Blog You All Must Read

I've never done this before but I just found it and it's awesome and everyone needs to go immediately here, after reading whatever nonsense I've posted for the day, and laugh.
Again, go HERE. And then laugh and laugh and laugh.

Americana For Me

Today at my school we held Patriot's Day. Every year I've been at my school, on the school day closest to 9/11, we hold an assembly where we invite any and all parents who serve in the military to come and be honored with their children. Now, I'm going to be completely honest. I'm not and have never been a huge Go America, Rah Rah Rah person. The knee-jerk patriotism of the last administration felt very contrived and forced for me. That being said, I can't complain or come down on something that is for troops. Especially troop who are my kids parents. I really like the idea of this day.
The assembly is held around our flagpole. We sing patriotic songs, have speakers, and wave little paper flags the kids cut out and colored. And are surrounded by men and women in uniform. Afterwards we go back to class and they get to hang out for a nice brunch.
But I don't want to write about all that. I just want to give a snapshot of a moment that touched me. Please indulge.

Picture this: 900 students, pre-kindergarten through sixth grade, gathered in a semi-orderly oval around a flagpole. Scattered throughout are uniformed parents who have choosen to stand with their child rather than have their child come to them outside the circle. In the front two kinders sword fight with their flags until the scary man teacher growls at them to knock it off. The color guard raises the flag and every uniform snaps to salute. Over the speakers, "Proud to be an American" starts. The students have been practicing the song and start to sing along. One of my students, a little girl, stands proudly next to her father. He is in camo fatigues, kneeling next to her. She put her arm around him, resting her hand on his shoulder. While she looks up at the flag and sings, he looks up at her with a small smile on his face.

New Blog Update

Just a quick update: I've started a new blog called Dirtbag Fitness where I'll be talking more about training and progress for my various athletic endeavors. This one is still active and I'll still be getting up on my soapbox to complain, crow, vent, write, or be silly as semi-regularly as I have been.
And on that note: Go judge in CA! Loved the ruling, loved the way you worded it. Hell yeah. I redirect your attention to my Open Letter to Social Conservatives. Told ya so. Hope it sticks this time.

Something Goofy

I was walking down the street when a gerbil leaned out of his car and waved me over. Naturally, I wanted to know what he had to say. My mistake! It was a she, and she wanted to know if I had any plans that night. I did, I was meeting my pet Jujube for dinner and a massage, and I told Ms. Gerbil so. Well she didn't take this very well at all and drove off in a huff. This was strange for two reasons: one, we had just met so why would she be so mad at me and two, she have driven off in a huff when she drove up in a car. Very odd.
Anyway, I kept right on hopping, bopping, popping, stopping, shopping, and mopping along down the road. Not too far after that I was accosted again, this time by an albino monk seal wearing the most fantastic hat I have ever seen. I would try to describe it to you, but I would not be able to do it justice. Also, don't try to imagine it because there is no way your imagination could match the awesome that was Mr. Toadstool's headwear. Mr. Toadstool, that was the albino monk seal's name, asked me if I had the time. I wondered the time for what and asked. He shook his head, his whole neck really (which you would know if you've ever had the pleasure of watching a monk seal indicate the negative), and restated his question by asking me if I knew what time it was. I did. He was sad I did for if I hadn't he would have been able to show off the brand-spanking new (how is something brand-spanked exactly) he had strapped to his flipper. I apologized, of course and told him that if he would like he could restate his query once more and I would answer in a fashion more appropriate for his needs. He sighed that it was too late and the moment had passed and then flip-flopped his way down a nearby alley. This was sad really as I have never seen a watch strapped to a flipper and now I suppose I never will.
Just then the demon in my pocket began to clamor for my attention. I had been ignoring it all day on account of this quite annoying bill collector who had been trying to contact me. I swear, miss two or three payments on your hydropyrodynamic insulating blue lettuce aggregateor and they just won't leave you alone. Rather than answer I pulled the demon from my pocket and flicked him squarely and firmly on his not unsubstantial nose. This, as you could expect, angered my little red friend and he began waving his hands all over preparing some demoniacally evil spell which he cast in my general direction. Having a demonic spell cast at you is somewhat disconcerting, you would think. And you would be right most of the time. But not this time. This time you would be dead wrong. Because my demon, along with being such a small fellow, is also not very good at his devil-making ways. That's why he was demoted (or demon-moted as he likes to quip) to pocket demon. So his spell bounced harmlessly off a button on my shirt, turning it into a small flower. He managed to look pleased with himself. After all, how easy would it be for me to button and unbutton (flower and unflower) my shirt now. He had caused a Grand Inconvenience.
I choose to ignore the flowering of my shirt button and returned him to my pocket where he could rant and rage to his black heart's content. It was then that I noticed an unattended two-wheeled conveyance on the side of the road. Looking left and right, north and south, up and down, left and right again (you can never be too careful), I stole away on it. It had been quite a day and nothing lighted a day up like a little mischief. I couldn't think of any mischief which is why I instead settled on theft.
As always happens, as soon as I'd committed theft-in-place-of-mischief mischief sprang to mind. There, right in front of me, was old Mr. SillyFingersMcGeestien. He was always so mean to me and Jujube (my pet, if you remember)! Once he even chased us down and hung us by our littlest toes while he played “It's a Small World After All” on the saw over and over and over and over and over and over again. I can't even remember now what we had done to deserve such harsh treatment. Oh wait, maybe it was because we painted the windows of his house black and then set his cabbage on fire. Or maybe it was because we danced on his rooftop in high-heeled Beatle boots all night long the day after his prized petunias had mysteriously dissapeared. (That wasn't us, we don't do dissapearing petunias. I have it on good authority that it was Grande the Greek Geek that did the dissapearing. We paid him to.)
Anyway, mean old Mr. SillyFingersMcGeestien was in my sights. I prepared myself for serious mischief levels and, as I passed him, shouted out that his parents never loved him and he was adopted and his sister would never return his phone calls. All of these things were true, which I knew from opening his mail, and I felt quite smug about my total burn.
Unfortunately, my total burning of Mr. SillyFingersMcGeestien distracted me from my piloting of my bi-wheeled method of transportation. It wasn't until I turned back to facing the front, which happened to be the direction I was headed since these things are no good for going frontwards sideways, that I saw I was headed directly towards a Cream Cheese Hole! Now, since you are a learned person, as I expect you are, I don't need to describe the appearance of a Cream Cheese Hole nor do I have to describe what fate awaited me upon impact. This is quite nice as describing these things would put back into the mindset I was in at that time and that is nearly almost quite as bad as being there the first time, which I also was and wouldn't want to be again.
Needless to say, I didn't make my date with Jujube that night and spent several days wandering the far reaches of the cosmos in search of a wet nap and fourteen oddly-shaped rocks. Sometimes it's just not worth leaving the Batcave.

Why I Collect (or How I Judge the People I Meet)

A few days ago I happened upon the new Rush documentary, Beyond the Lighted Stage. I found out about it earlier this summer and my inner (and outer) music nerd lept for joy. It's not a filmed concert, it's an actual documentary about the history of Canada's greatest export! I need this dvd, right? I need it. Must have. After all, it's not like if I waited a month it would be out on Netflix and I could queue it up and watch it. Oh, wait...But Netflix makes me send it back. If I own it I could watch it whenever I want. That's what's important. It can be on my time. After all, a person could watch a documentary dozens of times, right? Actually, I could. Especially one about Rush. So I bought it. I took it home, unwrapped it, read the liner notes, and carefully put it on the shelf with my other music-related dvds. That's where it goes. Near every spoken word dvd Henry Rollins has ever released, next to Slayer's concert film, just to the side of my Dream Theater live double disc dvd, and, well you get the idea. It certainly wouldn't go up by the science fiction section, or the Ah-nold section, or the Kevin Smith section. It goes with music. Duh. All the music-related dvds I've bought and watched, er, dozens of times over the years.

* sigh *

Why do I own these things? Why can't I leave a book store without at least one paperback under my arm? How come music stores seem to have a hypnotic power over me, making me sure to accidently find the album that I kinda was thinking about maybe checking out someday and look it's even a decent price ok I'll buy it? Do I need these things? I know I don't need-need them, not in the food, water, shelter kind of way. But in the happy to own them way I do. Books are the killer. Libraries abound. They are free. I could go in, find a book or three, take them home, read them, and then return them. I used to do just that all the time. Before I had a job. But I don't want to take them back. I want to have them.

I'll let you in on a little secret: I've always wanted to have a room in my house that was a massive library. One room, wall-to-wall book shelves stuffed with books. Tall, like you need a ladder to get to the top few shelves tall. With a few big comfortable chairs to curl up in. Perfect. And I need a lot of books to fill this imaginary room that only exists in my head because I'm a teacher and will never make enough money to actually have a house like that. And it would be cool to have a similar music/movie room as well.

This summer I moved a bunch of stuff from California, where my parents had been storing it for three years, to Hawaii. I should be more specific. I moved my collections of music, movies, and the rest of my books to Hawaii. Why? 1) Because I want them near me in case I want to read/listen to/watch them, even though I don't know if I will. I am one of those people that goes, “Oh, I read this book seven hundred years ago and I own it and I think that I'd like to read it again right now.” So...there you go. Pairing the stacks down was hard. And 2) So that when I move away I can put all these things back into a different box and pay for them to go back to the mainland. And so that we can go buy more bookshelves on which to display them.

I think that last sentence really gets to the crux of this whole issue. I try to shed as much of my inner bullshit as possible, which takes a lot of asking myself the all important Why and trying to give a real answer. And that's the answer I came up with. I like having them on display. My ego gets a huge kick out of showing off these things. It says, “Look! Look at my superior taste. Gaze upon these books which I have read which you have not read. Gasp in wonder at the rare and highly important bands which I listen to. Look at my films and understand what a deep person I am.” And I know that my ego is full of shit. But I can't help it.

But I understand now why I do it.

It's how I judge you.

When I go to a new person's house I do three things. First I will scan for your bookshelf. I will then make my way towards it and evaluate you based on its contents. Do we have things in common? Do you have Azimov, Heinlein, Moore? Can I see any Clarke or Gladwell? Perhaps some King or even Rowling? Any Rollins or Shakespeare? This part is normally easy. Most people have bookshelves out where they can be seen and easily gotten to. Hopefully they have more than one. With the advent of the e-reader judging people like this might eventually get more tricky, but I'm not worried. People won't get rid of most of their books. You can learn a lot about a person from their personal library. At least, I hope you can.

Next, I'll try to find your music collection. This is becoming harder and harder. If you still cling to CDs, as I do, I will thumb through them, looking for Aerosmith, Metallica, Kings X. God help you if I can't find any Beatles. How extreme, how varied, is your taste? But now many people have gone digital. Getting someone to let me look at their iTunes account is trickier and sneeking a look at it seems more openly invasive, like a scene from a Ben Stiller movie where things just get worse and worse and worse and worse until you leave the theater because god that kind of comedy really isn't funny sometimes.

Lastly (normally), I find your movies. You must own at least one Star Trek movie, don't you? Do we have similar tastes in film? Any Kevin Smith? What actors do you seem to favor? Any director that keeps popping up? What's your sense of humor, Bill Murry or Judd Apatow? Do you have any documentaries or concerts on display? Are you an indy nerd?

And recent;y I've gotten in to video games so if I see you have a system, I'll judge you on the games you play too.

Let me be clear: I am under no illusions that this works, that I can really learn anything important about anyone by looking at their various media. But it gives a pretty good surface look, doesn't it? Lets me know if our tastes are similar. When there's a lull in conversation can I fill it with a Spinal Tap quote?

And that's why I like having my stuff out, why I like buying stuff. I assume, in my ego and self-centeredness, that everyone else does the same petty shit I do.

My toys are my way of saying, This is my basic me, this is the Me I want to expose to the world first. So I go out and spend money, knowing full well that it's silly. But hey, it could be worse. I could judge you, and want you to judge me, on the looks, sexual orientation, occupation, or religion.

See, now judgment based on books, movies, and music doesn't seem so bad.

QueerFear: An Open Letter to Social Conservatives

Dear Frightened Ones,

I know why you're afraid. I do. And I'm here to tell you that we all want you to let go of your fear. Sometimes you need to accept that which you cannot change. And this you cannot change: The gays will marry. It will happen in my (and probably your) lifetime. You can try to fight it all you want. You can vote it down. But it won't die. It can't. Because the war for gay rights is all but over and you've lost.

You can feel it, can't you? That the world has moved on. That your children, or maybe your younger friends, your coworkers, the people you go to (gasp) church with, are ok with the gays and their insidious plot to live together in love and harmony. That soon, sooner than you think, enough of you will die off or see the light and then this whole silly argument will finally end.

Don't believe me? Doubt the truth of my words? Find a free black person (I think there's one in that big house on Pennsylvania Ave you could talk to.) . Ask a woman the last time she voted. Social change is always against the will of the majority...at first. But the majority is often old. And soon the old are overtaken by the young, who grew up without the prejudices of their elders. Or saw those prejudices and questioned them. Watch a teacher try to explain why integration was so difficult to a group of eight year-olds. It blows their little minds. They don't get it. Soon it will be the same with you. “Wait, Mr. Robertson. You're saying that people didn't want other people to get married because they were the same gender? That's crazy. My uncle is gay and we love his husband. They come over on Christmas.” It will happen.

You are dinosaurs, but you can feel the meteor coming. Oh, not all of you will be wiped out. Like alligators, there will be remains, few in numbers, snapping angrily at the mammals that are happily, gayly, dancing beyond your jaws.

So vote against gay marriage, civil unions, human rights. Veto it, protest it, wave your little signs and shout your silly slogans. Panic about “What will the children think!?!” and promise divine retribution upon those sinners who dare question your personal interpretation of whichever Book you believe in. Raise a stink and break a sweat. It gives the rest of us something to laugh at over morning coffee.

But it's already over. And you've lost. America is gay friendly. The Gay is spreading. It's on TV, in Oscar-winning movies, and in your CD player. Give it a decade, probably less, and there will be openly gay athletes in each of America's pastimes. They are already playing. You watch them and cheer for them. Soon one of them will speak out for gay marriage. And a little more of your base will crumble.

You will have a gay child, or a friend will. One way or another you'll be forced to see them as more than GAY. Against your will you'll begin to see them as HUMAN. And as that happens, as it continues to happen, you will see that the fight has been long over.

Or you'll stay angry and fearful as you get older, becoming more and more irrelevant. You'll rail feebly from your chair against the damn queers who ruined your country until you finally fade away. I don't expect you to wave the white flag and yield. That's not your style. I'd just rather you put on a white sheet and a pointy hood so it's easier to pick you out in a crowd. Until you and your kind become relics, fossils, and school children have a hard time believing you ever existed.

So please stop fighting it. Come into the light. It's nicer over here. And better decorated.

Love and Kisses,

The Land of the Free

Portland

Short blog today since I haven't written in forever and feel the need.
I'm going to skip past most of the Doug and Angela Wedding World Tour 2010 thus far, only saying that we left the day after school let out at 4am and haven't had much time off since until today. Whirlwind trip to Central and Southern California, both were fun, both needed more time. Planes, trains, and automobiles later we are now in Seattle and still just as busy. Which brings me to last weekend.
We had been planning on doing something this weekend, but plans were constantly evolving due to an inability to plan ahead and a broken father-in-law. After many drafts we decided to pack Stitches' sister into the rental and take the drive down to Portland, OR. Twofold reason: One, I've never been and Stitches has only been once briefly. Two, Brother Mike and his family moved to the area six months ago and it was a perfect chance to see them. Motel 6 was kind enough to leave the light on for us and down we went.
We left Seattle around 9:30am and arrived at our digs at 1:30pm or so. Traffic was easy until the bridge at the border (which I swam across, being part Mexican and all). Then we reoriented using maps, cell phone GPS, carrier pigeons, and blind guessing and found our way towards the MAX rail station nearest to us. Portland, you see, has an excellent public transport system. Light rail going in and out of town on a real regular schedule, and an all-zone all-day pass only $4.50 can't be beat. Better than driving around a city we don't know hoping to stumble into a parking garage that won't rob us.
We were into town by three, getting off the rail one stop before we planned on. Why, you ask. Simple, we looked out the window and saw a toy store and, as a group, shouted, "Toy Store!" and rushed for the door. It was fun. As has been my habit this trip I immediately located a sword (technically a light saber)and began threatening inanimate objects. I also found a pirate hat, becoming the dreaded Pirate Jedi, who's awesomeness is only trumped by the feared and extremely rare Ninja Jedi. Stitches bought me shark tattoos. Because I don't have enough of those already.
Once we tired of the shenanigans in the toy store we walked to Pioneer Square, which is where we were planning on getting off the rail anyway. It was close. We were hungry, having not eaten real food all day (contrary to popular belief Cheese-Its are not real food) and to what did our wandering eyes did appear? Street Meat! I first discovered this when I went to New York and now get it whenever I get a chance. A hot dog from some guy's cart on the side of the road? Yes please. We both got brats with sauerkraut, yum yum. Then it was off on an adventure. City hiking!
First stop? Chocolatier. Of course. Mmm, you want five dollars for a Kiss-sized piece of chocolate shaped like a mouse? Nice try. But they are neat looking. Then we went into a space shop that was pretty neat. I was attracted to a blend called Pirate's Bite. As soon as I picked it up the very very skinny lady behind the counter proudly assured me that it was the hottest thing they could make in the store. It is a devilish combination of peppers and other spice-like things. It made my tongue hurted. It tasted like burning. So I bought some for Kev.
Stitches' sister wanted to check out a consignment store for new boots, her's were talking, and Stitches used the magic of smart phone to find one. While she went in we saw a used book store across the street. We like used book stores. Oh, if we had only known. This is Powell's. It was not a small store. It was, in fact, the most wonderful place I've ever been in. Four stories. The size of a city block. You need a map and you will still get lost. And you won't care. I want to live inside the store. I quivered and made happy noises for an hour. It was wonderful. I went reverently into their rare books room. There I saw a first edition, second printing of Mark Twain's first novel, The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County for $2800. Squee! I held a $300 leather bound copy of Capote's Other Voices, Other Rooms. It was autographed. I made a happy noise when I saw that. I love this store.
The rest of the day was more of the same. The next day we met up with Mike, Terra, and their two and a half year-old Kai while Stitches was having Farmer's Market envy fits. She wanted to buy so many things. I see her spending money every weekend there if we lived there, loading us up on fresh veggies and whatnot. It was great to see them and we wandered the market and then down to the Arts and Crafts fair on the waterfront. That was neat, but we just wandered through without looking to closely. How we going to get anything home? But it got hot, which we weren't expecting. So I took off my shirt (it's not a trip unless I take of my shirt in public. Ask anyone.), divested myself of my bandanna and went for a run through the water squirting fountain flush with the sidewalk among children and parents cooling off. I squelched through the rest of the day but it was so worth it.
And here's one of the other things I really liked about Portland: the freaks. Hawaii does not have really freaky people. But the tattooed, dread-locked, hair-dyed, eccentrically dressed masses are out in force. I love that. I miss that. Weird people are so much fun. It means there is a strong music scene, and a strong indy scene, and just a strong freak scene. This makes places more interesting.
But the thing I took away from Portland more than anything else was how shocked I was at how much I enjoyed Portland. I did not expect to have as good a time there as I did. I can't wait to go back. It was surprising in the extreme. The people, the place is so clean, the public transportation is efficient...I really dug it. Blows me away.
(I said short at the outset. Was this short? I can never tell.)