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.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
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:
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
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 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
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
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".
(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".
Sunday, January 24, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
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...
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...
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