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.