I forgot about it during the course of the day, and when I turned my car on to Axl and Slash, I was surprised and happy with myself because, much like Axl and Slash, I rock!

Born and Bread

Lib says that when you make bread from scratch it comes to life; I'm inclined to believe her. You don't really experience the bread when you make it in a mixer. Not that I have ever made bread in a mixer, but I have tried twice by hand. The first time, it died, but this time it was perfect. After I mixed everything together by hand, I kneaded it on the counter, and it became elastic and firm, and oddly enough, the dough rolled up felt like a little baby butt. It grew in the bowl covered by a towel that bulged like a belly, and after being worked into another little roll, I placed it in a bread pan and put in the oven...just like a baby.

Coupleganger

After the movie 9, Lib and I were leaving the theater when she pointed out that our doppelganger couple was right behind us, so when we had to turn around because we were going out the wrong theater exit, I got a good view of the bald guy and his girlfriend with red-brown hair as she was heading out of the wrong exit and also had to turn around, and when we got the the car, Lib said we should have talked to them but mused that maybe they too had to get home to their crockpot while I wondered to myself if the guy had to take a big shit.

Truly an Honor

I gave my American Lit. Honors class the Meyers-Briggs personality test, and they had to research their character profiles last night and write a response. One student who found out that he was an ESTJ came in and blurted to another, "I found out one of the famous people who had the same personality as me!" which prompted the other student to ask, "who?" and when the ESTJ said, with much enthusiasm, "Andrew Jackson!" the other kid, disappointed and jealous, muttered, "Lucky."

The Root of Evil

Normally, I don't use my blog as a forum for talking about a movie--unless that movie is as strange as Little Otik, the story of a barren couple who has their hearts set on having a baby. The husband, in a twisted gesture after digging an eerily human stump out of the ground at their weekend cottage, fashions a creepy baby for his wife, who should have been appalled and insulted by it, but immediately reacts by treating it as if it were a real child by clothing it with the outfits she had bought her unconceived child, much to the surprise of her shocked and disturbed husband...but what did he expect? It is the best Czech movie I have ever seen, and even though I have never seen a Czech movie before, that should not detract from my admiration of it. Normally, when I'm watching a movie and I say aloud repeatedly, "that's messed up!" it means I don't like the movie, but a giant, rooty, flesh-eating infant, it turns out, has wrapped his little tendrils around my heart.

Someone once asked my grandfather if he was a Catholic because he had eight children, and he replied, "No, I'm just a good-looking protestant."

It Takes Two

On our way to the restaurant for the rehersal dinner, Lib and I parked in a parking garage in Newport, Kentucky and decided to take the stairs up to the ground level instead of the elevator, and as I was about to press the bar on the door, Lib made an indistinct warning noise because she thought the door was an emergency exit; I was startled and annoyed, but the door did say, "Push for 15 seconds. Alarm will sound. Door will open," which made no sense, but we assumed that, for some reason, maybe security concerns, they did not leave the doors unlocked, but must unlock them for people coming in and out, which still didn't make sense, but by this time we were just confused. We pushed the door, it buzzed, and we waited fifteen seconds...nothing. We were more confused. Lib held down the bar for about ten seconds, a little red light started flashing faster, and Lib let go, but the buzzing noise continued, and the door unlocked. To the left of the door was a sign that read, "Emergency Exit" with a little picture of a person escalating a stairwell, and realizing we had just set off the alarm, we opened the door and bolted up the stairwell with the emergency alarm resonating through the parking garage, but halfway, Lib's conscience got the best of her, and she decided, much to my further annoyance, that we should tell someone, so we decended the staircase and walked all the way back to the booth by the gate and told the attendant, who broke out in wild laughter and told us she would take care of it. We took the elevator after that.

Olmos...But No Cigar

Ok--So Lib and I were bored, and we made a some of the cast of Battlestar Galactica on her Wii. I have posted our two favorites that just happen to be Admiral Adama (mustache version) and President Laura Roselyn (God rest her fictitious soul). Chief Tyrol and Lee turned out great, and even though I thought Doc Cottle would be no problem, he ended up looking horrible. Baltar, Caprica 6, Athena/Boomer and Col. Tigh were Ok, and Lib and I, even though we have attractive mii's have turned out to be complete geeks who make mii versions of the BSG cast for fun--that's right, I refer to it in abbreviation, so frak off, toaster!

It's Raining Gravel

At the quarry, there is a mountain of asphalt hundreds of feet high where you drive to the top and dump old torn-out asphalt. At the peak of this mountain, I heard a loud horn that sounded like a semi horn in two long blasts. Then, I drove down the mountain to pick up some new asphalt at the plant, and as I was pulling up, a pick up came flying around the corner honking repeatedly, so I stopped, and a guy, whose voice was even gravely, said, "You can't go back here, I'm getting ready to blast that wall." And sure enough, when I looked up, there was a row of saw horses, and a relatively small sign that read "Blast Area," so I drove back to the front only about a hundred yards, and five minutes later there was an earth-rumbling blast, which sounded more like it was under water, followed by the sound of gravel raining down upon the earth. It was awesome.

Mextrosexual

Jorge smelled like the beach, and our sweat dripped onto the flagstone with the sun beating down on us, cooled only by the smell of the chlorine of the waterfall cascading into the pool. Max said he wanted to be a woman for a day... If I were gay, this would be a much more interesting story, but the truth is, we were hot as hell, covered in sunscreen and baking in a flagstone oven because some rich woman wanted us to tear out all the grass between the stones on her patio and replace it with new sod, which is a total pain in the ass, especially when it is in the nineties and there is no shade. Even Max said, "Maybe I want to be a woman today. Just one day...today. Work inside. Do dishes. Clean. All inside. But just maybe today. When my husband comes home, no more woman. "

Barbaric Yawp

If you've never ripped a giant stump out of the ground with a backhoe, then you don't know what you are missing. I think one of the most impressive things about the human brain is its ability to transfer nerve input taken from the body to make a person one with a tool. You feel the ax and can swing it with great precision, you feel the rake and can feel if the grade of the dirt is level, and you can actually feel how tons of steel rip through the ground and you can create a mental map of roots and clay beneath the surface. I know it's strange, but...no its not...it is very satisfying to fill the bucket of the excavator completely, swing it, extend it, and dump it onto a giant pile of earth that you have ripped from mother earth. I'm sorry if this is not very poetic, but my barbaric yawp is much more gutteral than Walt Whitman's, and I am glad I get to leave teaching literature behind for two months every year to play in the dirt.

Hot and Bothered....for real this time (but not in a sexy way)

Today was so hot and humid that I was completely soaked after an hour of work, and by late afternoon, I was so disgusting that I was surrounded by a cloud of gnats that kept going in my mouth, ears and eyes. I kept imagining I was Pigpen from Charlie Brown and that in the next frame I would just start waving my arms and yelling, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" with my head tilted back completely and my mouth just a big gaping black hole the shape of a lima bean. But you can't do that at work.

Growing Old

I will try to recreate as best I can the sad ramblings of an elderly man who sat on his porch and watched us tearing out a driveway yesterday:

"I did you a favor. When you were gone I told some ladies not to park here or they would be in for a heck of a surprise with all your equipment driving around. You guys eating lunch? You can come in my house and sit down."

That's Ok.

"No, you can come in if you want; I'm all alone. My wife is dead."

That's terrible. I'm sorry.

"I've lived here fifty-nine years, since nineteen fifty, now I'm all alone."

That's a long time.

"Thirty years ago, I would have thought I would have been dead by now. We had five kids--four boys and one girl, and ten grandchildren eight boys, two girls. All of them good kids. Why don't you guys just come on in and have your lunch, it's no problem and I'm all alone."

There was more, but I don't remember it, but it was all just as sad and creepy.

Slow Children at Play

A few weeks ago, as I was winding my way through a quaint little neighborhood in Westfield, I approached a bend when I saw one of those yellow plastic children who are posed in the "I am running in front of your car" position that people put on the edge of the street (of which there is only one image on the internet) to slow down traffic, and it pissed me off. When I was a kid, you just stayed out of the street, and if you didn't, you got flattened by a Mac truck or you got beat by your parents for playing in the street; nobody thought to put the onus on the driver, it was on the children where it should be. Maybe if your kids are too dumb to stay out of the street, they are a bit slow. So as I was about to plow the fake child over with the dump truck, I realized that the owner had attached a Miller Lite can to the fake child's fin-like hand--there were no fingers--and it made me happy to know that whoever lived in that neighborhood just wanted to keep all of the drunk little children safe, so I did slow down...in hopes of seeing one stumbling down the sidewalk or hitting on the ugly girl in the neighborhood.

Hot and Bothered...literally...or figuratively?

Not to toot my own horn, but I was a little flattered when a woman in her seventies was trying to make time with me last week. I was working on her driveway, and she was working on the free-love freeway. She had moxy, this one, and she knew how to make the hottest day of the summer even hotter. When she brings me some water early in the day, and says that she takes care of young men, I think it's a completely normal, nurturing thing to say, but later in the day when she pours a couple more glasses of water, she stops at the door on the way into the house she says, "If you want any more water, just whistle," and here's the kicker: she continues, "You know how to whistle don't you?" Now, I have never seen To Have and Have Not, but I know what that means...Hot Dog!

Pissed

In Staples, I had to pee really bad, so I looked around for the restroom, and above a doorway was a sign that said "restrooms" with a large triangle/arrow pointing down to the doorway, but when I went to open the door it was one of those really heavy metal doors and the push bar read, "Emergency Exit Only. Alarm will Sound." So I didn't pee because I knew if I took the gamble and opened the door, a very loud bell would sound and I would probably piss my pants--not worth it.

As all of you know, yesterday was hot and humid, and if you have ever laid asphalt on a day like yestereday, then you'll understand what I'm saying here. When you lay asphalt, it is hot as hell, and when the heat rises off it on a summer day, you know you've picked the wrong line of work. To make it worse, you spray it with water so the plate compacter doesn't stick, and the roller is wet for the same reason, which equals only one thing: steam. So after we finished the driveway yesterday, I felt disgusting--hot and dirty and sticky. When we got back to the yard, however, it started to rain really hard, so I took off my shirt, stood in my work pants in a puddle with arms outstreached, face to the sky, and let the rain wash over me; I knew immediately what Andy Dufresne felt like when the rain washed the sewage and twenty years of imprisonment off him in The Shawshank Redemption, but that was just a movie, unless it was just a really hot day of filming for Tim Robbins, either way, that's what I felt like.

Cat Noises?

Last week I was at the gas station with a dump truck full of roadstone--dump trucks have a lever on the bed outside just behind the driver's side that releases the tail gate for dumping--and the man pumping my gas started to fiddle with it, and while I was a little suspicious of it, the safety chain was still attached so I just kept watching in the side mirror. Then it got weird: he started tugging on it and making cat noises every time he tugged at it, and not just little cat noises, but loud cat noises for about thirty seconds, so I started to think he may be retarded or something, but then he came over and asked me in a completely normal voice what would happen if he pulled the lever, and I curtly explained that he would have a gas station with a lot of gravel and he stopped. In New Jersey, you are not allowed to pump your own gas, but how is this guy qualified and I am not; I have eleven years experience pumping gas in Ohio when I pumped my own gas. Don't get me wrong, I like having someone else pump my gas, but it's on principle that I complain here--I would just like the option to pump my own gas if I deem someone else incompetent to do so, or if I have to wait more than ten seconds for them to do so...or if they meow.

The Ticking....

Since I haven't been camping in three years, I decided it was time to get back out into the great outdoors, and I learned that I have become a colossal pussy. Even though I work outside every day in dirt and bugs, I was annoyed and grossed out by all the bugs that were crawling on me, and every time I was scavenging wood and walked into a spider web, I had a small panic attack. So when I went to get into the shower Sunday at Lib's and found a deer tick embedded in my thigh, I ripped it out of my skin, just to show the bastard who was in charge, and now, I am waiting to see who was really in charge, because I have known two people, Merica and Terry, who have gotten Lyme disease from ticks in the past year. I have looked up the early symptoms, and I will let you know. I also found out that Deer Tick is a band.

Midwest Eloquence

On the way to Home Depot, for some unknown reason, I started singing the theme song to Mr. Belvedere, and Lib recognized it, but didn't know what show it was until I told her. We both traced it back to when she was about six, but it was still very vague to her, so I said,"Well, I guess it wasn't probably on but only a couple-few years," which I thought was a well-phrased sentence and was briefly proud of my verbiage, but she immediately made fun of me in a creek-rat accent, and when I defended my choice of words as eloquent, she said that I only thought so because I was from Ohio. I stand by my choice of words, and given the same situation, no matter who I might be talking to (the Pope, president, J-lo...whoever), I would use the exact same words.

Bless this Mess

If when you are cleaning your room, and you realize that the paper in the printer is really dusty, does it mean it has been too long since you cleaned your room,or has it been too long since you used your printer?

Off to a Promising Tart

I don't know if Lib has low expectations for me or if this is a real accomplishment, but for my fiftieth post, she made me a small fruit tart to commemorate the moment; of course, it could have been that she happened to be making two full-sized fruit tarts for a party anyway. Either way all of you who didn't think I would get this far ..l., this is me flipping you off. And thanks for the support Lib ;)

A Lasting Impression

Sometimes the impression I make on my students comes long after I was their teacher. Recently I asked a former student where he was going to school, and he informed me he had never gone to school and was working for his father; I felt a little bad for assuming (93% of our students do go to college), and making the situation a little embarrassing for him. So, at the dollar store, when I recognized a former student, but realized I had forgotten her name, I was planning on acting like I didn't remember her since Lib was the one buying stuff. The girl's name started with an "A" and she was a lot heavier; plus, I didn't want to ask her what she was up to because she was obviously working at the dollar store. So I decided to play dumb. Then, in a bizarre twist of fate, Lib handed me her stuff and a five spot, and said she was going next door to the market to get the fruit because she needed to get home to pee and doing so would save time. I still planned on ignoring the girl, but then I felt bad, so I said hi, and then she had a moment where she kind of remembered me, but not my name, and so when we got each other's name we asked each other how things were going, but not really having anything to say, the situation got so uncomfortable that I pointed to the famers market and said, "Well, I better go get her home to pee," and then I grabbed by flowery notebook, tart pan, and pastry cutter and walked out.

Digging Deep

Yesterday, in direct sunlight, after shoveling dirt, asphalt, and gravel most of the day (and also a lot of swearing) I started to understand why slaves used to sing while working all day in the fields, when for no reason at all, I got a song in my head--much like one of the spirituals of old, but a little on the bawdy side--and it made the work a little more tolerable.

I'll be slingin some gravel
When Jesus swings his gavel,
and they'll lock me outside of the pearly gates
cause I'd been usin some words
in place of "sex" and "turds"
that would bring a rudy blush to mother's face.
So I'll be slinging some gravel
when Satan plucks my apple
and puts my vulgar soul back in its place.

My God, I'm tired.

LBI 2

I had the pleasure of going back to LBI this weekend, and when Lib suggested that we go fishing this time, I was thrilled. On Saturday, I got up at 7:30am to make breakfast and get coffee so we could be sure to get out a couple hours before high tide. I took a walk and scouted the fishing grounds finding a couple of promising structures, including a small jetty(seen just below the lighthouse in this picture) with a deep water shelf off the end--, and it was sheltered by a submerged rock structure--perfect for sheltering fish in the fast moving water. The ninety-year-old salty dog behind the counter of the bait store gave me a few suggestions, and I purchased a frozen pack of squid strips.

One of the two fishing poles left for us was broken, so we were already a man down when we went out to the jetty, but I had a brilliant plan: the rocks would be holding fish that ate crab, so I would toss my crab pot out and catch a couple of green crabs for bait. Lib went back to get her beach chair, and I set up shop halfway down the jetty, so the waves wouldn't shower my gear.

While I was waiting to catch some crabs, I decided to toss out the fluke rig; the end of the jetty would be sure to produce. The squid was too frozen to pry from the pack so I added a little water and loaded the crab pot while the squid thawed. Then, I walked my cage to the end and tossed it in and walked back, but by the time I got my pole baited, two locals ran out onto the jetty and took my spot, which pissed me off, but I wasn't there, so...I lose. I tried to cast my pole, but it tangled, so I had to cut off about a hundred feet of line and start over. At this point, the guys who took my spot caught a black fish after about three minutes of fishing. I retied my fluke rig, and cast it out again, but as I tried to reel in the slack, the gears grinded and cruched, and the reel stopped working altogether. I pulled the line in with my hand, and about ten feet out it snagged, and I broke of my rig. They caught another black fish. Defeated and without any working equipment left, I put my tail between my legs and walked out to retrieve my crab pot submerged right next to them, and of course, they were using green crabs for bait, my plan all along. When I pulled the rope to my cage, it snagged on a rock and I had to suffer the indignity of pulling in a piece of rope with nothing attached to the end, which meant I was out one fifteen-dollar crab pot. We packed up. They caught another, rather large, black fish. In the two weekends we have spent there, these were the only fish I have seen caught (all in ten mintutes) except for later that day when a diver speared a very large fluke...in my spot.

And I don't like you...Jerk Off!

After two years of working with Don, I wondered when I would get pulled over for hauling a trailer with no break lights, and today, when I got pulled over for said violation, I was not at all surprised. The cop was actually pretty nice, and even though he didn't believe I wasn't the owner of the company(he asked me if I could prove it, even though he had my license and had already run Don's plates), he let me off with a minor violation and a fifty-four dollar ticket. He also said if the owner wouldn't pay the ticket, he would back me up in court, but that he had to write me the ticket in my name because I was the driver, which also brought up another point: I was responsible for the truck without break lights because I was the driver. He told me to clean the sealcoat off the license plate and not drive the trailer anymore. So when I had to drive the trailer the rest of the day, I tried to drive around Scotch Plains, but still had to drive a quarter mile through Scotch Plains, and I kept having this fantasy where if he did pull me over again, he would yell the Scotch Plains' version of "Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski!" and then he would throw a coffee cup at my head.

Chicken Run-in

When Lib and I walked into the grocery store yesterday, she ran into one of her students, who immediately yelled, "Holy Crap! It's Ms. Colper...I feel so fat right now" because he had a two liter of soda in one hand and grasped in the other hand, held chest high with bent elbow, was a bag of fried chicken. The kid wasn't fat, and neither was his scawny companion who had two two-liter bottles of soda tucked under his arms for a total of three--the perfect meal.

Granstas

It's funny to see where we come from and not be able to deny it. Before my grandma Bev passed away, she was crotchety and cranky, and when I say "before she passed" I mean as long as I knew her. But she also raised eight children, so who am I to talk about cranky--she spent sixty-three months of her life pregnant, which is over five years of carrying around another human being inside of your body, then she had to raise them all; if she wasn't a ray of sunshine all the time, it's understandable. Growing up, she was never the "nice grandma;" that was reserved for my other grandmother, Irene, but she was not a mean grandma, she was just not as nice as Irene. Bev took me camping and let me chase her cat around the house. I don't have a single unpleasant memory about grandma Bev, she just wasn't jolly; however, when my sister checked her cell phone after her death, she found this picture of grandma and her roommate, Marion, at the home (when I took flowers out to them last year for the 4th of July, grandma wanted a picture with the flowers and Marion, so she made Marion get out of her bed and come to her bed to take the picture--Marion had no legs). So she wasn't sunny, and she could be unpleasant, and she wasn't "the nice grandmother," but she was ornery and goofy and she was grandma Bev, and my grandfather worshiped the ground she walked on for over fifty years even though they bickered constantly.

LBI

I went with Lib to Long Beach Island on Barnegat Bay. From the northwest shore, we could see twelve different firework displays on the mainland. We went to the beach and did a little crabbing, but only caught a couple of greenies. The condo was free, and it was the perfect weekend of relaxing and enjoying summer until we got home and I realized after sitting in traffic for three hours that I had left my keys in LBI.

Catfishstravaganza

Much like last year, Andy, Brian, Daisy and I went to my uncle's pond to fish. We caught about twenty-two catfish, a couple big sunnies, and a couple small bass. And once again, Daisy got tired catching all of the catfish.