Bein' Andy Dufresne's Bitch

You know that scene in Shawshank Redemption where Andy Dufresne tells Red all about his plan to go to Mexico when he gets out of prison and then he gets all pissy and says, "You either have to get busy livin' or get busy dyin'," and then he spend the rest of the movie, until he crawls through a poop pipe, walking around like he was just forced to see Whoopi Goldberg naked, but not Sister Act/Ghost Whoopi (which would still be terrible, but survivable), but The View Whoopi? That's kinda how I've felt lately, except a bit backwards. See, I already went to Mexico and I was in college once so I've seen my fair share of fat, ugly girls (not naked, though). No, it's more about that line - "Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'."

I haven't written in awhile because although I can usually turn the mundane into semi-entertaining sarcasm, I can't even find the mundane anymore. I never imagined that sitting around doing nothing would be this horrible. Seriously. I mean, how many times do we as people catch ourselves saying, "Man, if I could just stop and sit and do nothing." Well, don't. This is quite possibly the most boring, monotonous, paint drying on the wall period I have ever had. I mean, this is worse than any movie Adam Sandler has made in the last decade. That bad. I mean, I can't even cruise up and down Main Street whistling at high school girls because there is no main street! And I don't have a car! And what girl thinks bumping to Bob Dylan is fly?

Sure, there have been moments in the last month and a half that haven't been too bad. I finished a book that is started in January. I found a facial moisturizer that has softened the appearance of my face and helped reduce blemishes. And, um, eh, I - oh fucking hell, who am I kidding? The book was less than 200 pages long. And I bought it on my flight back from Mexico, so the first page had a giant sad face drawn on it. And I've had that moisturizer for almost a year now, but I never used it on a regular basis. What the hell kind of events are those?

Truth is, I do nothing all day because there is nothing to do. "Get a job," you say. Picture a town, with nothing. Literally, nothing. Nothing is hiring. Nothing exciting happens. And I'd love to move, but I'm (hopefully) going back to DC in late May/early June. Finding a job and moving within a one and a half month time frame is crazier than Lindsay Lohan finding Jesus (he's not in that pile of Coke, dear). I sleep past noon, get dressed, stare at the wall, sometimes eat, and then do it all again. On top of that, I have so little money that people on welfare drive by my house and laugh at me. It's embarrassing.

Look, one day, when I've settled for a less-than-attractive female and I'm living in a cookie cutter suburb and raising three kids who will end up being like their more than likely ogreish mother-in-law, all while holding down a steady cubicle job which I'll leave one week each year to take the same vacation to Myrtle Beach or Disneyworld, all while having a cat or some small, Chihuahua-like dog that I strongly dislike, driving a minivan, I'm sure I'll laugh about all this and say, "Oh, Ryan, you were so dramatic then! Just look at this perfect life you're leading." This will alllllll be water under the bridge.

I guess the one decision that I've made recently should make me happy, but adds to the confusion, like dressing a seventy year old man up like a woman and setting them up on a date with Richard Simmons by telling him, "Play you cards right and tonight you may be sweatin' on the oldies." But, that decision and the ass-dragging plea that will accompany it will come at a later date.

For know, I'm going to keep on keepin' on, which means trying to get busy livin', unless of course I'm destined to die before I'm 48, which means I'm already gettin' busy dyin', which is about the most bleak thing I can think of. Unless of course, this whole thing does end in me having to crawl through a pipe full of shit. Then that is just the worst thing I can think of.

(Note to self: do not become a plumber)

Why Sports Matter

I usually fill this space with sarcastic humor about the mundane happenings in my life. But lately, things have been so humdrum and uninteresting that I figured a post about paint drying or the art of sleeping in until 4pm would probably be just as painful for you to read as for me to write.

Instead, I want to step outside the box a bit. At the risk of writing another cliched article on Butler making it to the Final Four, how they're like Hoosiers and all that dribble, I wanted to relate to you what this means to me with a bit of politics sprinkled in. I went to my first Butler game probably fifteen years ago, when my dad and I sat just rows from the court, had a full meal of Hinkle hot dogs, popcorn, and Coke, and could hear the curse words from the coaches mouths for the same price as a single, bleacher ticket costs today. I mean, nobody was there. The Dawg Pound was more like the Puppy Box and the crowd mainly consisted of alumni who talked through the game, families of the players, and starry-eyed kids like me who grew up dreaming of even having the chance to play in a place like Hinkle in front of a handful of fans. So, for me, first and foremost, this isn't some bandwagon jumping experience that I've picked up. I watched games and followed box scores even when they sucked. I never thought something like this would happen.

But back to that starry-eyed kid. Too often, as in about 95% of my waking life, the keyword is "money", as in, "I don't have any money," or "What can we cut to save money?" There isn't an easy answer. And no matter what ends up on the floor in strips, someone is going to be affected. But this is where Butler and the Final Four come into play.

Every day, I see articles like this, and this, and this. Just Google "cut sports" or "athletic budget cut" and you'll see that at every level, from pee-wee to professional sports, everyone is making cuts. It's inevitable, I know. But, I think too often that some people point an angry finger at sports, say it's an unnecessary commodity, and start slashing at it like Edward Scissorhands. It's true: athletics are not essential in academics. A book is more important than a ball. An education is more important than a championship. But some of those same people who so easily point a finger at sports as unnecessary are the same people who stood next to me at 3 o'clock on a Sunday morning to welcome home a bunch of kids, who, without those same cut programs, would not be where they are today.

Sport is the great equalizer. You hear that so often that is becomes routine and loses its meaning. In context, it applies to schools such as tiny Milan and this Butler team. A little-known, lightly-regarded nobody does the unthinkable, slays Goliath, captures people's hearts and attention. This is why we root for underdogs, even when we have no vested interest. We love it when those who can't do. But it goes beyond that.

When I entered junior high, I was a big-eared, acne faced, goofy, awkward kid with little to no athletic ability. I had heart - I fought like hell to do what I did - but when it came to the social scene, I was a nobody. I had few friends and little hope of a social life beyond Dungeons and Dragons tournaments and Pokemon cards, and I hated both of those. But something cool happened. I joined the cross country team. And I met people like me. And wouldn't you know it, I was good! Not great, but better than a lot of people. Suddenly, this less-than-appealing, Alfred E. Newman look-alike became somebody. Suddenly classrooms full of kids I didn't know and that could have cared less about me were cheering when my named was announced because I won last night's meet or was named all-conference. People who used to chase me down at recess and beat me up were cheering for me, patting me on the back, and there wasn't even a "Kick Me" sign involved. Was it slightly artificial? Sure. Did I care or do I care? Hell. No.

The greatest moments of my life, the most vivid recollections I have - 90% of those memories involve sports. My freshmen year of high school, our little Butler team of runners (complete with a tall, goofy white kid) went from underdogs to sectional champions in one straight away pass. That pass gave me, a fifth-runner who had been dogged on all year, a full paragraph in the newspaper. My family gloated. My friends cheered. That trophy sits in a cardboard box, in the bottom of a trophy case, in a rarely used hallway in my high school gym. No one knows it's there. Ask anybody on that team, any parent, what that day was like, and you'll hear one hell of a story.

I've had success stories in the classroom. I've watched kids turn their lives around, stand up for themselves, become the leaders they never thought they'd be. I love it. But the greatest success I've ever had was to take a bunch of young kids who didn't believe in their own abilities and convince them that they could be incredible runners, that everything they did on that track, day after day, directly impacted their future selves. I saw runners who would never even sniff a sectional roster cry with joy because they beat their best time, or their goal, the first meet of the season. I saw kids who had so few friends that you could count them on an amputees hand become enveloped in a new circle of friends, find their place, fit in for once in their lives. Sports are never about winning and losing, despite the way some coaches and parents may act. It provides the opportunity for a perceived nobody to become a somebody.

I can't tell you how many times sports have saved me. And I'm not alone. My high school sport experiences gave me confidence and pride in myself when I was on the edge. Even winning a meaningless ultimate frisbee championship in college - we were the "unathletic" fraternity who had never won anything - was a memory that I still carry without a hitch or pause to this day. In Mexico, when I was ready to come home and give up, a stupid Saturday morning basketball league made me stay. In the absolute lowest moments of my life, sports have given me a reason to be happy, to have something to look forward to.

And that's what Butler going to the Final Four means. They represent the little guy who still has a chance, who isn't the flashiest or the most popular. They give a community that has been devastated by job loss and every conceivable rash of bad luck something to look forward to. Hell, they give people around the nation, people who couldn't name one player from that entire roster, something to cheer for. I've seen it before. The Colts in the Super Bowl, IU in the championship game, even my local high school girls team making the state finals. If you think for a second that events like these don't give people hope, don't give starry-eyed kids something to reach for, doesn't give a community a reason to cheer for something, then you're delusional.

And that's why sports matter. And why cutting sports kills moments like these. Most sports that are cut are sports like cross country and track, sports that don't make money, that aren't very popular, that people seem to think won't affect anyone. I have no idea where I would be if it weren't for those experiences I had, those moments, those dreams, if I didn't have a reason to hope. But I can tell you this: if it takes all the money in all of a budget to give a person who has been to hell and back, some kid with nothing else to look forward to, a reason to want to wake-up and look forward to the day, to give them one moment of uninterrupted happiness and joy, then to hell with budgets. Give me sports.

March Madness Special Entry Edition

Question: What is the single greatest three weeks every year, a stretch of 21 days that not even Jesus, Allah, Buddah, or David Hasselhoff, in their infinite, Godly wisdom, could create more perfectly? Take your time.

Waiting...

Still waiting...

Give up? Well, unless Halloween is running together with Thanksgiving, and I can wear my two-sizes too small Spiderman costume while I gorge myself on ham and stuffing, the answer would be March Madness. When you see lists of the greatest inventions ever, you see such modern marvels as the aeroplane, computers/the Internet (God Bless you Al Gore), cellular phones, vehicular travel, and even the toothbrush. But, never have I viewed a list that included the NCAA Men's Basketball Championship. And that's alright. You know why? BECAUSE IT'S THE REASON ALL THE OTHER INVENTIONS MATTER! Don't believe me? Alright, Mr. I'm-Too-Cool-For-Your-Unsound-But-Somewhat-Plausible-Explanations. Squirt a little of this on your hot dog...

Why do we need airplanes or cars? Oh, that's right, to fly to the tournament games. Or to drive to a local bar and get hammered and root for teams from places you have to Wikipedia to find out where they're from (Oakland is from Michigan? What?!) Easy.

Why do we need the Internet? Duh! So I can watch every game, as it's happening, inhale box scores like Lindsay Lohan doing a ten foot line of coke, and read enough post-game opinion pieces that my total for each day makes Ulysses look like The Little Engine That Could (great, great book by the way. Vastly underrated.)

Why cell phones? To call my friends who root for schools like Purdue and Kentucky and make fun of them when their teams lose like big floppy losers. Also, to call my mommy and cry when my team loses.

Toothbrushes? Come on. Not related at all. Oh yeah? Let's say you win the championship, or at least score a huge upset, you know, win a game you weren't supposed to win. Suddenly, everyone loves you and wants to be your friend. Now, being as you are on a college campus, that means co-eds. Now, despite the fact that you are suddenly a hero, your deeds plastered all over the place so saps like me with no natural talent besides nasty free-throw abilities can gawk and drool over you, the ladies will not want to be near your suddenly God/John Holmes-like status if your breath smells like a dirty jock strap. Clean mouth? Fuck Orbitz. Toothbrush. Toothbrush.

As great as all of this is, there is one glaring problem that no one seems to be addressing, and that's the announcers. Now, ignore the fact that half the games are being called by what have to be shaven hobos picked up off the street (Spero Dedes? Who is Spero Dedes? Is that the scientific name for an extinct bird?) I think that if one is announcing a nationally televised sporting event, they should be required to do the following: Record yourself calling a game at home. Just, announce some random TiVo'd game, doesn't have to be anything important. Now, have your wife or kid or one of Tiger Woods' mistresses transcribe that for you into a Word Document. Now - stay with me - enter that text into the search box for a little website I like to call www.urbandictionary.com. Go ahead. Have a peek. And if any phrase you have announced appears in said website, maybe you should not say it anymore.

I mean, fucking seriously! I have scoured Google for thirty two minutes and sixteen seconds trying to find any mention of this, and N-A-D-A. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Am I the only one bothered by this trend?

Look, when a player is coming out of the game, he is doing so to rest. Please stop saying he is "getting a blow." Getting a blow? What, are the school's cheerleaders now doubling as part-time porn stars? Is John Wall going to the bench to relieve some pent up tension courtesy of a little cheek tickling from Susie cheerleader? Or are there special team managers for that? Does Purdue employ cattle to sit behind the bench? Was that a joke about Gene Keady and ugly Purdue girls? Yes. I know, this sounds ridiculous, but that's because it is. He has been selected by his coach to come out of the game to rest, not to be fellated in front of 20,000 screaming fans. If I start hearing this during the women's tournament, I'm going to be very concerned.

The same goes for "stroking it". No, he's not stroking it. I'm pretty sure that's illegal in every state but Kentucky, Texas, and West Virginia. This isn't an arena sized meat show. He's SHOOTING the ball. Trying to make a basket. Please don't be fancy and compare the simple act of trying to shoot a basketball to Paul Reuben and George Michael's personal lives. Same goes for "kissing it". Even something as simple as putting the "ball in the hole" sounds...well, painful to be honest with you.

Despite those shortcomings, I love everything else about the tournament. The upsets. The little schools making deep runs. The nail-biters. The inexplicable white kid who plays lights out, gets drafted way too early based on two or three lucky games, and ends up riding the bench in some obscure league in some European country. It is quite simply the greatest three weeks of television every year and the one thing that makes me not go postal in mid-February when I'm freezing and unemployed.

Speaking of unemployment, two recent upstarts in my life have come to an end. First, I am no longer an auction house very-limited-part-time-employee. My choice. Twelve hours a week of hauling dead people's furniture out of their newly emptied homes isn't as glorious as I make it sound. And secondly, the beard is no more. I have reverted back to looking like I'm sixteen years old again. To a point, the beard was wonderful. But, past that point, I started to look like Joaquin Phoenix's long lost brother not named River. It couldn't be contained any longer. I had to put it down. RIP beardy...

And so, I am back, rank and file into the Army of the unemployed. If you have ideas, please let me know. I'm running out of them.

The Beard Chronicles: Part IV

My need for employment, as referenced in my last entry, has been temporarily satisfied, although I can still taste the split pea they served at the soup kitchen. (Did you ever wonder...where is the steak kitchen? Or the pizza kitchen? What happens if you are allergic to soup...hypothetically?) I have begun a stint as an assistant to a local auctioneer. What? I know, right? How awesome!

Now, before you start writing me, asking for money, telling me you have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me investing in a phonics program for cats or miracle growth potion for female soul patches, let me tell you - this isn't the glorious position you think it is.

So far, my job list has included the following: unloading the possessions of deceased people from a white moving truck, cleaning out the last possessions from what was certainly a former drug house, and holding up items during an auction to a group of geriatrics while smiling and posing like Vanna White. Tomorrow I'm cleaning out an old barn that hasn't been entered in at least five years in a small country town on a Saturday morning. Livin' the dream, baby. Just livin' the dream.

It is a unique experience that has provided me with some comical moments, such as an old man buying a large stack of antique picture frames for a $1.00, and when the auctioneer said, "You got a real steal there," he responded with, "Yeah, cause firewood is expensive right now!" And he wasn't joking.

I don't know what my pay is, or when I will get paid, but it keeps me busy and allows me to do something that will one day be a great story when I'm on Inside the Actor's Studio with James Lipton's rotting corpse. "Yeah James, I draw a lot of inspiration from the people I met while working in a small town auction house. It really provides me with the characterization I needed for my last Oscar-winning role as a struggling gay auctioneer in a dying Midwestern town." The auctioneer, by the way, is not gay. He is actually a very, very nice guy. But there has to be something in there to make that an Oscar-caliber role.

I chalk up this latest bit of fortune to the other recent development in my life: my new beard. In the past, I have attempted, unsuccessfully, to grow a beard of Chuck Norris-ian proportions. But every time, something trivial blocks that attempt, like looking professional for a job or large bald patches. Or the scraggly bits of sad hair are depression induced, left to pube up my face by sheer laziness and lack of motivation. But not anymore. There is nothing standing between me and bearded glory!

Although it seems my life is nearly complete, full of overwhelming joy and happiness, I'm still on the hunt for the next big thing (no, I am not scouting for porn...not yet. Ron Jeremy, call me!) Do you have any ideas? Good. Keep them. You might need them later in life...

Classified Ad for Immediate Employment

I am a white male (but don't hold that against me), age 24 (but I've been mistaken for a sixteen year old), seeking employment opportunities with your business! I am seeking any type of employment you have to offer - contract, part-time, or full-time work. Or porn.

QUALIFICATIONS:

I have a Bachelor of Arts degree from a university who prides themselves on being like an Ivy League university, but in the middle of a cornfield in podunk Indiana. I mean, real podunk Indiana. If you step foot off campus, you hear dueling banjo music and see more flannel wearing than a WNBA game. So, I guess you could say I'm cultured. I majored in English Writing, which means I spent four years around stoners who wrote about how difficult their suburban Chicago lifestyles were while growing up. I think someone must have given them bleacher seats once to a Cubs game at Wrigley or something. Who knows? I also dabbled in theatre and political science, so I'm obviously socially aware, or at least I can act like I am. How do you act socially aware if you're a method actor? Spend two weeks with PETA protesters?

I also am a licensed English teacher at the secondary level. With that came part of a Master's degree in education and $20,000 in debt (which is kinda why I need a job). I've worked with children at every skill level - high school, junior high, elementary school, and Mexican. I even have worked with mentally handicapped students, or at least those labeled by the school districts as mentally handicapped so that they could cheat the state by nixing those students ISTEP scores while stigmatizing those students as "special needs" for the rest of their lives. Did I mention I'm socially aware?

I have been a track coach. My runners had a very successful season while I was coaching. We were the only team in the state to wear knee high pink socks and yellow headbands to regionals. While we lost our relay race by a large margin, my runners received more numbers from girls than any other team, and isn't that what high school sports is about, looking cool to impress the opposite sex? That's what I thought, too.

In addition to being a great writer (as evidenced by this advertisement), as well as a superb educator, I am a licensed contractor (I'm good with wood), a skilled guitarist (I cannot play "Dust in the Wind" or "Stairway to Heaven", however), an accomplished actor (I was voted as the "Best Tree #2" in my third grade production of Hair), an excellent cook (tell me if that isn't the best macaroni and cheese you've ever had), and most importantly, a good human being (I hit on old women to boost their self-esteem and I've only hooked up with two of them).

I am also willing to convert to any religion necessary in order to fulfill your needs, except Pentecostal, because I just find blue jean skirts to be a turn off.

EXPERIENCE:

As stated before, I have taught at every level of education, including in Monterrey, Mexico. There, I managed to give a damn despite being nearly deported because the principal of the school which employed me was a lazy jack off who spent more time mentally abusing his employees than actually doing meaningful work, so I am used to adverse conditions. I speak limited Spanish, but I did date a Mexican girl, which gives me lots of experience, but probably nothing useful to your company, unless you're one of those really perverted bosses and you make me your slutty secretary.

I have run my own business doing contracting work, so I am a do-it-your-selfer and highly motivated. I can work without being hassled and pushed, although I do require nap time during the day because I get cranky. This may seem juvenile, even childish, but my productivity will increase exponentially based on the amount of time slept at work. I am attaching an Excel Spreadsheet to lend credence to this claim. I do not, however, require warm milk. This is a common misconception. But hot chocolate and a blanket would be nice. And a soft pillow. This is all negotiable.

DESIRED WORK:

As stated before, I am available for any type of work you may have, from part-time contracted work, to full-time, salaried positions. Or porn.

Here are a few possible options, to give you a clearer picture of what type of employment I might best fit in for your company.

• Roadkill collector - I saw this work on an episode of Dirty Jobs. It looks fantastic. I would tie the carcasses to the bumpers of parked cars and watch as they are dragged along the highway. This would lighten the mood among my co-workers and those driving near said vehicle. And in times like these, and gas prices as they are, wouldn't a little humility help us all?
• Census collector - But I will NOT go to Hannibal Lecter's house.
• Advertiser dressed in a giant cockroach costume (or chicken costume - I'm flexible)
• Grave digger for deceased pets
• Shoe shiner for suede shoes
• Dog walker for dogs with wheel carts (I will provide my own vehicle for carting the dogs behind.)
• Ass model
• Mime for the blind
• Singer for the deaf
• Lady Gaga's personal assistant
• Professional karaoke singer of only "Don't Stop Believin'"
• Pretzel maker at Auntie Annie's in the mall

I hope that this has been helpful to you and I hope that with my wide variety of talents and experience, you can find a position (or positions, if you are a porn producer) that fits your and my needs. My salary is negotiable, as well as my working conditions. As long as you can provide reasonable assurance that I won't be working in a place any worse than the factory from The Jungle, and that I will not be subjected to any contact with Rosie O'Donnell or other fat women with mustaches, then I think we will be able to mutually help one another. I look forward to hearing from you!

Levels of Tiredness, Religious Crazies, and Fleetwood Mac Melting Your Face

It's Friday night, almost 8:00pm, and I'm sitting in a room full of overeager high school students simulating members of the Defense Department getting way too excited about the prospect of dropping an imaginary nuclear weapon on North Korea, then sending in so many troops and weapons that I'm quite certain Afghanistan and Iraq would have to be emptied faster than the gravy bowl at Al Roker's table. Meanwhile, I'm sitting on my laptop, relaxing to Bob Dylan and ignoring every single thing that is being said to me. Why? Even though this bedroom-sized box is currently holding 24 people, 24 chairs, and enough testosterone to kill a large mammal or Ron Jeremy, I am taking this opportunity to smile and find a bit of peace.

I am so tired, I fall asleep in awkward positions on the half hour bus rides. I'm getting sicker and sicker as the week progresses. I've run through a box of Kleenex and four shirt sleeves. I'm coughing like the Bubble Boy in a smokehouse and find myself having to overdose on caffeine in order to deliver my usual cracks over the bus intercom about what Lady GaGa and I have in common with the same enthusiasm. But, I'm two days away from being done with this adventure, and without delving too deep into it, I have really enjoyed it a lot. A whole lot. As much as a high-class prostitute at a Tiger Woods party.

A few funny moments from the last week:

• Two kids were on the bus behind me, discussing their favorite hard rock music (Metallica, Pantera, etc.) I asked them if they had heard of the hard rock band Fleetwood Mac. They both looked at each other and said no. I told them it was the most thrash, hardcore band I had ever heard, so much so they make me ears bleed. They bought it, hook, line, and sinker. They asked for some of their best songs. I told them "Landslide. Think about it. What happens in a landslide? Destruction." They both wrote the song and band down. Nice.

• So, we're behind the Capitol building, trying to brief the kids on where they go and what they can do while they are there. Next to us is a kid, no older than eight or nine, screaming at the top of his lungs about abortion and Obama being a devil and how Jesus is going to return and slay all sinners. Then, his piece of shit, ignorant, jackass father (who pimps an eight-year-old kid, on a SCHOOL DAY, to random strangers at the Nation's Capitol when the damn kid probably doesn't understand a God damn thing he is screaming) began screaming such classic phrases as, "Obama is sending us to hell in a handbasket" (so cliche), as well as the classic, "Pre-marital sex and fornication is for sinners and you will all go to hell who engage in such acts! (Oops! There goes half the Catholics...and their priests.) He began beating the ground and dancing around as he yelled. In between his gasped screams, I retorted. Below is a transcript...

(SETTING: US Captiol Building. TIME: Late morning. CHARACTERS: me and crazy religious man)
 MAN: (screaming) Jesus...hates...sinners! (breath)
ME: (screaming) The food...at the Supreme Court...is delicious! 
MAN: And those...who follow...that devil Obama...like sheep...will certainly...end up...in hell!
ME: And the Library...of Congress...is really neat!
MAN: Voices...of Christ...Use your mouths...as a trumpet!
ME: (puckers lips and makes a loud trumpet sound...man looks angrily at me)

I'm all about freedom of speech, and in no way am I belittling religion, but using your kid as a mouth piece for your psycho babel (and I couldn't remember half of what he said, but it would qualify as psycho babel) is one step below prick and one step above swift kick in the groin. All my kids were laughing and saying, "I want to get a video of the crazy guy!" Oh, and by the by, most of these kids are conservative and religious. So it's not just me.

• Last night, I listened to a man named Col. Christopher Hughes, member of the 101st Airborne in Iraq. His story is amazing and he is an amazing person, as well as speaker. I was really, really motivated by what he said. You can Google his name and read his story, as well as his book, which I will link here. I already have ordered a copy. I suggest you do, too. Truly, truly amazing person that we often take for granted.

• Finally, I'm finished Sunday, and I'll be back home around mid-week and I'm on the hunt for my next adventure. Do you have any ideas? I am open to any and all suggestions. I will travel anywhere and do almost anything, as long as it is crazy and fun. Education programs, weird jobs, etc. You can e-mail me, Facebook me, or leave a suggestion here. Maybe you'll see me in a city near you!

National Security and the DC Crazies Who Challenge It

Session 2 is over halfway completed, and I'm sitting in a large conference room, monitoring members of the "media" in the student's role playing simulation on North Korea and their threatening the United States with nuclear weapons. Very cool for them. Very boring for I. Three hours of sitting here, giving the students fake "TOP SECRET" documents every fifteen minutes, listening to kids verbally abusing each other over fake documents and made up roles. Most excellent. So, I decided to use this time to add more photos and fill all two and a half of you that read this thing in on the latest in this capital adventure.

This session has been a blast as well. The kids I worked with session one were fantastic, and their diversity and backgrounds made them such an incredible group to work with. This group...umm, I like them. There are definitely some characters. I have one scholar who has discussed such wide ranging topics as broom handles and splinters, Amazon women, and the fact that he skipped part of his experience at NCIS to eat chocolate pudding with a special agent using a knife. Special people, really.

Speaking of NCIS - each Thursday, the students go on a site visit that they choose, and we faculty advisers are divided up and sent to different places. Yesterday, I went to the FBI Academy at Quantico Marine Base (think Silence of the Lambs). Really fantastic. We saw the training facilities, including a ground fighting session (the same moves I already know from MMA training in Mexico - what what!) and the pool and weight room facilities. The experience was fantastic. It was made even stranger by the fact that while we were at the FBI, the plane in Austin crashed. The initial report was that it hit an FBI building in Austin. Weird, weird moment.

We then went to NCIS at Bollinger Air Force base. It's only slightly like the television show (a point that was hammered home about 2,567 1/2 times). But, they set up an actual crime scene with real blood (well, sheep's blood) and clues, fingerprints and cyber information and the like. The kids went into the actual labs to analyze blood splatter, learn to fingerprint, how to find information on hard drives, and they held actual guns and used empty casings to figure out the "murder" weapon. The people at NCIS were really great. I didn't participate, but still had a good time. Especially because there were a few hot lady agents working there, even though their work space reminded my partner and I of The Office.

Alright, so Washington DC must have high security everywhere but their insane asylums, because there are some people here who seem to be a few screws short of not being mental. There you go. For example, there are groups who stop people at street corners to discuss how Barack Obama and Adolf Hitler have identical policies. They even have large pictures to go with their explanations. You know, even though one of them strongly disliked African-Americans and all and killed 6,000,000 Jews. Kinda the same as not liking a health care policy. Just saying. Idiots.

Today, at the Lincoln Memorial, a man wearing blue jeans with shorts over top of them, a bandanna, and crazy assorted accessories began throwing coins on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, followed by his covering up of a picture of MLK, saying, "This is top secret and no one can see it! Go away!" Oh, by the by - he was African-American. After confronting several mounted officers and National Parks workers, he was escorted away. I was too surprised even to go pick up the damn change.

Finally, I finished reading the latest novel I decided to tackle, Love In the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Fantastic, but not as great as One Hundred Years of Solitude. Although he is wordy and extensive with his descriptions of seemingly mundane details, the picture he paints leaves you with a vivid mental picture of every person, building, and moment in the novel. I highly recommend it if you enjoy Latin American literature at all. It reads very nearly like a much better, more drawn out version of The Notebook, with the theme of young love lost and found again later in life. Super, super novel.

A Valentine's Day Message For Everyone

I’m sitting in a Starbucks, writing on my computer, looking like another wanna-be writer who thinks a 3.25 Mocha and a faux oak table are their key to being the next John Steinbeck, where under cheap track lighting they say via their open computer, pensive look-offs into the distance between frantic typing, and their intent, brow-bending stare at their computers, “Look at me! I’m a real writer!” But, alas, I am not doing such today. I come to you today in as a cheery mood as the next man with his testicles strapped to a car battery.

Alright, so that isn’t true. I don’t let Valentine’s Day affect me like most people. While others throw around their philosophical droplets of wisdom (“It’s just a holiday invented by Hallmark to make money. It’s intended to make single people miserable.”), I do not fall into those ranks. Sure, watching couples fawn over each other in public like mother gorillas picking bugs out of their children’s fur stands about two rungs above a nasty gangrene infection on the Vomit Scale. But, I realize two things. One, most of these couples act like this towards each other about three times a year and most are internally just as miserable as any single person feels. I walked around downtown for an hour today and saw exactly five shouting matches, one of which the police were watching because they and I were quite certain that was going to end in fist-a-cuffs.

Second, and most importantly, it’s just another day. Sure, it dredges up memories and feelings, but so do sad movies, floppy eared puppies, and venereal disease flare-ups long after the gift giver has gone. You can easily let one day affect your outlook on life, but that feeling is fleeting, as are most feelings, and tomorrow the red balloons and cheesy slogans in restaurant windows will be gone and half of those couples will be well on their way to a nasty break-up three months from now. It’s the nature of the beast.

So why write about this? Well, I’m bored. I’ve never wished so intently for two days with absolutely nothing to do and no responsibilities to pass by so quickly. Also, it’s an inside joke to myself that I’ll share with you, but I like to secretly laugh at people without anyone else knowing why I’m laughing or smiling like an idiot, and there’s one of those guys, absorbedly pounding away on his computer, sitting behind me, and the stack of books he has piled up next to him and his yellow legal pad notes includes two of the Harry Potter books. So I figured that I would do the same as him, even though only I know I’m writing ridiculous statements about a made-up holiday and he’s probably actually trying.

I spent today getting a hair cut from a nice gentleman who said, “Your hair naturally flows towards the center of your head and gives you a fantastic faux hawk. You have a great head shape.” So to all you hatas out there, I told you I be reppin’ the most bad ass faux hawk eva’. And now a real hairstylist at a SuperCuts told me so.

Snow Days Suck...

I used to think snow days, in the order of Divine Miracles, rated somewhere between walking on water and making a blind man see (but NOT turning water into wine, because I don't like wine that much, and definitely better than the whole fish thing, because, you ever been around a whole shit load of fish? That stuff starts to stink pretty quickly.) So that was my thought process until this week. Initially, when they announced that they were canceling session two of the forum because of weather, I was elated. As much as I loved working with the students, a long break was very welcome. Well, here were are five days later, and things have gotten so bad, that our staff quickly resorted to "If this became a really bad horror movie, which member of the staff would most likely be the one to snap and kill everyone?" And guess who was voted most likely to be that person? ME! What?!

Alright, so let me take this opportunity to refute that claim. First of all, never in my life have I had a desire to murder someone. I mean, straight up. Never. And, besides the fact that I match some of the descriptive traits listed on the "serial killer" Wikipedia page, I never wet my bed beyond the age of 12 and I don't think torturing small animals is right. At all. I didn't even like dissecting the frog in biology! And I am proud of my high IQ and do not think it is indicative of anything other than I have a lot of knowledge. I mean, you don't see Stephen Hawkings out there, going all Buffalo Bill on some wheelchair bound women, right? Of course not! So, yeah, that argument is done. Plus, I'm too nice. Really. I give to charity. I ask elderly women how their days are. I don't cross the street to avoid homeless people. I walk right by them! Who else can say that? Seriously.

Let's talk a look, hypothetically, of where I think I rank if we were to really look for serial killers:

5. Tom Cruise - that's too obvious
13. My next door neighbor when I was a kid - I think that guy had a few bodies in his garden
75. Mr. Rogers - you know that guy was a Green Beret, right? Don't let the sweater fool you
76. Mr. McFeely - he would be a quite obvious accomplice
165. Ron Artest - too easy to see, so there's no way he could be
1,345. Michael J. Fox - Marty McFly? Teen Wolf? No way. Plus he couldn't hold the weapon steady (crickets)
1,456. Ryan Barton
1,458. Mother Theresa - sneaky; a wild-card entry, but in the end, no way

So, you see, the empirical proof is overwhelming - I could not nor will I ever be a serial killer. So sorry to disappoint. And just because I've been twitchy this week whenever I see a butter knife doesn't mean anything. IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING!

So this week really has been rough. It's cold, there's nothing that's closer than a 20 minute walk besides homes, and they serve dinner at 5pm. By nine, I feel like Rosie O'Donnell staring at an all-you-can-eat buffet through Plexi-glass. It's just uncomfortable. A few of the kids have been stuck here all week because nothing is flying out of Washington D.C. besides Congress' sanity. They've tried a few escapes, and who can blame them, but they're about as stealthy as a fat woman in a Twinkie factory. But they're really cool and we've had some great times, like a few days ago at the zoo.

So, I figured the zoo in winter would be like going to the opera: boring. There's really no joke there. Opera sucks. So, anyways, we went to the National Zoo with the remaining scholars because it's free and it's close and what the hell, there's sure to be a few exhibits, right? Well, not exactly. Every other path was "Under Construction," the elephants were locked up like they were on death row, and half the exhibits were closed. So, we checked out the small mammal house, with the monkeys and meerkats, and that was cool. And we checked out the reptile house, with the crocodiles and snakes and frogs and stuff, and that was neat. But then, we went into the most amazing place I have ever been save...well, save nothing, it was that amazing - The Primate House.

Look, seeing gorillas and orangutans up close is cool enough, especially when there are baby gorillas involved...


And you can always bet that they'll be doing something interesting. I mean, they are our living ancestors and all, right? They're smart and intelligent, right? I mean, some of the primates work on computers at the zoo, matching designs and showing forms of intelligence, right? Oh, did I mention they like to stick their own shit in their mouths and smear it on the viewing glass for all to see -


Or they choose to whittle the time away by doing a little something I call EATING THEIR OWN VOMIT! Oh yeah, not once, not twice, not even five times, but like twenty freaking times! Seriously! And this ain't no cow-chewin'-its-cud type of deal. This is full on, out of body, back into body kind of shit. This orangutan in question particularly liked to show of its vomit eating prowess by doing so off the viewing glass. And to silence any critics, I went ahead and captured the moment with a sort of evolutionary linkage type of photo.


Ignore the fact that that thing looks like half of my family. We clearly have evolutionary links, but have become separated in our thought processes. Orangutans can't talk, and I haven't eaten my own vomit since I was in college, and that's like two years ago, and that was just because of a dare and I really wanted to impress this girl, but the plan kinda backfired because she thought it was gross, but at least I wasn't doing it for fun like this orangutan, and at least my shame was only in front of like six people and not at a country's zoo where everyone could watch me. So, that's how I proved evolution this week.

I went out last night, had a nice time, got in a cab to head home with some friends. Cab driver (who we later found out was Punjabi) was talking on his cell phone in a language we couldn't understand to a person we assumed was, you know, far enough away to necessitate a cell phone. Upon stopping at a red light, the cell phone hung up, the trunk popped open, and a human crawled out of the trunk. Seriously. The cab driver was talking to a man who was stuffed in his trunk. The whole time. No truth to the rumor that the man in the trunk was this guy.

Anyways, that's about all the fun for this week. I'm still trying to figure out what's next. I have no idea. I feel as clueless as Joaquin Phoenix in trying to decide where to go from here, except I don't have a beard like Happy Gilmore's caddy. But, if anyone has any idea or would like to coax me into coming their direction, let me know. I'm open for just about anything at this point. Just something that can pay the student loans and leave me enough money to buy useless crap that I'll never use.

Two Weeks Deep, Don't Think Twice, 'Cause There's No Second One, Only Second Chances

In true Sesame Street fashion, this weeks blog is brought to you by the number two. In the pantheon of numerical order, I think the number two is often forgotten. It falls behind the first number of the alphabet, comes before three (third times a charm, lucky number three, etc.), and generally has an awkward form when being written (do I make the loop at the bottom/do I not/does it matter/will my first grade teacher Mrs. Duddy slap my hand with the metal edge of a ruler again for number two writing insubordination?). But, the number two has given us some of the greatest number related references in history: two birds with one stone, number 2 pencil, and of course, the greatest, taking a number two. This week has been no different for me.

First, let's address the elephant in the room. Yes, the Colts lost the Super Bowl. Shit happens. Truth is, it's all my fault. I wore my Colts t-shirt today, but it never felt like today was actually the Super Bowl. I didn't even go out to watch it and I only woke up 10 minutes before kick off. I feel like my lack of preparedness both mentally and physically were somehow related to this letdown, and for that, I'm sorry. Kudos to the Saints. If there is any team I wouldn't mind winning the Lombardi, it's the Saints. Even though Drew Brees was the inspiration for a certain Austin Powers character. Although they got there, there wasn't to be a second Super Bowl, and it's all my fault. On the other hand, Mardi Gras will be sick. You think the guys from Girls Gone Wild are already halfway to New Orleans with about 324 cameras and two garbage trucks full of beads? I think so.

Even though this was the first full week of work here, I'm now two weeks deep into my Washington D.C. experience. So let's run through week one.

Fantastic. Incredible. Amazing. How many cliche words can I dramatically list set off from the other paragraphs for dramatic purposes?

(As a side note. We started working Tuesday at 1pm. We finally finished Sunday at 3pm. Count it up. That is a total of 122 hours. How many we were on the books for? 85 hours. Yes, that's right. We averaged approximately 7 hours and 24 minutes of free time a day, and that means sleep time, too, so if I haven't kept in touch with you, I apologize. There were afternoons where I swore I was tripping on 20 Dramamine mixed with a handful of NyQuil. In other words, I spent the week looking and feeling like an extra from "Thriller".)

Twenty-one kids, from California, Texas, New York, Tennessee, Michigan, even Indiana, and everywhere in-between were in my group. Tuesday afternoon, they sat, heads down, toeing the ground hard enough to dig holes in the carpet, afraid to breathe too loud. Today, at our final meeting, they were hugging each other, crying, exchanging e-mails and phone numbers. To watch the growth of students you are responsible for over any period of time is a neat feeling. I've had that feeling so many times, and each time, it's a satisfying experience that's really unparalleled. But, for some reason this time was extremely moving for me. It could be a thousand things. Where I am in life, where this job is, who they are as people - whatever it is, this has been, as I said, an incredible experience.

Highlights:

• Wednesday, I noticed one of my students sitting alone during dinner. He's from near where I went to school in Indiana. So I went over and had dinner with him, talked about jazz and different parts of the state, how he liked school and the program so far. Shortly thereafter, two other students came by wanting to sit with me. I introduced the students, got them talking, and excused myself to get another drink and never came back. Today, I saw those same three students all hanging out, taking pictures together. I smiled a little.
• Thursday night, the students listened to different speakers from the defense, diplomatic, and intelligence sectors of our government. Afterwords, they attended a career fair with various intelligence branches, military schools, and people from related career fields. I spent more than the recommended amount of time discussing networking, talking about the various twists and turns my life has taken based on random chance and people I've met by complete accident/fate. I stressed the importance of impressions, firm handshakes, genuine interest. I watched as other students ran to tables to grab the "swag" these companies bring to lure in students and run back to their friends as if a free lanyard was a trophy of excellence. Three of my students were late getting back to the classroom. They were asked to stay after to talk with a member of one of the military schools, who gave them his personal information. All the students said they were more prepared than any other group. Was it true? Probably not. But they believed in themselves, and that's 99% of the battle.
• We had a black sheep. Every group I've ever worked with does, that one kid who stands out, says the wrong thing at the wrong time, rubs everyone the wrong way, doesn't seem to have an inner-monologue. It was hard, as respectful and courteous as the students were, to shield him at times from their barbs. Saturday, as we discussed the importance of respect to those at Arlington Cemetery, he gave one of the most thought-provoking, deep, incredibly moving statements I've ever heard. The students all cheered for him. Today, at our final meeting, he told everyone how much he appreciated them. They all had a group hug and said how much they cared for him and loved his personality and opinions. I didn't join the group hug, because it took me back to all the other students who I watched in the same way, with the same admiration, names that I still remember to this day and always will.
• At our final meeting today, my students reiterated what they had said all week: That they love having me as their faculty adviser, they were sad they were leaving, they wanted pictures and to know if I'd stay in touch. There were hugs, some tears (not from me), beautiful final messages. I watched a group of bright, young, talented students grow like driveway weeds, sprouting new frames of thought and confidence in only six days and realized this -

I'm sitting here at 24 years old, having felt like my life has done nothing but dramatically shift since I was a child, a decade plus of seemingly dead ends and hopeless roads that turn to dust. Then I see how these students reacted, how much they appreciated me for me and how I could help them. Coincidentally, I received a slew of messages from my students in Monterrey Friday night and had a heap full of scholars not even from my group asking to take pictures with me the last day, saying they would miss me, too.

I also have a link to pictures from this week. What, what!

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2062533&id=22102032&l=f98874ed63

Finally, each night, because the days are so hectic and a moment of peace if as hard to find as someone who thinks Sarah Palin would be a good President and doesn't believe that Mormons planted dinosaurs in the ground, I would chill out in the lobby of one of the buildings here and relax with some Bob Dylan.

And it happened. I think I've made one of the biggest decisions of my entire life.

I love Bob Dylan more than The Beatles.

Now, before you start chastising me - the Beatles are the greatest rock band ever. Without The Beatles, we'd have had Lady GaGa twenty years ago and by now hermaphrodite acts would be as popular as the Jonas Brothers. So, that's a good thing, you know? But what makes Dylan my go-to choice for listening pleasure?

First of all, I love the simplicity. Acoustic guitar, a harmonica, maybe a little drum snare here and there. Second, people always bash his voice, but that's what makes Dylan, well, Dylan. It's a voice of the people - a smoky, cracked, strained, untrained set of pipes that could come straight from a Michigan line worker or a West Virginia coal miner. It's a voice of the people telling the stories of the people. Finally, his lyrics - just, amazing. While he has some real stinkers (sorry, I think Ballad of a Thin Man is shite), the majority of his songs just hit you right where it counts, right when you need it.

I've always found it difficult for pin down a favorite song for artists I really love. Don't even ask me about one for The Beatles - how large of a list of potential candidates can I have? Thirty songs? Forty?

Dylan - I have fallen in love with Don't Think Twice, It's Alright. Never gave it a shot before. Can't get enough of it now. Amazing. And it has a deviation of the number two in it. So there you go. What a way to wrap it up.

Now on to week number two starting on TWOs-day. (That's a stretch, yes, but I don't care. Get yo' own damn blog if you got a problem with it.)

p.s. - Shameless plug. Sort of. This is a link to a student-film that my good friend Jeremy Brok made in 2006. I recently put it up on YouTube because a lot of our friends were in it, and making it was a ton of fun and now that we have to face the real world, I guess this takes us back to a time when things were as easy as being dumbasses in front of a camera. The other three parts are linked on the video somewhere. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bGztfPhy5bw

Washington D.C. (kinda), Chevy Chase, and more

Before I left for Washington Saturday, I spent a whole night with the old man watching the Biography Channel's documentary on the making of Caddyshack, which is still one of the like, top 5 comedies of all-time. It was followed up by biographical shows of Rodney Dangerfield (that guy did more drugs than a Vietnamese crack whore), Billy Crystal (really random), Bill Murray (I think he would be my best friend), and Chevy Chase. Besides the fact that Chevy Chase is an enormous, egocentric prick, he has this really cool town in Maryland named after him. And guess what...that's where I am.

(Alright, so it isn't named after him. But what's a better story. "Hey, we were named after the Chevy Chase Land Company" (boring) OR "Hey, we're named after an egotistical jackass who starred in Caddyshack, Christmas Vacation, and the greatest musical video ever, "You Can Call Me Al." Don't deny it, Chevy Chase, MD. You know I'm right.)

So how is the metro area of the District of Columbia? Fantastically fantastic. I spent Monday afternoon checking out the National Mall. Washington Monument, Korean War Memorial, the Capitol. And, look, this needs to be addressed. I like the Lincoln Memorial. Seriously, even though Night at the Museum II bastardized it like an unclaimed red-headed step-child. Nothing like memorializing one of our greatest President's ever by making him a complete tool in a terrible movie. Shouldn't Congress be addressing this instead of some of the stupid shit they are "taking care of" now? No, cause the Republican delegation would probably argue that it was actually a good movie.

Anyways, look, not gonna mince words about it. Lincoln's got a chub. Nothing to shield the kids' eyes over, but he definitely is sporting. Seriously. I mean, the flap of his jacket covers it slightly. You hear this B.S. about Robert E. Lee's face being carved into the back of Lincoln's head and what not. So you're telling me, Daniel Chester French would do something like stick Lee on the back of Lincoln's head, but he wouldn't give Honest Abe some morning birch? Come on. But, like, I get it. I mean, he's spent the last how many years with this view of the most recognizable phallic object in America. I mean, at some point that has to start messing with your mind -

Or maybe this is the real reason. Who knows?

Anyways, D.C. is a beautiful city. I haven't been able to explore it much this time around, but I remember it pretty well from the last time I was here, when I was seventeen years old and changed the entire course of history for my high school's summer government trip. At least once in your life, meet a beautiful blond on a DC metro. Fantastic.

The program I'm doing is working with gifted high school students from around the country discussing national security, going to places like the CIA and the Pentagon and Henry Waxman's office, where he will discuss with students how their use of LimeWire to download the Jonas Brothers is a threat to national security. Really heavy stuff here, man.

The program is actually extremely cool and had I known things like this existed when I was in school, I would have done it instead of spending my time doing nothing.

The kids have model government simulations where they take on roles as various heads of state and determine the best course of action to take against a potentially nuclear North Korea. It's six straight days of national security issues and touring DC and spending time with me, which, seriously, is the coolest thing. I mean, I'm so awesome, right? (I actually feel terrible for the kids who are with me, because I literally know shit about national security. I mean, had the issue of this course been illegal immigration, I would have been an expert. "Yeah, I think we should let Mexicans into the country, because some of them are really hot and they are crazy partiers. But not Canadians, because we already had to take Alanis Morrisette's crazy ass." Beat that argument, John McCain.)

Training has been great and the people I'm here with are really cool and this is about 180 degrees of what I did in Mexico (because I actually have to try at work here). Plus, only about half the people who work in D.C. are Mexican.

Finally, I need your suggestions. See, when I was in high school and delusional, I started using the username "thespianrunner" or "thespianrunner85" for most of my sign-in names. MSN, AIM, message boards, etc. So, I stuck with that for awhile because it was easy to remember and it was descriptive - I mean, I was an actor and my sport was running and I was born in '85. But, in retrospect, the name sounded cool when I was sixteen and listened to "My Fair Lady" for fun, but now it's just unprofessionally uncool. I mean, I could update it, but I don't think "usedtobesomethingthatsoundslikelesbianformerrunner69" would be all that great - plus I think that's too long. And every time I try to register as "longdongsilver", someones already taken it. Bullshit.

So give me your thoughts. Even if they aren't serious. Because those are probably the one's I'll use. Yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you "littlekidlover".

17 Hours Later: An Amtrak Train and America

Alright, that's not true. But if The Hallmark Channel picked up the rights to the trip (Which they would because their programming is horrible...The Ugly Dachshund? Really? Kristi Yamaguchi and Friends? What, couldn't secure the syndication rights to Little House on the Prairie or something? Oops, wait, nope. You have that, too.), they would inevitably give it some cliched, over-worked name that would let conservative, 45 year old housewives know exactly what to expect. And I think 17 Hours: An Amtrak Train and America is what they would title it. Or at least that's what I'd like to not believe.

So, I figure, I got some time to kill, why pay $130 for a plane ticket, plus baggage fees, plus all that bullshit and hassle when I could due the truly original thing and ride an Amtrak train all the way from Connersville, Indiana, to Washington, D.C., for $65?

I hop this train in Connersville at 1:15am on a Sunday. I'm so hyped on coffee that I don't remember saying goodbye to my mom and left my MP3 player in the car, which led to a fantastic situation which will be explained later. The first problem wasn't a problem, but an upgrade: the original train from Chicago had mechanical issues, so instead we rode a train that normally runs from Seattle, Washington, to Chicago. Cool. And because that is a scenic route that passes through the Rockies and national parks and Wisconsin cheese country, the seats are on the second level because, Heaven help you if you don't happen to catch a glimpse of those famous Wisconsin cows, vomiting up their food, then rechewing it, all so you can have some delicious cheese. Mmmmmmmmmm.

(Interesting side note. Type "amtrak train" into Google image searches. Mmm-hmm. That's right. Four of the pictures on the first page are of Amtrak crashes. That's a track record, pun definitely not intended.)

So I board the train and there's maybe six people on it. Cool. The seats are roomy, the cabin is cool, and the man sitting two rows behind me smells like cigarettes and stale beer. Classy. As the train pulls away, this is when I realize the MP3 player is not on board. Piss.

I'm halfway down the road to Snoozeville when the one other person who boarded with me in Connersville, a twiggy, thread haired girl of about 20 starts to moan and talk. Oh, by the way - she's NOT asleep. No, she's listening to music and spilling her life's misfortunes and prophecies all over the cabin. My favorite of her extended, self-pitying, and extremely creepy monologue: "I just want to be a mommy." Well, that clued me into two things. One, she definitely is from Connersville. (For those of you who do not know what people from Connersville are like, here is a sample. What you are about to link to may shock you. This is not safe for children, those who are pregnant or may become pregnant, or children who are pregnant or may become pregnant, like all the kids in Connersville, or those operating heavy machinery. More for good measure.)

And the second thing it clued me into was that the customers of Amtrak are fucking weird. I mean, I got a walking cancer stick with a mullet and his wife to match sitting two rows behind me, smelling one step above a Budweiser beer factory tour, Twiggy back there babbling about being a mommy and whatever else she was saying, and some guy who I swear to God, rode from Cincinnati to DC and asked every single person on the train where the bathroom was. I mean, he had to have used it 146 1/2 times. Seriously.

But, these are the experiences that make life worth living. Until, you go to get coffee at 6:30am in the lounge car because you can't sleep cause Twiggy is sawing logs thinking about her future as a mommy and her transit from Connersville, Indiana, to West Virginia (fitting), and they say, "Sorry, sir, the dining and lounge car will be closed the whole trip because of a water pipe breaking." Wait, what? Are you serious? Here I am, excited for the prospect of three square cardboard meals prepared by their chefs (who apparently, so the brochure says, are trained in the New York school of cuisine, even though half the menu is cold cut sandwiches. Was this a Jewish school of cuisine?) and I can't even get a cup of $1.80 Green Mountain Coffee.

So no food, no drinks, no sleep, and a ever-filling car full of so many colorful characters you could have set that train right smack dab in the middle of a gay pride parade and you'd have to wear sunglasses to keep from having your retinas burned out.

When Twiggy left in West Virginia, a young mom and her two kids boarded. The little girl was maybe just past one year old and quiet. But the boy, a three-year old named Jay/J/Je/Jai, was different. When he first started talking and screaming at old ladies to "hand over their tickets," he looked and sounded just like this kid, so much so that when his mom left with his sister to use the restroom, I almost tried bribed him with a dollar to recite the words to that video. By the end of the trip, I wondered what the repercussions would be for cold-cocking a three year old on an Amtrak Train. How long would the prison sentence be? Would it be worth being Butch's bitch not to hear screaming, crying, and whining for 10 straight hours? At times, I was already picturing dropping the soap.

I also had the pleasure to sit in front of an old, sweet grandma who had the most rancid, acidic, nose-humping, ball-busting farts that I have ever smelled. I mean, the term silent, but deadly was created for this exact situation. My nose stung so bad at times, that I had to disregard politeness and cover my mouth with my hoodie in order to breath clean air. I think the atmosphere on Mars must be a lot like that, which is why nothing lives there.

Around 2pm, they were kind enough to supply us with cold cut sandwiches and bottled water. One crazy lady came running down the isle with her food raised triumphantly, screaming, "I have my rations! I have my rations! Those Nazis aren't so bad after all." (Uncomfortable silence. Yes. You feel it. So did we. That was the quietest sandwich I've ever eaten.)

So I'm running on no sleep, half a sandwich and a bottle of water in a 24 hour period, a car full of crazies, and no headphones, with, oh wait, that's right, the Colts game starting at 3pm. Fudgecicles!

So, here's what happened. Around the second quarter, I broke down and paid $1.99 for unlimited access to the Internet on my phone, my worthless, small screened phone, not realizing that we're skipping through mountain gullies with as much service as a Vegan bar and grill. Nada. We finally break through to the United States again (I will never count Kentucky, West Virginia, or Texas as part of the United States. That's like saying, "Yeah, she would be hot if she didn't have that moustache and a third boob growing out of her back." Although, now that I think about it...), and my phone is being ravaged by the sweet, vibrant, cancerous tower waves that bring me the Colts score...when my phone dies. So, no WIFI for my computer, no MP3 with a radio, and not a plug-in in sight, save for, oh, what's this - the bathroom. So as the sold-out train fills up, complete with a set of six very attractive coeds who must have been on a hazing mission or something come on board and sit between me and the stairwell that only leads to the bathrooms, I keep disappearing for 10 minutes at a time to charge my phone while sitting on the john (pants up...most of the time), then come back upstairs where I can get service to see the game updates for 15 minutes before I'm doing that dance all over again. I even went so far as to comment to one girl, "I wish there were plug-ins up here so I wouldn't have to keep charging my phone in the bathroom." She gave me a look that landed halfway between "I hope you didn't stink up the bathroom with your constant, probably projectile diarrhea" and this.

In the end, it didn't matter, because the Colts made it back to the Super Bowl, I finally made it to Washington D.C., and she's a smelly pirate hooker.

Mexico Rewind: Part 1

As my time in Mexico draws further away in the rear view mirror, I find myself in a weird situation. I still miss Monterrey. I miss the people there. I miss the culture, the late nights, the challenges - I told someone tonight that I'd be over around 9:00pm. When I was still sitting in my house at 10:15pm, they said they were going to bed. I can't even get off "show-up-two-hours-late-and-you're-still-early" mode.

Each cracked, smokey, thick, country-drawl voice I hear, each geriatric grandma complaining about their food, the weather, or how bad their goiter is, every snot nosed, spoiled, punk-ass kid running around, the constant texting and cell phone usage I see, how the "Mexican" section in our local grocery store was so atrocious I literally had to stop myself from crying, with it's "authentic Mexican" food that's about as authentic as Italian food served by Puerto Ricans - all of it. It all makes me realize that I'm standing at a crossroads, except there aren't actually any roads and a map of this mess would be about as useful as reading used toilet paper.

I said last time that I stopped writing because I couldn't say the things that were happening with my life, mainly the school in which I worked. Well, now I can. So here come the stories:

Let's spend today on the school. At first glance, as my early blogs and pictures indicated, the school seemed too good to be true. Moving to a foreign country, one that is supposedly treats teachers as slave labor with no concern for their well-being, with a wonderfully caring administration who will provide all teachers with any necessary materials and be there for us all the time?

(Hold it. Hold it. Almost there. Short pause. Here it comes...)

Hardy-fucking-har.

Pardon the language, but 95% of any disdain I have for Mexico and Monterrey comes directly from my experiences teaching. When our training sessions involved finding the correlation between scenes from EVERY Harry Potter movie and how we can help our students succeed, I should have known. ("Umm, maybe we can use our magical powers to turn the students into genius' and teach them quidditch if they suck at soccer?") But, we were showered with praise and free food, nice clickable pens and fancy folders, new classrooms and the strong family feeling the school wants its teachers to have.

I spent the first three weeks without teacher edition textbooks. Jeff, who I came to Mexico with, to this day, still does not have his teacher edition textbooks. We were run through hours and hours of constructivist seminars, only to have any and all ideas even remotely resembling constructivism thrown out the window from day one. Our classrooms were made of thin brick and windows. Between each classroom, at the top of the wall, was a foot gap. At times, I would be screaming for my students to shut up, only to find they were completely quiet and instead a group of students sometimes three classrooms down were simply talking loudly. There is no copy machine. One printer for the whole school. No way to get supplies except ask for them and receive them usually three weeks later (I once wrote on the dry erase boards in permanent marker simply because the school would not just give me on dry erase marker and I was at the point where I could care less).

In July, all of us sent our information in to have our work visas processed. August. September. October. Finally, one gloriously repetitive day, I was dragged from my classroom and shoved in a supply closet with seven other teachers because immigration had come and all of us would have been deported had they found us, simply because the school did not process our visas in a timely fashion. Actually, timely fashion would be an understatement. My dead grandmother could have processed my visa faster than this school even attempted to, and she would have been more successful (it would have also scared the shit out of everyone involved, because she's probably a little dusty by now). After almost two hours hiding in a cramped closet, like I was on the Underground Railroad or something, the school opened the door and announced, "You can go back to teaching now." Ex-squeeze the fuck out of me? What did you say? We were one loud fart or sneeze from a deportation record and you don't even apologize? If this was only the worst incident.

Teachers were fired for no reason and given no compensation. Other teachers missed weeks of school and were welcomed back with open arms, while others missed one day and were threatened with their jobs. There are no vacation days, no sick days, no missed days. You're sick? Too bad. The only way you can get out of school and still get your money is to get a doctor's note. I haven't had to have a doctor's note since I was in fifth grade, and now as an adult, I am docked pay because I missed a day with a migraine? What, is George Clooney going to come by and diagnose me with something that you medically cannot find or prove?

I was grabbed by the arm, told I was rude for not manning the right drink station at an event that ruined one weekend and was unpaid, and was constantly interrupted while teaching for useless announcements. Kids were pulled out of my class to do worthless projects that only existed to make the school look good to the parents, because in the grand scheme of things, that's all that mattered - we were pushed around, treated like shit, lied to and blown off, cheated out of money and time, and the only effort that was ever put in around the school came when someone knew a parent would be watching.

The school killed my desire to ever teach. The students rarely cared or did homework. Parents rarely gave a shit. I was told not to fail students, just give them lots of extra credit before report cards. We had to open car doors for kids and walk them to their cars after school, like I was playing Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy.

There's more. Much more. Other fun stories will come. I haven't even scratched the surface in regards to our "company housing," another "too-good-to-be-true" story.

Anyways, the fun, drunken, classic Barton stories are soon to come. But I can't help but feel like despite my constant fondness and want to be in Mexico, I need to remind myself that rarely did things smell like roses. In fact, in regards to the school, it usually smelled like a giant, atomic turd. Yeah, that's about right...