The Kite Runner

I'd probably want to go see this movie, if it weren't for this unfortunate title of a review in the Washington Post: lame title

Yuck. Someone needs to screen reviewers' titles before they go to press. That's the kind of title you'd give to a mock-review or if you're doing your best--and lamest--Ebert impression. Lame.

And the long silence. . .

Continues. I've switched jobs, and I'm training for my new job right now, but when things calm down again, I'll resume posting.

Here it is!

Finally, I found the quote that eloquently sums up every awkward holiday dinner conversation I've had in the last three years!

"Of all the preposterous assumptions of humanity over humanity, nothing exceeds most of the criticisms made on the habits of the poor by the well-housed, well- warmed, and well-fed." --Herman Melville

Uh. . .wow.

Turn off the cell phone.

Rules of Order

I've already deviated from the habits and routines that get me safely through my morning. Here are the ones I've bonked already:

1. Pack lunch the night before and have it waiting in a plastic shopping bag to grab and take to work. Skipped that, then I was off to a slow start.

2. Check tire pressure and fill up if necessary. Didn't do it, and I can feel each rough edge of the rock salt scattered on the sidewalks. If my tire pressure gets any lower, I'll be rocking on the rims. Not good.

3. Shower at work, not at home. This is my stank-avoidance technique and it's worked like a charm. But the prospect of another cold shower at work made me stagger into my sauna-like bathroom to enjoy some warm water for a change.

The result: I arrive at work a sweaty, stinky mess and take what George Carlin impolitely calls a "hooker's bath." Not quite as stank-defying.

4. Avoid discussing religion and politics at work. This is a biggy. Some will tell you that you're allowed to speak your mind to your coworkers. True.

The same people will insist that speaking your mind is "just a discussion" and shouldn't offend anybody or set you up for a stone-cold shunning if your views are unpopular among, say, the mega-church going; flag-worshipping; mall-walking set. False. Very false.

I just told a co-worker my views on the Pledge of Allegiance and coerced vows of loyalty. Oops. Shunned.

The Best Weapon

From the WSJ Law blog comments section:

Law abiding citizens do best when they have the BEST tool for self defense, a handgun. A handgun is the great equalizer, it makes a 110lb woman equal to a 250lb man.

Hmmm, and people have always told me that karate was the best defense. . .shoot.

Big Deals in the History of Food

This list was pretty cool.

Remember in Back to the Future III when Doc Brown makes the first refrigerator with ice cube dispenser? Well, looks like someone beat him to the punch by approximately 26 years (check #9 on the list). So many anachronisms in those movies. . .

They Ain't Robbing 'cause They're Too Smart to Work. . .

Thug calls girlfriend on stolen cellphone, linking him to various armed robberies. I bet his buddy with murder charges waiting in Chicago was really pumped.

Cue the Music

Mr. Perfect's entrance music ran through my head as I made a culinary triumph last night: I cooked an edible fried egg.



For those of you who've burned, maimed, and otherwise destroyed every egg that touches your skillet, here's what I did:

Take a nonstick skillet and set it over the lowest possible heat for 5 minutes. Add 1 tbsp of cold butter and swirl it around the pan. Add 2 eggs, then two more. Cover and let cook for 3 to 4 minutes. Uncover, and you've got the perfect fried egg. I nearly cried.

The Law According to Homer

A judge in Cincinnati used a Homer Simpson quote in the footnotes of his ruling on a contract.

Killing them with Gross BBQ Sauce

I had a job interview yesterday and part of it included a 10 minute presentation on the topic of my choice. I chose "How to Make a Pulled Pork Sandwich." My audience seemed to like my presentation well enough--I served samples. Then I packed up everything and planned to eat the leftovers later for dinner. I didn't even think about whether it would taste good. . .

Well, when it came time for us to eat the pulled pork--the same stuff I served my potential future employer--the lady friend and I both gagged. I had made some last minute substitutions to the recipe and they made it inedible. I can only hope that the buns masked the taste for my audience. . .yikes.

Descended from Bears

Today's temperature during my bike ride into work: 22 degrees.

The shower at work isn't connected to the hot water heater, so after riding 40 minutes through the cold, I hopped into a cold shower. Having only towelled off after yesterday's rides, I needed a thorough washing.

After 10 minutes in the shower, I stepped out only to realize that the backroom in which they've cubby-holed the shower isn't heated, and, in fact, is colder than the cold shower stall.

I began this morning routine last week after getting sick of showering at home and smelling terrible when I got to work. At first, the cold shower made me hyperventilate and break out in goosebumps all over. But now I just take it in stride without severe physical reactions or excessive whining.

Perks

What the heck kind of perk is this?

Laugh it Off

I don't really understand what's funny about poverty. I really don't. But so many of the people I talk to think their income--or lack of one, in most cases--is funny. Hilarious, to some.

One lady today, I asked her if she made less than approx $1200 gross per month. She laughs for like 30 seconds, then says, "$1200 a month? Try a year--and I still make less than that!" More laughs.

How does that work? Less than $1200 per year? The answer: foodstamps, energy assistance and income adjusted housing. You get up, turn on free lights and eat free food. Sit around, go to the library, do whatever. That's how you stretch $1200 over a year.

But what's funny about that?

Autoadmit is like the Iowa Primary?

There's an interview with the person who hacked Autoadmit and outed some of the more, uh, colorful posters there.

What grabbed my attention was the last paragraph of the article, which you can read here.

Again, more first in the nation envy. . .

For Some Reason

This just tickles me. . .

Wizard of Oz (en espanol)

This might be Spain's fiercest export.

Well, It's Official

We should all ditch the walrus suits. What am I going to do with this 3 lb beef roast in my kitchen?

Let's Hear it for

Dropout Factories.

Back in the Saddle

I've finally kicked my double ear infection, and I celebrated by biking in to work for the first time in several weeks. Here are some thoughts:

1. In the last two weeks, the weather has changed significantly. The temperature this morning was 33 degrees when I left the house. Two weeks ago, I was wearing a tee or a jersery if I was feeling sassy. Always athletic shorts. Now there are leaves everywhere, and the sun is hiding somewhere beneath the surface of the lake. It is cold and dark.

2. Biking creates an intense windchill. I rode in with what I thought were appropriate layers: moisture-wicking fleece beneath a hoodie, track pants, and biking gloves. I've grown a walrus suit over the last few years, so the top and bottoms kept my core warm, but with my bike zipping along at 14 mps, my fingers froze from the breeze. I'll need to pick up some gloves before I ride home tonight.

3. The riders on the road today are a friendlier bunch than the fair-weather commuters. I get the nod or a "good morning" from most people on the trail.

4. I tried to be efficient this morning, so I brought all my clothes for the week with me along with a towel for showering at work. When it came time to shower, only cold water came out despite the cold valve shut completely off and the hot cranked all the way to the left. I jumped in, rinsed, jumped out and stood shivering, glad as hell that I had decided to get back on the saddle.

Bottomless?

If you pay $3 for bottomless chips and salsa at a kitchy Tex-Mex place, there should be a constant rotation of chips. As soon as you're 2/3 done with the basket, a new one, hot and fresh.

But my neighborhood joint sucks. You have to try to get a server's attention as they run to and from the kitchen. Then they look at you like you're crazy for asking for more chips. I paid $3 for what? Crappy service and an empty basket? When it comes to Mexican restaurants and chips, this is not a one-and-done, especially when you've paid for something that most places give away.

Truthers

Ok,

I've been a little busy and haven't been able to post. But in the last few days, I keep hearing about 9/11 Truthers. A friend even invited me to join the "9/11 Truthers Suck" Facebook group.

In this morning's blog, Althouse included this awesome picture of a Truther disrupting a guest speaker on Islamo-fascist awareness while violating several fashion laws.

I don't know anything about the Truthers, but if they all dress like that dude, I've seen enough to know they suck.

Kids These Days

When I was 12, I did not know how to buy a condom nor what to do with it. Sex ed was not very thorough in my schools, to be sure, but no one seemed too worried; none of us would be having sex any time soon.

But fast forward a dozen years, and I can understand why a middle school in Maine made birth control available to its students. Kids at that age are strangely in the know when it comes to sex--for those of you in doubt, go to a middle school cafeteria and listen carefully. Yet most middle schoolers (and far too many high schoolers) are completely clueless when it comes to safe sex and preventing pregnancy.

Some parents complain that schools should not have the right to "push" contraception upon the kids. They could argue that sex education is a family issue, and thus the decision to begin taking birth control should be a private one. I don't disagree with the idea that families should discuss sex nor do I think schools should wholly relieve parents of the burden of "the talk." And finally, not being a doctor, I can't say for sure that birth control is good for any woman. Nonetheless, I do worry about a couple things if we were to leave sex ed entirely up to parents:

1. Some parents refuse to give their kids enough information about their bodies and sex to make healthy choices. I can count the number of times my mom or dad ever discussed sex with me on my nonexistent third hand. How do you expect little Johnny to know how to take care of business when his dad's too shy to utter the word "penis?"

2. Lots of people assume that because adults know that it's a bad idea to have sex at such a young age, kids will too. Kids don't share all the same sensibilities that their parents were raised with. And shame just isn't what it used to be.

When my mother was 13, a pregnant girl would have been removed from school and sent to live with an out-of-town relative. Most people would have felt that the shame of a baby making babies was enough to justify an exodus.

When I was 13, they encouraged pregnant girls to leave school when they began to show; they could catch up when they could. No one discussed these girls with us, and everyone in school agreed that being 13 and pregnant was bizarre. Sure you had to hide those girls away to make sure the others wouldn't catch "baby fever" (not a scientific term, but definitely noticeable among teenage girls), but the sense of shame, though, just wasn't as intense as in my parents' generation.

As a teacher in an inner city school, I witnessed 2 of my students drop out of school to have a baby. The other kids thought that that was the coolest thing. They had no clue how to prevent pregnancy nor avoid catching STIs, but they could all get down with the idea of getting a boyfriend and "getting my baby."


3. Not all parents think getting pregnant at 14 is bad. Honestly. They were born when their moms were 15. In some parts of our country--mostly the parts ignored by white christians opposed to sex education--there is no sense of shame at having a child without a husband or a high school diploma. What 30 year old new grandmother is going to shame her child for following in her footsteps?

Now you can argue--correctly, I think--that these parents have set a terrible example. But who should set the example then? This is the question at the heart of cyclic poverty. Can education overcome entrenched destructive behaviors? We'll never know if we're never allowed to try. Birth control for middle schoolers may not be safe, but withholding or giving incomplete information about sex because one finds it personally uncomfortable or morally unattractive is ultimately much more dangerous.

I Never Would Have Thought. . .

Dumbledore's gay.

Admirable

Note the big smile on the face of a woman who drove to the cable company's office and took out a phone and some computers with a hammer.

Oh, Those Missouri Schools. . .

The Constitution requires at least 25% of the budget go toward education. The state claims they spend near 40% and won't give up another dime, yet schools are complaining that they don't have enough money to provide a quality education! Those jerks. . .


Who needs a quality education when you could work in this place?

He Took the Dog!

Dude alleges that Mike Vick took his dog. He wants it back.

Teach for UK!

I was reading this article when I came across this paragraph:

"In many of these schools, pupils' progress is hampered by poor basic skills in literacy and numeracy. It cannot be right that 20 percent of pupils leave primary school without a solid foundation in literacy and numeracy," [some official] said.


An article like this would never go in the American educational system. Pretend that statement was being read aloud in a faculty meeting. I can see three words in that paragraph above that would require someone to define and create a context. (Sure, numeracy's important. . .but what is it?)

NWO

In this article at MTV.com, the author compares Radiohead's online release of their latest album with one of the biggest moments in modern professional wrestling history (look around the middle of the page).

Come to think of it, that's going to be a pretty obscure reference for MTV's target audience, some of whom would have been infants in 1996. Weird. . .

Oh no!

Where will Jules work?

So personal

This article suggests that since Iowans have pressed alot of politician palm, they're getting the special treatment.

We might be special, I suppose, but it's not surprising that a lot of Iowans have made contact with a politician. Go to any county fair, college or gathering of 20 people or more within two years of an election, and a politician will be there, all smiles and handshakes.

Politician sightings are not a rare thing in Iowa, and it's not really worth the ink to print a story saying that it happens frequently. It's like printing a story about the number of sunny days in Phoenix--why waste everyone's time?

Strength in Numbers

I went to a medical clinic today, and one of the questions on the intake forms was "Are you Married/Partnered or Single?" The lady at the desk asks the question, and I kind of pause out. I'm not married, but I'm not single either. . .I have a lady friend. . .I live with my lady friend. . .Aren't you supposed to call your s.o. your "partner" in professional settings? . . .

So I tell her that I'm not single, but I'm not married either. "Partnered?" she asks, and then, without waiting for a response, marks the box and moves to the next question. I return to my seat, and ten minutes go by.

Then I begin to wonder. . .By "partnered," could she mean "1/2 of a long term homosexual relationship?" Before I could think it all the way through, I was called in to the examination room.


The intern begins by asking if I have any chronic conditions. I respond that I suffer from fatness. She asks if I exercise to mitigate my weight gains and high BMI score. I respond that I bike to and from work everyday and a couple times a week beyond that. After an hour or so of questions that had nothing to do with my earache, I get ready to leave the clinic.

The intern wishes me good luck and says: "Get better, and get your partner to go biking with you. Strength in numbers!" Then she puts on a serious face, does a fist pump and finishes the gesture by flashing me a strange smile. . .

I ran all this by the lady friend, and she thinks I took the intake question the wrong way. So by my own unwitting admission, I passed as an openly gay man with a double ear infection for a few hours this morning.

Freegans

Every morning I pass a group of guys who sleep in lawn chairs outside converted VW busses and scrounge from dumpsters for their sustanence. Until just a few days ago, I didn't realize a word existed to describe them. Now I know.

They're called freegans, and according to a piece on NPR the other day, they're the most extreme type of vegan. They take the minimalist element of the vegan diet and apply it to LIFE.

In the NPR piece a reporter becomes a freegan for a month. The story doesn't ring quite true. In fact, I'm pretty sure she was doing freegan-light, if at all. Listen to the piece. The reportage is suspect if the most significant thing you have to say about nearly eliminating your carbon footprint through non-consumption is that you craved Skittles.

On the other hand, I did learn about the legal aspects of dumpster diving.

Kids

For your friends who think babies playing jazz are cute. . .

The Contraption

To promote comfort at work (and by comfort, I do mean laziness), I've designed a contraption to help me hit the "engage caller" button on my phone. Before, I had to lean forward when I wanted to hit the button. Now, I pick up the contraption and hit the button from a distance of 3 feet.

I used to have to alternate between lounging in my comfy chair and hunkering forward to hit the button. Now I can lean back, grab the contraption, and talk, talk, talk. Yay!

Progress, folks. Tech-no-logical progress.

Let's talk dirty to the animals

The times may have changed. 30 years ago, the most illicit conceivable relationship between man and best may have been best captured by the Gilda Radner song referenced in the title. In the song, we gather together as one species to swear at the animals we find around the farm.

But it's 2007 now. And a movie I saw over the weekend shows that dudes are getting together to do something altogether different with the animals. The movie is a documentary called Zoo, and it follows the zoophile culture in the Seattle area. The impetus for the film appears to have been the death of an engineer from Seattle, whose demise came from internal bleeding caused by a ruptured sigmoid colon. How did the colon rupture? A horse.

I don't like this movie because of the filmmaker's decisions on how to tell and show the story; it's sort of like sitting through a really long episode of Unsolved Mysteries. But I knew nothing about the topic before seeing the movie, so I guess I can say I'm more informed.

If you want to sit through a bad film about a hard to understand, make-you-want-to-gag fetish, Zoo may be it for you. Or if you want to punish your parents for making you sit through 12 years of catechism, Zoo may be for you as well. Whatever your take on zoophilia, for me the film reaffirmed that man-beast relations should never go past a good belly scratch and a rub behind the ears.

It needs some. . .zazz

After watching 36 hours of the West Wing in the last two days, I can't think of anything interesting to write. So, visual stimulation it is, then.

I present to you the dog my lady friend wants me to get.

Adultalescence

I felt like I was under the microscope when I read this.

Last week's Times Magazine also had an article on TFA. I especially like the part about teachers in training falling asleep during Institute sessions. . .ah, memories.

A Shout Out

I mean this completely in good spirit, but I am so tickled by the pet names I'm called by people who call me at work. Some of my faves:

1. Baby
2. Darling
3. Sweetheart
4. Honey
5. Partner
6. Yunster
7. Chief
8. Asshole
9. "REAL HELPFUL"

Questionable Merch

For you fans of NPR's Supreme Court coverage out there, you can now get your very own tote bag:

http://shop.npr.org/product/show/28775

BTW, it's back by popular demand. Awesome.

Marathons

I now have a lot of time on my hands and I think I'll start doing marathon sessions of interesting shows that I never caught the first time around. Here's the menu so far:

1. West Wing, season 3--end
2. House, season 3
3. You Can't Do That on Television
4. Arrested Development, season 2

Anything you all have seen that's worth seeing?

Dr. Jones gets Her Milk

The lady who sued for extra time to nurse her baby and pump milk during the medical boards received her extra time. The extra day with an extra 45-minute break wasn't enough, according to the appeals court. Comments welcomed.

The Black Straw Man

If you make too much money to qualify for government assistance, don't blame your situation on your mistaken notion that blacks are grabbing up all the assistance money.

When you make $4500 a month, but you spend $3000 on house payments, it's not the black man's fault that you're broke. Common sense should tell you that putting 2/3 of your income on any one expense is a foolish idea.

Or if you take home $5000 a month, but you owe $2500 to Visa and you've got a $75000 boat docked at the lake, and you're still making payments, it's not the black guy's fault that the government won't give you $200 bucks toward your winter gas bills. Your spending habits suck.

Man up, look at your ledger, and do what you have to do to get by. (Yes, I'm telling you to sell the boat, pay off the balance, get Visa off your back and STOP BLAMING THE BLACK MAN!!!)

Finally, if you live in Wisconsin, don't assume that minorities take the lion's share of government assistance. For my particular organization, the bulk of our funds go to white families. In all of the counties my office serves and all but one county in Wisconsin, the overwhelming majority of clients are white. In the county that covers Madison and its suburbs, white clients outnumber black clients by more than 20 percent.

For the source of your money problems, look in the mirror.

Random Thoughts for Tuesday

1. Disabled daughter does not equal paycheck.

I have strong feelings about the importance of helping the poor and elderly, yet I do not have much sympathy for a mother who applies for low-income assistance because the only money she takes in is the $400 per month she receives for a daughter with a disability who attends school.

This is artificial, self-induced poverty and you should not expect a payout for watching Days of Our Lives.

2. Yes, you should write it down. Whatever it is, write it down.

3. Accept the possibility that the reason ____________ didn't work out is that you messed up. Either you messed up now or earlier, but it really could be your fault.

4. The electricity bill is not a random piece of paper. Don't recycle it until you've paid it (or written down the amount. . .)

No Time for Milk, Dr. Jones

A Boston Globe story talks about a Harvard Med Student who has sued to get an additional hour added on to her 45 minute break during the medical boards. A judge (male) denied her request, saying she could take the test now and pass, despite her condition, or she could schedule the test for after she no longer needs to pump.

The medical board says that breast feeding is not a recognized disability and not a reason for additional time. She's appealing, but the boards are Monday. What's gonna happen?!!

But here's what's already happened: The board already gave her an extra day to take the exams because she suffers from dyslexia and ADHD. She'll get a 45 minute break each day, along with permission to bring her pump into the testing room and a private room to pump in.

So, who's being unreasonable?

Here's a blog about breast feeding:
http://www.momsfeedingfreedom.com/index.php/home/blog/

A Show of Hands, Please

When you hear the words "porcine, pre-bypass Bill Clinton," what gestures come to mind?

Mommas Don't Let your Babies Grow Up to be. . .

Don't curse your kid from birth. Avoid naming your girls any of the following:

1. Denise
2. Tonya (or Tanya)
3. Melissa
4. Janelle
5. Laura
6. Lori
7. Heather
8. Lisa
9. Nicole
10. Betty
11. Any variation of Deborah
12. Michelle.

Be warned.

Don't Tase Me, Bro

**These are not some great revelations I've had, but rather what everyone is thinking. I think**

John Kerry was giving a talk in Florida and during the Q and A, a young guy who'd drunk waaay too much coffee beforehand met the business end of the Thomas A. Swift Electric Rifle (TASER). While watching the incident on youtube, I couldn't really figure out who to blame for the situation getting out of hand. Here are some thoughts, though:

1. Dude did not observe decorum. Now I'm not such a huge stickler for the rules that I support tasing people who step out of line--lord knows I've dropped A at the wrong place and wrong time and walked away tase-free. But I do think it's obnoxious to take over the mic at a town hall event or a lecture. If you were so important, they'd have invited you to talk. Ask a question, move along. That's the routine. Dude did not follow the routine.

Dude also brought props, a book critical of Kerry's hasty concession of the 2004 election, and announced his intention to ask 2 more questions, presumably in the same loud, high-pitched, and spastic voice. These questions, I'm sure, would have been more incoherent babbling without an argument or a question.

He clearly planned to jack move Kerry and soak up a couple minutes of the limelight. I don't care if he wants to clown Kerry, but I'd prefer him to be intelligent and brief. Unfortunately, he was neither. I really don't mind that security cut the mic and pulled him away.

Finally, Dude resisted. He pushed, shoved, and shouted, and, once on the ground, kicked and swung wildly, screaming all the while. Congrats, Dude, you just kicked and screamed your way into the gray area where a tasing is probably still excessive but defensible. "Don't tase me, bro!"?

Bro? There's no same-team benefit, here, Dude. They want you to shut the hell up and get the hell out. He ain't your bro, and he's gonna tase your ass if you don't calm down and shut up.

2. Campus cops overreacted. You don't need to tase a dude at a lecture series event unless he's a danger to himself or others. The only danger that guy posed was to the eardrums of the other people in attendance. Yeah, he was creating a sideshow, but so what?

Douchebaggery is not a tasable offense in my book. Drag the guy out. But he kicked and swung? So? The five of you should be able to take out a skinny college kid. Plus, kicking and swinging doesn't constitute enough of a threat to justify a tasing.

Houston Police Department got a lot of bad PR last year because someone recorded and leaked the agonized cries of a man tased by some trigger happy cops on the east side. This incident happened just after a guy became a statistical anomaly and died from a tasing.

The constable was then forced to clarify the HPD position on tasings. According to him, the TASER should be used in lieu of deadly force. That's right, use the TASER instead of the revolver. Use the nightstick or approved holds to subdue. Would the cops be justified in shooting the man to pacify him? No, of course not. By that logic, no tasing either.

3. Kerry and the crowd were sheep. Why didn't Kerry or the other attendees tell dude to shut up and get off the mic?

I attended a distinguished lecture series event featuring F.W. de Klerk, the former South African President who, along with Nelson Mandela, abolished apartheid and won a Nobel Peace Prize. During that event, there were two incidents similar to the Dude's above: one woman got on the mic and bashed de Klerk for five minutes, in Afrikaans.

De Klerk translated and addressed her concerns (which were really intense--where are my brothers? You jailed them.). Then, when she tried to go on and on, he interrupted her and said, "This is a public forum and you've had your five minutes. Please let the next person speak." And she sat down.

Then a young guy stood up on his seat and shouted, "You should be in jail! You're a murderer! Tens of thousands of people are dead at your hands!" The crowd turned on that guy and he was shamed into silence by shouts of "Wait your turn!" and "Shut up and let him talk about it!"
De Klerk looks at dude and says, You have just accused me of very serious crimes, but I could barely understand you because of all your shouting. Next time, you'll do your cause better by not appearing to be a lunatic in public. Then he talked about whether he was a murderer.

While he spoke, the President of the university found the young guy and pulled him aside to talk to him. No tasing necessary. When speakers and the crowd handle their biz, people don't get tased.

Kerry? He hemmed and hawed kinda told the campus police to let him handle it. Then, just prior to the zapping, says, "I'll, uh, I'll answer the question."


There are several lessons to learn here:

1. Don't be a jackass at a public forum
2. Don't get all adrenalined up and reach for the TASER
3. If you're the speaker, handle the crowd. If you're the crowd, handle the hecklers.

Now back to work.

Bureaucratic Excuse

A few housekeeping items before my random thought of the morning:

1. I was testing the waters with the school stories and I appreciate the feedback I've gotten. I will write more, a lot more, actually, but not until after I'm finished with the LSAT and applications. So, if you've been waiting, settle in, relax, and do something else for the next month.

2. A Nebraska man sued God yesterday, citing his failure to stop egregious flooding. When asked how the county would serve God his papers, the man replied with something like, personal service is unnecessary because God is omnipotent; he knows he stands accused. I personally like it when people get all biblical and shit. Good job, Nebraska man! (Now hunker down because the rain sure ain't gonna stop now. . .).

3. Omaha steaks is having a giant sampler sale. 70 bucks for a months' worth of meat. If you like steak, pork chops and hotdogs, check out the website, and meat up.

And now, the bureaucratic excuse. I was assisting a gentleman who was helping his father get an application. During our conversation, the man let on that his father does not live in his home, but in a nursing home that is taking all of his pension and social security.

The problem, though, is this: we can't assist an empty house. Someone has to be living in it. After checking with my boss, I tell him to call his county office to see whether they will allow him to apply despite not residing there. The man is clearly unhappy.

He asks, "It IS income based, right?" Yes, sir. "And he makes $45 after the nursing home takes from his pension and social security. So he qualifies for your service, DOESN'T HE!"

When I explain, again, that I am uncertain if he can apply if he does not live in his home and that he'll have to ask the county for a definitive answer, he tells me, "Well, that just sounds like a bureaucratic excuse!" After a few more assurances on my part, he hangs up.

A few thoughts on this, geared toward getting the results you want:

1. Listen to what the person is saying, even if you think you won't like it. For the purposes of the conversation, they are the expert and you are the learner. You will learn more about the services provided, and, if you're smart, find loopholes in what they're telling you.

If dude had paid attention, he would have found a very easy and legal loophole, but he was too busy trying to take the man to task. Don't blame the "bureaucracy" or accuse the person of making excuses. Just listen, and try to understand.

2. Don't be rude or yell at the guy or gal on the phone. They are the ones who will be able to help you if help is available. This goes even if the guy or gal is rude to you first. If they are rude to you, just ask to speak to a supervisor.

You'll get nowhere by yelling. In fact, you'll actually be worse off because even if the person on the phone is rude to you first, they will note your belligerence on your file, which will follow you around in all your interactions with that company. That means they'll be less willing to bend to help you now and in the future. And that is the very least that will happen.

I hate to admit it, but not everyone is as nice as me and my coworkers here. While most people who work phones genuinely want to help, some are complete asses who wouldn't think twice about hitting the wrong key or trashing your file if you piss them off. Are there a lot of those types? No. Is there a chance you could talk to one? Yes, and I'm playing the odds of not pissing off the guy with my social security and bank account numbers on his screen.

So before you ask for a supervisor, check yourself. Are you being an ass? Are YOU being rude? The person on the other end of the phone is human, too, and just like you, they don't want to help a jerk. If you're being a jerk, don't expect help. Someone spread a rumor about fifteen years ago, something about a customer always being right. They were lying. If you yell, you automatically become the asshole, even if you have cause.

3. Be honest. Don't try to lie about your situation or qualifications. If yelling MIGHT get you blackballed, lying will definitely get you hosed for life. If you have a complicated situation, explain it. Or, if you're not comfortable explaining it over the phone, ask how you could meet with someone in person.

But don't lie. Don't say you live somewhere when you don't. Don't say you're the account holder when you're not. Don't lie about how much you make or how many kids you have. This is common sense, but even a little nonsense makes your situation grave. Just be honest.

Committee on Committees

It was time for my fifteen minute break and so I escaped to the outdoors with my banana to take a walk. I rounded the corner and nearly bumped into an older guy walking down from his porch to his truck. He stepped back, just avoiding the "Impeach Bush" and "Let your light shine: Vote Peace!" signs perched in his front lawn.

His appearance is worth mentioning: short, squat (but not fat), older. The most striking thing was his coke-bottle glasses and pure white hair that fell over his denim jacket in a ponytail. He spoke first:

"It's a beautiful day! So beautiful we couldn't figure out anything to bitch and moan about. So we formed a committee."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So now we bitch and moan about the committee. Did you know the city of Madison has a committee on committees?"

I said I didn't and open-mouth laughed, despite having half a banana jammed in there.

"You take care now, neighbor!" he said and hopped into his little blue Toyota pick up and drove off.

It was time to go back to work, so I chomped down the last of the banana and headed back. God I love this city.

Before the Big Day, part 2

The day before, Saturday, was supposed to be the day all the bits and pieces of plans I'd made over the summer came together. Seating charts, grouping arrangements, sequence of objectives, the classroom routines, forms and first day activities and everything down to the placement of the date on the chalkboard was to be set and ready to go on Saturday. Well, actually, I had wanted to be done on Friday, but a couple of snags made that impossible.

We'd spent the first part of the week in professional development sessions and department meetings. As a new teacher, all this new information fascinated me. Strangely, my coworkers didn't seem fascinated. They didn't even take notes! Their faces didn't betray any one reaction, but ranged from bored to hostile, and I made a mental note to figure out why.

At the end of Tuesday's last meeting, the principal announced that all classrooms would be locked until Friday at 2:30, at which time we'd have 45 minutes to set them up before the building would be locked. The reason: we'd be performing team-building exercises at a local camp for the disabled for the next two days. As he made his announcement, the faces of the faculty all soured at the same time.

No mental note needed on this one. Sure, rope swings and balance beams have their place in education, but at this point, I didn't even know if I had a computer in my classroom. Why did we need to build team when we should be building classroom libraries?

Two days later, we returned from the camp, ostensibly better acquainted and more trusting of one another. The trip was a qualified success: I got to watch a science teacher pretend to fall from a rope course forty feet above the ground. My coworkers--completely forgetting that he wore a harness--gasped and shouted and ran toward his landing spot just as he grabbed for the rope to stop his fall. He clambered back onto the ropes and laughed maniacally as the PE teachers threatened to dismember him if he ever came near the gym. Unity.

After de-busing, all the veteran teachers headed to their rooms to hang up their posters, arrange their paper clips and write the first day's objectives on the board. For some reason, though, the key to my classroom couldn't be found, and before we could locate it, forty-five minutes were up and the "official school time" was telling us to leave. I hadn't even seen the room yet, and I was a bit, let's say, frustrated. Not wanting to start things off on the wrong foot, the principal apologized and told me and a friend to come in Saturday at 8 a.m. to set up our classrooms.

After waking up to an already-blistering 85 degree sun, we cruised down the avenue to school and were greeted by an empty parking lot enclosed by a fence with a locked gate. Hmmm, I thought, this doesn't look very open. Surely there had been some kind of misunderstanding.

Rather than wait it out, we decided to make the first of what would be many trips to the Dunkin Donuts nearby. There are going to be setbacks, I reminded myself, things beyond your control. There's a reason why these schools have the greatest need. Nonetheless, I was pumped to head back and get things going. As I chomped on my donuts, the frustrations of this morning and the previous week yielded to the restorative powers of coconut flakes and vanilla frosting.

When we returned to school, the gate was open and we pulled in. Clutching our teacher bags and dragging our crates-on-wheels behind us, we trudged to the doors and tugged. Locked. We pounded for several minutes and finally a custodian let us in and unlocked our classroom doors for us. Things were finally looking up. Then I stepped into my classroom for the first time.

Just a tid-bit.

Yesterday the lady friend was kind enough to swing by the office and pick up a one-sentence letter authorizing her to pick up my paycheck. When she went to the front desk, the CE told here that no one with my name works here.

The lady friend texted me later, saying the CE was bitchy and didn't even know my name. I conciliated her, telling her that my not working there was really only a mild exaggeration, considering how much time I spend on this interweb.

Before the Big Day

** Fyi, This did not happen recently, but at the start of my teaching experience about two years ago**

When I woke up, something gnawed at the back of my stomach. I don't usually wake up feeling sick, so I tried to think what could have caused the mild sensation of nausea that greeted me that Sunday morning.

"Oh, yeah," I thought, "school starts tomorrow."

I hadn't really forgotten. After all, this was the big day, the first of many shovel-fulls of knowledge that I would pour into the achievement gap. I had been trained to relish this first day and to let my zeal for learning bubble over into the classroom, to bring the passion.

But as I stood up, noticing the heat in my room was already stifling, a different sensation hit me. While I recognized this new feeling, I certainly wasn't happy about it.

I hadn't had a panic attack in years, not since I had to hide from a snoopy landlord who didn't approve of unmarried couples cohabiting. Dizziness had snuck up on me, and, without my realizing it, I had spent five hours under a blanket, hyperventilating.

In the abstract, I was extremely excited about the first day of school. But now, with the actual staring me down, I felt a numbness behind my eyes, and as I walked down the carpeted stairs thick with dust--who had time to clean when the fate of 150 kids was on the line?-- the old feeling of numbness spread from my eyes, down my throat to my torso, where it met the nausea. I ran to the bathroom.

When I left the restroom, I went to the kitchen to make some oatmeal. I looked at the clock on the microwave: 11:30. I had slept exactly 5 hours more than I had wanted to. The plan was to wake up at 6:30, do some kind of exercise, and make copies of my day one forms and activities. According to the plan, I'd be done by noon and ready to relax and get to bed early.

The plan was off. Never mind the fact that I overslept and got sick and was filled with dread; I had a much bigger problem: I had no activities for the first day. No forms for the kids to take to mom and dad. No lesson plans. There were less than 24 hours before the first day of class, and I had nothing.

Think Big

I just finished laying out my study plans for the weekend for my coworker (She asked. What a nice lady.). After all was added up, I had blocked out approximately 18 hours of studying to get done between now and Monday.

Eighteen hours. When I think about that number, it strikes me as completely nuts. Who studies for eighteen hours in two days? But then I think about my backlog of homework, my missed lesson from last night (burnout avoidance--took a long bath, cooked a good meal, and finished a novel), and the full-length diagnostic coming up on Sunday and suddenly 18 hours seems almost conservative. And I will do it.

Most people, I think, would just throw up their hands and say F-it. Then do maybe 4 hours, max, then go enjoy the gorgeous late summer weather or see a movie or whatever. For the purposes of this post, I'll call this "thinking small."

I have never really been able to think small. I try to make every day big. When I was teaching, I'd get up most mornings at 5 to work out, get to school by 6:30, make copies and set up class by 7:30, tutor kids or socialize for half an hour, and then start the day. After that, I'd do more work until 5 or so, at which point I'd get sick of being surrounded by tables, chairs, overheads and markers. Then I'd get home, cook and work again from about 7 or so until 9. Then I'd read a book or study LSAT for an hour, talk with the lady friend for a bit, then fall asleep on the phone around 10:45. Wake up and do it all over again.

The upside of keeping crazy hours and doing more than is comfortably possible in a day: you learn to maximize your time and make a lot happen. You are productive.

The downside: it's easy to become an over-caffeinated, sleep-deprived grouch. Missing last night's class was grouch-prevention. I've gotten 7 or 8 hours of sleep the last two nights and I feel like a new person. Maybe I should start thinking. . .medium.

The CE

New job, new adventures. I work for a non-profit that helps people pay their utility bills during the winter. This is a pretty big help, considering that lows in the winter get to about -40 with the chill. No power or heat and the kids could die.

I'm a scheduler / preliminary screener. I ask five questions and give them a spot on the calendar. Also, I am sort of like a bartender in that I perform the unspoken but completely expected duty of listening to people's woes. Some woes are really really intense, and I don't want to get in to them right now.

But I do want to talk about a co-worker. We have a compulsive exaggerator (CE) in our midst. My first day at the office was spent shadowing the receptionists, listening to them handle callers and memorizing the script (five questions. . .). One of the receptionists left for a smoke break and came back giddy.

"Oh my god! That bike out back--the green one--it has like three boxes of ky jelly in the basket!"

You've already guessed that the green bike was the Green Speedster, but you're probably puzzled about the KY. Well, last week I worked on State St. at a bookstore. I parked my bike outside a Walgreens and sometime during the day last Friday, someone tossed a KY Jelly box--not the jelly, just the box--into my basket. I thought a couple of things, but my overwhelming urge was to laugh and keep it there as a reminder of the absurdity of people. So I did.

But the CE came running back in and make the above-mentioned loud proclamation for the entire front desk staff and lobby area to hear. S-eating grin on my face, I stood up and said, "I knew there was one in there, but I have no idea about the other two. Excuse me for a second."

There was only one box in the basket, and it was the same character-adding box I had decided to leave in there.

I left work late. Since I biked in, I had to change from work clothes to bike clothes and use the facilities and whatnot, and I rolled out at ten after five. As I walked toward the front door, I noticed five or so people in a meeting that appeared to be wrapping up.

I unlock the front doors and let myself out. As I walk toward my bike, I notice that someone from the meeting got up and re-locked the front doors.

The following day, the first thing my supervisor says to me is: "Did you leave the office at ten at night and leave the doors unlocked?"

I must have had a look on my face like she was taking a dump on the floor because she quickly added, "Because the girls at the front desk said you left really late and left the door unlocked when nobody was here. I didn't think you would do that, but. . ."

Even for a tall tale, leaving at 10 at night on my first day of work when my job cannot possibly be done past 5 makes no sense. Someone seeing me unlock the doors when no one was here makes no sense. But somehow I think it made sense for her. After all, she's a CE.

On the Road Again

To celebrate a week of not using my car, I decided to ride my bike to the Fitchburg Panera using the Capitol City Trail (CCT). I had seen the route on the bike map, and even though the path veered off the normal city streets labeled in green and into the gray areas outside of town, I decided to give it a whirl. I was not disappointed. Before I headed out, I had a stutter start--left the bike lock at home.

After turning back and re-riding the two miles I had just covered, I set my bike up against the railing by the stairs and realized--stupidly, slowly--that I could adjust my seat to make it more comfortable. After angling the saddle down from the take-off angle to level cruising, I headed out for the trail.

The CCT rambles through several forest preserves, down small gullies and up through stands of pine trees. An hour later--fourteen miles down the trail--I popped out onto Fish Hatchery Road directly in front of Panera.

Right as the trail switches from Madison bikeways to state trail, I felt a sweet sense of euphoria, the kind I used to feel running down the Catfish Creek footpath at Mines of Spain. You feel like you've left everything behind and you round a bend and suddenly it's just you and all four directions. Today's ride was awesome.

For All my Thugs

Next time you're carrying a gun while smoking crack and driving, remember to address the police officer as "sir." Then call P'ta Mon, the Thug's Attorney.

My favorite line: "If you have a felony record or are on probation or parole, lose the gold teeth & get rid of the chrome rims. This is America: you are free to be profiled if you fit the profile."

True dat, P'ta Mon.

We Can be Happy Underground. . .

To get to my new job, I had to descend a staircase into a sauna-like cavern with books stacked everywhere. Sauna. After biking across town to get to work, the last thing I wanted to do was hang out in a 100-plus degree basement.

And if hanging out was the last thing I wanted to do, then what I actually did requires a new word to indicate its relative position. Shortly after manning my post at the register, I volunteered to assemble whatever was in the stack of white boxes on the floor next to the counter. Me and Rock DJ open the boxes and stare for a few minutes at the parts and pieces of a 6-and-a-half foot tall metal bookshelf.

I have this thing when I have to focus: sometimes I forget to breathe. So, I was standing and squatting and tightening bolts and balancing shelves--which all comes together really nicely and with little fuss--all the while taking only 4 or 5 breathes per minute. The combo of jungle swelter and oxygen deprivation loosened the gates on my sweat glands and soon my all-orange t-shirt was no longer a solid color. We were assembling the shelves right in the middle of the main thoroughfare (not my idea) and soon the word was out: go around the smelly guy in the middle aisle. A coworker walks by and mentions that I am "doing God's work."

My boss didn't approve of the shelf-building scheme and when I asked where to put the completed shelf, he tells me, "Yeah, that was my wife's thing. I didn't even want those shelves. I just got suckered into paying for em. So, I don't know. Just find a place to hide it I guess."
This was the first of many non-answers I got from my new boss. Others included: "I don't know. Just figure out something" and "Yeah, that's something they took on themselves. I'm not even sure what they're doing."

Boss's wife is very nice, but also very stern-looking. When she saw Book Mover 1 and I assembling the last shelf in the furnace room with 3 inches of workspace on either side of the metal bars, she asked, "[My husband] didn't make you come in here, did he? Or say anything rude about being out there?" I know she had our backs, but her stern look made me feel so accused.

Other co-workers include:

1. Book Buy Back-er: this dude has tattoos of french poems on his forearms and eats baked goods compulsively. I saw him polish off three muffins in a sitting (and by sitting I mean about 30 seconds) and wash them down with pumpkin bread. Ten minutes later, he was eating double chocolate chip cookies.

2. Counter help 1: cheap beer connoisseur. He had very good advice on where to find Blatz.

3. Counter help 2: Regarding a "hip" co-worker, he said, "Hmmm, she might fit very well into the fold." When I asked him what the fold was, he responded that he and his wife called their group of bizarre and interesting friends "the fold." The fold has movie night. When I told him that the fold sounded like a cult, he agreed: "We are kinda like a cult."

As expected, there are many characters at this job. So far, I like it, but that good feeling doesn't get to last too long--I start my non-profit job on the 4th of September.

Let's Start the New Week. . .

It's time for a new week. May we all do better in our tasks than Miss Teen South Carolina did in attempting to answer the question: why can't 20% of Americans point out the US on a map?

(Just in case the video doesn't work, I've taken the liberty of transcribing MTSC's response below. For a second, while I was typing, I felt I had my fingers on the pulse, like I was right in the mix of something important. . .like ah as therefore. And.)

I personally believe that US Americans are unable to do so because uh some people out there in our nation don't have maps, and I believe that our, ah, education such as in South Africa and the Iraq, everywhere like such as. And.

I believe that they should, our education over here, in the US, should help the US, er--should help South Africa. They should help Iraq and the Asian countries. So we will be able to build up our future. Therefore.

Beer and Rogue Advertising

Woke up thinking about how people quite their day jobs and brew beer for a living. In that vein, I checked out the Dogfish Head website and found some inspired advertising. Among other things, this video provides a response to the long-unanswered question, "What else can you do with a fourteen-foot tall primary fermenter?"

I love the "anti-ad" philosophy. Let the beer speak for itself and keep the team of Clydesdales in the stables. I ordered Dogfish Head on tap for the first time the other day (Festina Peche) and it was thought-provoking. Seriously made me wonder what I was tasting and how they made it. It was like a fusion of champagne and cider and beer and I would definitely order it again.

Agridulce

I spent a bit of last night and today bemoaning my current state of affairs.

And yes, it was brought on by browsing through a certain social networking site that allows you to see the occupations of your old high school classmates. While looking at the where-are-they-now?s, I realized that I didn't follow a very straight path out of undergrad, unlike many of my former classmates.

Some people just knew that they wanted to be an engineer or a computer programmer or a professor. That wasn't me. While I love the experiences I've had and the skills I've developed, it's weird to reflect on where I'm at and then see that people two years younger than me are now working on Wall Street and making six figs.

On the brighter side, I'm not alone in my curvy path through life. Check out this guy. He's a partner in a successful practice group at a major law firm. Pay close attention to what he did for 18 years before law school. I can totally see doing that. . .

For anyone who's felt that way (or if you just want to read something), check out "For My Brothers and Sisters in the Failure Business,” an essay by Seymour Krim. This guy might have had more jobs than me. I read this book at probably the wrong time. A semester abroad completely opened up my possible life paths, and before I settled on something, this essay came along and told me to go down every one. A couple good quotes:

1. "[I was] an open fuse-box of blind yearning”

2. On American Democracy: ". . .a huge supermarket of mass man where we could take a piece here and a piece there to make our personalities for ourselves instead of what was given at the beginning.”

Off to the supermarket. . .

First Thoughts

Wow. Check this out at CNN.

You think stuff like this might not really happen, but I guess statistically speaking many horrible things could happen. I'm actually kind of curious what the doll house furniture was.

In the Madison area, cameras have gotten people into a bit of trouble as well.

In my former state, the sage in bloom smells like . . .
Not perfume, but the rotting corpses of death row inmates, and will continue to do so, despite the EU's heavy-handed requests. We've "thrown off the yolk of a European monarch" and are doing just fine. You tell em, Ricky!


Also, a follow up from yesterday's unwanted baby-fest, I heard another reason for getting stuck with unwanted children: I don't want to take birth control pills because I don't want to get fat.

Babies: proven to make you lose weight. Get yours today!

It Cuts Both Ways

In today's Savage Love, Dan points out that reproductive freedom goes for both women and men:

"[A man], just like a woman, has a right to decide when, whether, and with whom he would like to reproduce."

The letter in the article makes me wonder to what extent can a dude believe the "I want to have a baby" conversation ended with his "I don't want to?" This is really bad, but it reminds me of that scene in The World According to Garp where Jenny Garp totally bangs the incapacitated Garp (the father) in order to produce Garp (the son). Parallels. Crazy.

But this makes me wonder what people who don't want kids do when they go against their expressed wishes and have a baby. Are they impinging on their own reproductive freedom, or are they just exercising their God-given stupidity?

Of course, all could be avoided with effective birth control methods. (Click on the link to find which one gives you the best shot of remaining child-free--if that's your desire. If you want a baby. . .you know what to do.) If you don't want kids, fellas and ladies, do what you need to do to ensure that you don't have kids.

This article is timely because I've had three conversations today about how people have kids when they either don't plan for them or don't want them. The situations fall into several categories.
1. We wanted to wait until we had a house, but now that he's here, we're gonna love him:
Oops, I had a baby! If you're not financially stable when this happens, it's feasible to have to continue renting and scrimping for the next 18 years. That means off-brand mac and cheese 4-Life! Not that I have any of problem with off-brand m-and-c--it's delicious--but. . .what will the kid think?

2. We're married. We didn't need to use protection anymore / I'm really shocked that I got pregnant the first time: Look before you leap, friends. If you don't use protection, you've got an 85% chance of getting pregnant (according to FDA statistics). Even if you're married and you prefer to "go naked," don't be shocked when there's a bun in the oven--you grabbed the flour, water, yeast, eggs, mixed it up, threw it in a pan and placed it there yourself.

3. Too lazy for protection: If you're too lazy to swallow a pill, find a condom, get an injection, apply a cream, or simply look at a calendar and interruptus the coitus, what makes you think you'll have enough get-up-and-go to take care of a baby? I hear it's hard work. . .

Justice or just. . .gross?

Rabbits beware: we are on to you and we are relentless.

Sun, At Long Last

And as promised: the Green Speedster

Double Up

I am now officially double-employed.

I've accepted jobs with both a large, national, discount retailer (LNDR) and with a non-profit that hooks people up with federal utilities assistance. The non-profit will be my 8:30 to 5:00 and the other job will be my very-part-time beer and food money generator.


You might ask, "Why two jobs?" Well, I'm trying to cobble together a short-term plan that covers my basic necessities while giving me the option of having a larger income stream in the upcoming months.

The non-profit doesn't need my services until 9/4, when federal funds may or may not be open for business. LNDR will take anyone of the street, throw a polo at them and put them on the sales floor forty hours a week (or behind the coffee counter, which is where I'll be, for forty hours a week). Convenient for me, as I plan to take advantage of two weeks full-time paid training then significantly scale back the hours when the non-profit starts.

So, I'm back. Woe unto thee.

p.s. I haven't been able to get pics of the Green Speedster up yet because it's been too rainy to take the camera out and get a good shot. As soon as I see the sun, I'll get on it. Hopefully the brown milk crate will be attached by then. Stay tuned.

p.p.s. For the salad enthusiasts out there, DO NOT BUY Emeril's Herb Vinaigrette! It is terrible. Imagine the taste of dirt and. . .dirt. It's really gross and kinda makes me want to gag. And unfortunately, I have a thing against throwing away food, so I'm finishing the thing. Consequently, I have to brush my teeth immediately after eating and rinse four times with mouthwash to get that tangy, pungent earth taste off the pearly whites. don't buy it. you are warned.

Just in Case You Were Wondering. . .

A morning spent trying to get around to doing something in DBQ yielded some nuggets.

For example:

If you type "Joe Biden on the Daily Show" into the search bar at youtube, you receive some pleasantly shocking results. Just click on the link above. . .

And if you ever thought to yourself, "What does 'Air Supremacy' look like?" look not to the USAF, but to this man.

He is in charge. Don't have any doubts about this.

Someone has done a painstaking analysis of the modern Supreme Court and, well, finally, I know who to send all my letters of complaint to. . . After all, "it is his world, and you just live in it."

And panelist Jeffrey Lamken lets us know that even the closest of friendships have their limits:

In the "Bong Hits 4 Jesus" case [Morse v. Frederick], the student was going to lose if it said "Bong Hits 4 Ford." Conservative doesn't mean pro-business, necessarily.

Let's hear it for fair-weather friends! And speaking of such, my old buddy unemployment and I are nearly on the outs. Wish us luck, as a 9-5 looms.


Green Speedster pics will be posted later today. Have a good weekend everybody! Bong Hits 4 Friday!

Just when you thought you were done with me forever. . .

Oh, That Guy! Your first line of class is always a killer!

Another class, more dumb comments and repeated references to getting your $1200 worth. It seems that routine is setting in.

Got baskets on the bike today and managed my third self-stab while installing them. I've stabbed myself more days than not this week. Today's puncture involved a screwdriver. It healed fast.

I discovered one of the more obvious beauties of Madison today: the memorial union. I won't go into any descriptions (mostly because I feel embarassed not to have seen it before now). Just go there; you won't be disappointed. I spent many hours there today while studying for the LSAT.

And while I spent nine hours diagramming arguments, I dreamed of drinking a beer and checking out Airwave Epigrams, an original radio program. Czech it out.

Pics of the green Speedster with its new baskets are coming. . .

And now, LA's Dopest Attorney.

If you watch the video, holla for the Rosanna Arquette shades.

Also, given the quadruple risk factor for heart attack from inhaling marijuana smoke, should those DEA guys be huffing it by the bucketful?

Morning Blend

As a really long night blends into a really early morning, I share these items from LSAT class last night:

. . .Teacher Man (TM) is getting better. This is the big news of the night. He kept referring to "getting your $1200-worth" off-handedly throughout the night, so I think he intentionally stepped it up.

. . .TM is good at math, bad at explaining percentages: while explaining a problem, TM could have made a percent look like X/100 = X%, but instead, chose to do some very complicated random # / random # = X % that had nothing to do with the actual ciphers contained in the stimulus. The math worked out, amazingly--I check it on my phone's calculator. Not so amazingly, no one could work out the problem the percentages pertained to. Here's to you, TM, my future accountant!

. . .Reminder: when taking the LSAT, you are in the "hermetically sealed environment of LSAT-Land."

. . .I accidentally stabbed my finger while playing with a mechanical pencil (come on, you've done it before--recently, too. Not second grade. Last week. At the latest. ) This makes for two accidental self-stabs in the last two days. The first occurred when I used a 10-inch chef's knife to remove the nylon zip-tie off something. The blade cut jerkily through the tie and went smoothly into the flesh between my thumb and pointer finger. It was a legit stab; hole in my hand and blood and everything.

. . .TM explains that while reading the next problem, That Guy needs to pronounce Uranus like yer-an-us, with the accent on the first syllable, not "your anus." That Guy totally ignores him completely, and even manages to giggle while reading the line "there's some other force tugging on Uranus." Then, while TM is diagramming the sentences, That Guy asks, "Hey, can you do something different with the arrow for causality?" TM replies, "Uh, yeah, sure. I'll draw little feathers on it. Just for you." And he does.

. . .That Guy asks, "Did you want me to read the answer choices or get to the implications of combining blah blah with bling bling? 'Cause I can jump all over the implications, if you want me to."

. . .The Reddest Tomato: That Guy is trying to set up another logic game for the class and is struggling with something. Meanwhile, I've been busy stabbing myself, counting electrical outlets and fantasizing about eating the Gardettos tucked away in my bookbag. Suddenly, I emerge from the fog of boredom and shout out, "No! K or P goes on the 4th Floor! You're looking for something that can't be there!" It happened just like that. I was a by-stander to this outburst, I swear. I had no idea that some part of my brain was paying any attention while another part triggered the "outside voice" button. When That Guy tried to respond, I said, "No, either way it's P or K. Nothing else that's left goes there. That's the answer."

This is really unprecedented.

I've been a jerk to people in the past--and will be in the future--but up until now it's always been intentional.

TM continues explaining the problem, and That Guy--now redder than the reddest tomato--responds to a suggestion with, "I know. That's what I was saying, except someone just told me twice that I was wrong."

And that someone. . .needs to go to Denny's and fuel up. Deuces.

Announcement

Reports of my unemployment have been greatly exaggerated. I now have a job offer--one I may decline.

I walked into a large discount retailer hoping to buy some nylon zip-ties and a rubbermaid storage container. Remembering that I'm unemployed and can't afford to buy anything, I redirect myself to the employment kiosk. Two and a half hours later, I left with a job offer and these high points from 2 totally unexpected interviews:

1. Computer crashes mid-application: So I was at this red kiosk and the computer on which I was filling out an endless application is working fine. At question 41 of 60, however, the machine insta-self-reboots.

2. Managers wearing identical mis-matched shoes and socks: I was interview by two managers; both had brown loafers with one black and one blue sock.

3. Manager confirms that I understand what constitutes an illicit substance, suppresses chuckle as I sign form.

4. My responses were written down verbatim: this made me feel really bad for the guy, since I was re-telling anecdotes from SuperHappyFunLand, my former place of employment. He had to copy the phrase "how he did that?"--and then concede that my future co-workers could be expected to make similar grammatical errors.

5. Interviewer 2: asks me point-blank why I would leave teaching to come work at his store. Thanks for instilling confidence, future boss!


I still don't have those zip-ties, so my green Speedster remains milk-crate-less and the milk crate sits on my bedroom floor, holding the remnants of my business-pro wardrobe. If I take the job, they'll give me a red polo anyway. . .

Lost in the Land of Blue

I had a really good plan when I set out on the green Speedster today: follow the eastern curve of Lake Monona. From my bike map, I could tell that the designated paths more or less followed the lake, and so I set off.

The plan was to bike for forty minutes total, which would allow me to meet my self-imposed minimum of one hour's vigorous exercise per day (the other twenty of which were completed with a brisk walk earlier). I began by following the designated bike path, and despite no good views of the lake, I was enjoying myself. But then I saw a sign that read "Lake Loop," and, thinking it would give a really good view of the lake, I took it.

The "lake loop" took me to another town, I think, judging by the blue street signs instead of green, and did not offer a single glimpse of any water. After thirty minutes of wandering in the town of blue signs, I turned around and made my way back to the original trail.

Near my apartment, I noticed a sign for the Atwood Community Garden. Behind it were rows and rows (or clumps and clumps, more accurately) of tomatoes, zucchini, sunflowers and other vegetables. Many were rotting on the vine, yet others were immaculately kept. It got me thinking.

Another of my current obsessions is studying for the LSAT. I've already taken the test once and I got a good, but not great, score. Having exhausted my own will power for studying, I decided to submit myself to the will of a paid instructor in the hope that I will score 6 to 10 points higher than on my first try using his or her stern looks and intimidating logical prowess. Whether this will come to be is seriously murky.

I chose my course because this company's materials impressed me most during my self-study and because the $1200.00, 2-month long course is perceived to be one of the best. I want to repeat that: $1200.00. I am paying a dozen hundreds in order to get better (well, okay, to get perfect) at something I'm already pretty good at. My thinking was, "Hey, these guys are the best. Their instructors have all earned scores in the 99th% of all test-takers. They know this test inside and out and can show me (and my classmates, ugh) how to work the kinks out of the really tricky stuff. 180 here I come". . .or something.

My LSAT class meets in the frozen bowels of a shabby old hotel's shabby old conference rooms. There are moments in class--usually when I am near dead from boredom--that I am convinced I will die of frostbite before the lunacy of class takes me over and takes me out.

Our instructor, Teacher Man, is a very nice, very smart man in his middle thirties, and I'm very torn on him. If we were just hanging out, drinking some Nice Stout and talking about the Cubs, he'd do just fine; I know I could count on him to hold his own. In class, however, I cringe more than I stare into space, and I stare into space a lot.

The problem is that I am a stern judge of teacher character because I just completed two years of TFA in Houston and I can tell when someone's winging it (been there, done that). Maybe he has not been teaching long, or he has not been studying the LSAT recently, or he just does not care to be on top of it. But whatever the cause of his problems, I can't help but give him a C- so far.

In no particular order:
1. He consistently mis-identifies the conclusions and premises of arguments. In one problem, he spent twenty pause-filled minutes diagramming the filler sentences of a stimulus, completely ignoring the business end of the argument. After several kids in class expressed complete confusion at his diagrams, he launched into a dirge on what was soon to be his new favorite topic: "the mystical realm of LSAT land," where Logical Reasoning problems are "pretty tricky." When he was done, the whiteboard looked like a gigantic pre-historic fly was smashed by a gigantic pre-historic fly-swatter on it.

2. He always calls on the same girl (I'm assuming that the test-prep company has instructed their staff that blatant sexism is really embarrassing, if not terribly, terribly wrong. So . . .call on the same girl? Over and over?). Same girl pronounced wilderness as wild-er-ness (where wild sounds like child). He made this poor girl repeat that sentence three times while he tried to figure out how to do the problem.

3. New information. Whenever he can't explain why a particular answer choice is wrong, he says that the answer adds new information not contained in the stimulus, even when the information in the answer choice is not new and is clearly in the stimulus. I counted and he said new information 27 times by way of explaining how logical reasoning is "kinda tough."

4. He insinuated that we might claim a learning disability and request extra time if we are unable to read the the Reading Comp passages in under 4 minutes.

5. He does not assert his alpha-male status. Now normally this would be a good trait in a teacher, but not if "that guy" is in your class. . .

6. That Guy. He's in the line at the store, coupon book in hand, telling the cashier, "Keep looking, I know the one for brats is in there;" he's at the bar, telling a bravado- (and fellatio-) filled story about how he conquered a drunk high school junior during Wisconsin's Christmas break; and every once in a while, he's in your class.

That guy in class takes on many forms: the beret-wearing, lion's mane jacketed self-professed "beat scholar;" the dog collar on wrist, can't stop staring at out-stretched palm of hand while droning on about dialectics / not gay but into queer studies literary critic; and sometimes, he's a version of That Guy known as the interrupter.

During the first class, That Guy walks into the conference room drenched in sweat and throws his workbook down on the table. Teacher Man is explaining the homework, as only five minutes of our four-hour class remained.

"How's it going?"
"Uh, there's five minutes of class left."
"So what are we studying?"
"You'll, uh. . .well, let me catch you up in a minute."

Teacher Man resumes explaining homework, citing the range of pages and the number of the homework hotline when--

"This doesn 't make sense."
"Uh, yeah. You'll have to read the chapters we covered tonight before it will start to make sense."
"No, I mean, what's a contrapositive identification drill?"
"Uh. . .just wait."


Tonight, That Guy walks in to class with about 30 minutes left of the four-hour class. Teacher Man is explaining how things work in the mystical realm of the LSAT, moving from LR to RC and extolling the virtues of "lawyer tone" and skipping the problems with specific references to the text because they can be very time-consuming. This time, That Guy sets the book down on the table, and just when I think he's reformed, that I've got him all wrong, he cuts off TM--

"Page?"

TM shows him the page. After another read-aloud of the answer choices, a classmate answers incorrectly. TM tries to explain why classmate wasn't so off in thinking "D" was a keeper, but That Guy doesn't go for softness.

"Oh, it's alright. You won't be there to punish him on test day anyway. Let's move on."

"Uh, okay. The next problem, number 5. . ."

"Oooh, oooh, pick me. Pick me!"

As he goes down the list of answer choices, That Guy gives each one a personal his sidebar comments: a) I don't need to read the rest of it. I already know it sucks; b) yells the word "incalculable;" c) (directed at TM) Haven't you seen Planet of the Apes? Pay attention! d) I guess so, fine, whatever, you win; e) no response.

Sometimes a man has to put up with tools. Very rarely does a man have to pay $1200.00 to get the whole box.

First Cruise, First Repair

I took the red rocket around the lake today and while the weather was perfect, the structural integrity of my rear wheel, unfortunately, was not.

With an eye to my watch, I cruised along the Capital City Trail, passing Monona Terrace and the tennis courts that do not appear to be car-accessible (yay for bikes and walking!) after only about 12 minutes of riding. Today's objective was to get a feel for the neighborhood and how long it takes to get to the nearby attractions. Just past M.T., there is a small footbridge and on it, two ladies traipsed along side by side and dragged their yip yip dog over it as I approached.

Now I should mention that I really believe that everyone that lacks common sense on public trails and paths needs a re-education in the etiquette of not dying while walking. We need a drastic deterrant, like, say, a $50 minimum fine for public idiocy, with an upward scale based on the severity of the stupidity. Common sense should pretty accurately predict the outcome of a collision between a two-hundred-plus pound man and a four pound dog. We're not talking a "pink mist" kind of horror, but pretty close. The rule, of course, for avoiding death is for walkers and slower cyclists and pooches to stay to the right; bikes and runners pass on the left. Predictability above all else (when riding).

As I came within 50 feet of the bridge, I holler, "On your left! Passing on your left!" which should have given the two ladies and the yipper adequate time (considering the snail's pace at which I was enjoying the morning cruise) to stagger and put the dog back in the purse. But instead, they look over their shoulders, smirk at me and continue marching in formation. The dog smiles at me, its tiny tongue hanging out of its tiny mouth.

By now I was within 20 feet. "On your left! Passing on your left please!"

This time, rather than smile dumbly at me, the lady on the right scoops up yipper and pushes the lady on the left into the left hand guardrail, right as I go for the pass. I slam on the brakes and do a squiggly swerve maneuver to avoid crushing all of them. Thankfully, no one was hurt and they even apologize. But all could have been avoided. Stay on the right, people.

Further down the trail, I veered off to the left and followed a residential street around the lake. After living and riding in H-town for two years, any %grade above flat is torture for me. I suppose that I've gotten a good deal, all in all: trading in flat roads and six months of 100% humidity for 75 degrees, cooling (not roasting) breezes, and very slight uphills. (And hockey, of course, but that's a different obsession for a different post). I steered the rocket around a bend, clicked into an easier gear and made it up my molehill with minimal sweating and swearing.

If you ever want a chilled out ride through a neighborhood that will make you heartsick for home ownership, Waunona Way fits the bill. The houses range from quaint Americana, front porches and wood frames to whoa to what-the-hell-kind-of-angle-is-that? Even if owning a house isn't your dream (and for me it's a long, long ways off kind of dream), there's plenty of sneak peaks of the lake between the houses that are good for indulging your lakefront home fantasy, at any rate, and for some, might make us a bit more eager to find gainful employment.

I stopped at my turn around point, slugged some water, and walked over to a For Sale sign. The place was a short wood-framed place that the flier claimed contained 7 bathrooms. Asking price: 998,000. Maybe I'll put off getting a job for a while and keep dreaming. . .

. . .and two minutes later, I broke a spoke and knocked my rear wheel out of true.

On the way back, I guided the red rocket gingerly over large cracks and potholes, past the Spanish-only Sunday soccer game, past the Band Camp concert where the lead singer was extolling the crowd in a deep metal voice "THANKS FOR COMING OUT! DON'T EVER FUCKIN GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAMS! EVER!!!" past the tennis courts and the lake, and the fishermen with their kids and the old man wearing a Cubs hat who said hi to everyone, past the pit bull enthusiasts, and all the other people out enjoying a near-perfect Sunday. A short while later, my rear wheel screeching against my brakes, I was back in mredison's neighborhood.