OK, so I catch on late. I’m finally watching Oprah now that it’s the “Farewell Season”. It’s highly addictive what with one day Oprah is screaming, “YES-I’M-GIVING-YOU-A-MILLION-DOLLARS-BECAUSE-I-CAN!” and then the next day she’s crying over a tragic story of a bipolar mother who smothered her infants after a distressing trip to Dairy Queen. What probably also helps is watching her via DVR after 9:00 p.m. while on my fourth glass of Shiraz.
My favorite of the week was about a single, abandoned mom who worked three jobs, and put her one son and two adopted Asian refugee daughters through college. Of course, Oprah came through. She sent the mom and her family on her dream vacation to Italy; she paid off the kids’ 78K college debt, plus gave the mom a year off with full salary so she could have time to remember her spirit. I cried. Really. For me. Because I know now I’ll never get on that show. That mom was really smart. Once she knew the camera crew was enroute from Harpo productions, she stuck that postcard of Florence out on her fridge. You know she had to have planned that. I’d do the same and even go better: As the cameras rolled, I’d narrate: “I’ve always wanted to buy a villa in Italy and live there for the rest of my life tax-free while taking in illiterate Bosnian refugees and starting a book club for them; this can be evidenced by this empty box of Barilla pasta that I’ve kept tacked above my stove for the past 15 sad years."
Here’s the beauty of Oprah. One day, she devotes an entire episode to “food issues”. There’s an author who just wrote a book about Food and God. Weight gain is now a profoundly spiritual issue. No longer can we blame big bones or overactive thyroids. Oprah tears up with an “I’ve been there, honey” look while several obese women sob, watching their video testimonials. Stories of hiding the Thanksgiving turkey and such. Just when you’ve vowed to drink Dr. Oz’s green vegetable shakes for the rest of your life, the next episode has Oprah and her gal pal Gail finding the “BEST DAMN CHICKEN POT PIE IN THE COUNTRY!” What happened to the “spiritual path that genuinely nourishes our soul?” What happened to the daily 12 step-ish prayers we’re supposed to do when confronted with flakey crusts? Is God just dead on Oprah's Favorite Things days?
The most entertaining guests so far have been the Judds. (Minus the pretty political actress one who doesn't look fun)Winona now sports the hair color and complexion of a Buffalo Chicken Wing. Naomi came on calmly medicated with Baby Jane makeup and a visible halo. I’m still not sure if they were on for inspiration or comic relief. Their therapist was sitting in the audience, I guess giving them thumbs up signs after every platitude uttered. I now know who reads those pocket-sized daily affirmation books. Winona did have the best line of the week. She was explaining the reason her life had been such a mess:
“Oprah, I didn’t put my name on the list”.
Oprah then repeated the mantra back to her and nodded in approval,
“You didn’t put your name on the list. That’s good.”
It was then that I realized Winona Judd held the secret to my happiness:
I just need to put my name on the list.
Can someone tell me where this list is?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Me & Julia
I started a cooking class at Phoenix College. I’m so used to taking adult-ed classes, that I was amazed at how nervous I was walking in there. The atmosphere didn’t help. Everyone was silent and solemn. Chef stood at serious attention, ready to yell at someone’s fingernails. Some had even already bought their knives and were lining them up on the table, ready to attack. I felt way out of my element. I haven’t cooked professionally – and I use that term advisedly – since I was a fry cook at the Woodshed in Fresno during high school.
I walked into that classroom kitchen and it was weird: I smelled that same kitchen smell from 1978 – grease and sanitizer; felt that same queasy feeling I had when I was 17; and my back started hurting all over again from the memory of all those dishes.
What’s more, my classmates reminded me of the people that I used to work with. Although this was advertised as an International Cuisine class, it seemed to attract types that would look more comfortable behind a griddle at the Waffle House. Lots of missing teeth. I forgot about this rustic aspect of the food and beverage industry. I’m now sure that all those people on Top Chef go through a makeover before getting behind the cameras. Anyway, I’m sticking out like sore thumb – the token gay foodie. It’s not helping that I’m asking Chef stupid questions like, “Does one chop fennel in the same dice as celery when making a Mirepoix?” I believe Chef rolled his eyes as most of the class mentally asked themselves what fennel was.
Chef is slightly fear-inducing. He has a no-nonsense approach and a weary-of-the-world tone to his voice. Kind of like Anthony Bourdain-meets-Ben Stein. Part of his introductory lecture was to bash Food Network stars and rename Top Chef, “Top Shit”.
I like his philosophy. He says we should cook every single meal in our life with devotion and attention to detail as if it were our last meal. This has now made me profoundly depressed every time I empty the orange-colored dehydrated cheese packet into my macaroni.
There are two women who look polished and professional and keep nodding knowingly to everything Chef says. Fellow subscribers to Food and Wine, I deduced. I wanted to be with them -- not with the tattooed gang member wearing the hairnet as a fashion accessory. At the end of the first class, Chef had us all break up into teams -- on our own. Like stand up and go talk to people and tell them things like you can convert ounces to pints in your sleep. The advanced students were dubbed the team leaders and began frantically scouting for people who hadn’t kicked crystal meth yesterday and looked like nice players. I felt like I was back in junior high P.E. class. No one was approaching me. I kept eyeing the two women from the high rent district. Then one – sporting a blunt haircut and overly starched chef’s smock -- made her way to me. I sighed with relief. She looked at me and dismissed me as fast as a Sak’s shopgirl. She turned to a girl right next to me and said, “We only like to work with women. What experience do you have?” Bitch. I hope she burns herself.
I soon realized why this class is so humorless. Most are in training for careers and we all represent competition for each other. I thought about announcing to the class that I was gainfully employed and would not be vying for their same Denny’s job interview. I’m only taking this class so that I can have fabulous dinner parties once I meet people in Phoenix who don’t consider The Olive Garden as their favorite exotic night out.
I walked into that classroom kitchen and it was weird: I smelled that same kitchen smell from 1978 – grease and sanitizer; felt that same queasy feeling I had when I was 17; and my back started hurting all over again from the memory of all those dishes.
What’s more, my classmates reminded me of the people that I used to work with. Although this was advertised as an International Cuisine class, it seemed to attract types that would look more comfortable behind a griddle at the Waffle House. Lots of missing teeth. I forgot about this rustic aspect of the food and beverage industry. I’m now sure that all those people on Top Chef go through a makeover before getting behind the cameras. Anyway, I’m sticking out like sore thumb – the token gay foodie. It’s not helping that I’m asking Chef stupid questions like, “Does one chop fennel in the same dice as celery when making a Mirepoix?” I believe Chef rolled his eyes as most of the class mentally asked themselves what fennel was.
Chef is slightly fear-inducing. He has a no-nonsense approach and a weary-of-the-world tone to his voice. Kind of like Anthony Bourdain-meets-Ben Stein. Part of his introductory lecture was to bash Food Network stars and rename Top Chef, “Top Shit”.
I like his philosophy. He says we should cook every single meal in our life with devotion and attention to detail as if it were our last meal. This has now made me profoundly depressed every time I empty the orange-colored dehydrated cheese packet into my macaroni.
There are two women who look polished and professional and keep nodding knowingly to everything Chef says. Fellow subscribers to Food and Wine, I deduced. I wanted to be with them -- not with the tattooed gang member wearing the hairnet as a fashion accessory. At the end of the first class, Chef had us all break up into teams -- on our own. Like stand up and go talk to people and tell them things like you can convert ounces to pints in your sleep. The advanced students were dubbed the team leaders and began frantically scouting for people who hadn’t kicked crystal meth yesterday and looked like nice players. I felt like I was back in junior high P.E. class. No one was approaching me. I kept eyeing the two women from the high rent district. Then one – sporting a blunt haircut and overly starched chef’s smock -- made her way to me. I sighed with relief. She looked at me and dismissed me as fast as a Sak’s shopgirl. She turned to a girl right next to me and said, “We only like to work with women. What experience do you have?” Bitch. I hope she burns herself.
I soon realized why this class is so humorless. Most are in training for careers and we all represent competition for each other. I thought about announcing to the class that I was gainfully employed and would not be vying for their same Denny’s job interview. I’m only taking this class so that I can have fabulous dinner parties once I meet people in Phoenix who don’t consider The Olive Garden as their favorite exotic night out.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
How many days until the next vacation?
My students return this Monday. At least the ones who have not fled to Mexico or friendlier states. I thought as an icebreaker, I'd dress up like Sheriff Joe and ask for papers when they entered the classroom. Unfortunately, my school doesn't have much of a sense of humor. At least not my kind of humor.
All of the copiers were broken at school last week, so I'm going into the first week paper-free. I'm hoping this will cover my mandated requirement of incorporating "Sustainability" or "Going Green" into my curriculum. The first day we returned, we all had to sign a "contract" that we would commit to a few things:
1. Participate and enjoy and benefit in ALL teacher meetings.
2. Teach lessons Al Gore would be proud of.
3. Use some new acronym-laden teaching strategies. For example, "APR": Ask a question. Pause and count to five. Randomly call on two students to answer.
3. Respond to all emails in a timely and "friendly" manner.
Never mind that the assistant principal never answers her emails and resembles Dodie Goodman in Splash.
(Remember the bra worn over the blouse? That's my administrator's M.O.)
Well, this contract signing was followed by an ice cream social where administrators donned paper hats and scooped ice cream. My admin team is so crazy! I don't think many teachers stayed for that. I went back to my room, put on bossa nova and pretended I was high.
I'm currently working on a Family Medical Leave Act that excludes me from attending teacher meetings. Carlos has it for his job because of ear/nose/throat issues. So why can't I? I'm thinking my gay doctor can excuse me for some psychiatric reason. Or that I'm allergic to bullshit. Something like that. I think my doctor will do it. If I let him give me a few more prostate exams. He seems to like those.
I read Carrie Fisher's book, Wishful Drinking this summer. She has this great line about distinguishing between a Problem and an Inconvenience. And how we always confuse the two. I loved that. So my new philosophy for my job is that everything that happens there are Inconveniences. And they really are. There are no problems. So, really, my only problem now is getting a first-class standby seat on that next transatlantic flight. Damn all those paying passengers!
All of the copiers were broken at school last week, so I'm going into the first week paper-free. I'm hoping this will cover my mandated requirement of incorporating "Sustainability" or "Going Green" into my curriculum. The first day we returned, we all had to sign a "contract" that we would commit to a few things:
1. Participate and enjoy and benefit in ALL teacher meetings.
2. Teach lessons Al Gore would be proud of.
3. Use some new acronym-laden teaching strategies. For example, "APR": Ask a question. Pause and count to five. Randomly call on two students to answer.
3. Respond to all emails in a timely and "friendly" manner.
Never mind that the assistant principal never answers her emails and resembles Dodie Goodman in Splash.
(Remember the bra worn over the blouse? That's my administrator's M.O.)
Well, this contract signing was followed by an ice cream social where administrators donned paper hats and scooped ice cream. My admin team is so crazy! I don't think many teachers stayed for that. I went back to my room, put on bossa nova and pretended I was high.
I'm currently working on a Family Medical Leave Act that excludes me from attending teacher meetings. Carlos has it for his job because of ear/nose/throat issues. So why can't I? I'm thinking my gay doctor can excuse me for some psychiatric reason. Or that I'm allergic to bullshit. Something like that. I think my doctor will do it. If I let him give me a few more prostate exams. He seems to like those.
I read Carrie Fisher's book, Wishful Drinking this summer. She has this great line about distinguishing between a Problem and an Inconvenience. And how we always confuse the two. I loved that. So my new philosophy for my job is that everything that happens there are Inconveniences. And they really are. There are no problems. So, really, my only problem now is getting a first-class standby seat on that next transatlantic flight. Damn all those paying passengers!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Casa de los Gatos
So it looks like we have a feral cat problem at our house. I've never cared for cats, much less wild ones. Carlos hates any kind of non-human animal unless it's animated by Dreamworks. A few months ago, this black and white thing started slithering in our backyard, scoping out the pool. Then the pool became its water bowl. You would think that chlorine and acid would kill them off eventually, but I guess feral cats develop iron stomachs. A week later, this cat started lounging by the pool, unperturbed by our presence. I would stand outside the sliding glass door, hands on hips, glaring at the trespasser and the cat would lazily raise its head and gaze at me: Yes? Is there something I can do for you? the cat would reply.
Eventually Carlos would go outside and "Shoosh!" the cat, or use the equivalent Puerto Rican expression: something like, "Chu-chi!" Both the cat and I would chuckle. This looked so lame and girly. It reminded me of my mom when she tried to scare away those obnoxious blue jays that terrorized the morning doves in her backyard. The cat eventually responded to Carlos by rising, stretching with a yawn and sauntered away with a look that said, Whatever, mujer. I'll be back tomorow. Same time. Same place.
And she was. I started calling her "Bitch". I know this label isn't zoologically correct, but the name certainly matched her attitude.
Then a larger calico-type (I think that's the kind) started showing up. This one would pass by our sliding glass door and gaze in, sizing up the furnishings and decor. If I stared, it would just stare back. I imagined the cat thought that whoever won the stare contest would win squatter's rights.
Both cats staked out napping areas in our backyard and front yard. I think this is because we have the nicest yard on the block. Well, we're the only house that has a working lawn (that is, alive) and we have shady, green plants as opposed to cacti. I don't think those are too enjoyable to nap under. In short, the cats have identified the Queens on the block: the best real estate and perhaps the most empathetic hosts. The cats know the neighbors around the corner with the dirt yard and the aluminum foil on the windows would catch them, barbecue them, and suck on their bones with ranch dressing and celery sticks. The other neighbors would have already taken out their guns, hung the cats out on the alley wall, and done some target practice. We can do that in Arizona, you know. I believe that's SB 1069.
Anyway, while I was gone and Carlos's relatives were visiting, his Dora-the-Explorer niece discovered that Bitch, the black and white cat, had a kitten underneath our shed. I didn't think a cat only had one kitten. What are all those teats for? Someone suggested that feral cats eat all of their rest and keep one for good luck. I have to look that one up.
This made me think: besides the odd bird carcass found in our front yard, how do these cats subsist? After the birth, the mother was extremely thin -- like Kate Moss thin. Bones were sticking out. Plus it was 110 degrees out. Talk about post-partum depression. She would lay out under a palm tree in our front yard, panting. Her look to me now wasn't I'm-so-bored-ennui, but: Hey, you kind-hearted childless man, can't you spare a tin of tuna and a plate of whole milk? I know you have it. I see what you recycle.
I was this close to offering food, but friends advised against it. They said once you give them food, you're opening up a can of worms, or sardines in this case. Soon, our place would be a feline version of Survivor starring the Aristocats.
Now I'm thinking the calico cat is the father since I spied a set of big balls from behind. If so, he's a pretty good dad for hanging around. I would've taken off weeks ago and set up camp behind the Jack-in-the-Box down the road. I really don't mind their presence. They can't get into our garbage and I guess they keep out rodents. My only concern is that dad is going to keep coming back for more and soon there will be more bitches around. We've already got enough of those in our house.
Eventually Carlos would go outside and "Shoosh!" the cat, or use the equivalent Puerto Rican expression: something like, "Chu-chi!" Both the cat and I would chuckle. This looked so lame and girly. It reminded me of my mom when she tried to scare away those obnoxious blue jays that terrorized the morning doves in her backyard. The cat eventually responded to Carlos by rising, stretching with a yawn and sauntered away with a look that said, Whatever, mujer. I'll be back tomorow. Same time. Same place.
And she was. I started calling her "Bitch". I know this label isn't zoologically correct, but the name certainly matched her attitude.
Then a larger calico-type (I think that's the kind) started showing up. This one would pass by our sliding glass door and gaze in, sizing up the furnishings and decor. If I stared, it would just stare back. I imagined the cat thought that whoever won the stare contest would win squatter's rights.
Both cats staked out napping areas in our backyard and front yard. I think this is because we have the nicest yard on the block. Well, we're the only house that has a working lawn (that is, alive) and we have shady, green plants as opposed to cacti. I don't think those are too enjoyable to nap under. In short, the cats have identified the Queens on the block: the best real estate and perhaps the most empathetic hosts. The cats know the neighbors around the corner with the dirt yard and the aluminum foil on the windows would catch them, barbecue them, and suck on their bones with ranch dressing and celery sticks. The other neighbors would have already taken out their guns, hung the cats out on the alley wall, and done some target practice. We can do that in Arizona, you know. I believe that's SB 1069.
Anyway, while I was gone and Carlos's relatives were visiting, his Dora-the-Explorer niece discovered that Bitch, the black and white cat, had a kitten underneath our shed. I didn't think a cat only had one kitten. What are all those teats for? Someone suggested that feral cats eat all of their rest and keep one for good luck. I have to look that one up.
This made me think: besides the odd bird carcass found in our front yard, how do these cats subsist? After the birth, the mother was extremely thin -- like Kate Moss thin. Bones were sticking out. Plus it was 110 degrees out. Talk about post-partum depression. She would lay out under a palm tree in our front yard, panting. Her look to me now wasn't I'm-so-bored-ennui, but: Hey, you kind-hearted childless man, can't you spare a tin of tuna and a plate of whole milk? I know you have it. I see what you recycle.
I was this close to offering food, but friends advised against it. They said once you give them food, you're opening up a can of worms, or sardines in this case. Soon, our place would be a feline version of Survivor starring the Aristocats.
Now I'm thinking the calico cat is the father since I spied a set of big balls from behind. If so, he's a pretty good dad for hanging around. I would've taken off weeks ago and set up camp behind the Jack-in-the-Box down the road. I really don't mind their presence. They can't get into our garbage and I guess they keep out rodents. My only concern is that dad is going to keep coming back for more and soon there will be more bitches around. We've already got enough of those in our house.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Party Poopers
I've yet to find my social groove here in Phoenix. Perhaps at age 48, I should just give up. The people I meet are either very single and have a singular agenda (to get laid) or they're in a relationship and impossibly dull (“We're really tired; we spent the entire afternoon at the Ashley Furniture store looking for end tables”) The parties – or get togethers, I should say – that I’ve had have been horrible.
Either I’m a social leper or the no-show factor here is incredible. People get sick, make lame excuses, (“Um, I really don't feel like hanging out poolside in 114 degrees.” So what’s a pool for?) or they just plain don't show up. Is it me or the menu? Is it because that one time -- instead of chips and onion dip -- I served marinated octopus and duck empanadas? I realized Phoenix is full of transplanted Midwesterners so I’ve adjusted accordingly. Nacho cheese Doritos is now the most exotic I get.
Carlos is much more successful with his flight attendant friends. They may scream and carry on like cheerleaders, but at least they show up when they’re invited.
Either I’m a social leper or the no-show factor here is incredible. People get sick, make lame excuses, (“Um, I really don't feel like hanging out poolside in 114 degrees.” So what’s a pool for?) or they just plain don't show up. Is it me or the menu? Is it because that one time -- instead of chips and onion dip -- I served marinated octopus and duck empanadas? I realized Phoenix is full of transplanted Midwesterners so I’ve adjusted accordingly. Nacho cheese Doritos is now the most exotic I get.
Carlos is much more successful with his flight attendant friends. They may scream and carry on like cheerleaders, but at least they show up when they’re invited.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I like me some world cups
I know what you’re thinking: he likes the jazzy uniforms and swarthy gentlemen running around, hugging and kissing each other after 50 minutes of nothingness.
You’re right.
They just do it with so much style. I like that the clock doesn’t stop. I like that the referees are so infallible and moody. I admire the endurance of the players. I like that I can finally saddle up to a bar, chug a “brewski” and -- for once -- bullshit about a sport or a player or a score with someone. True, I’m drooling over my Stella, but at least I’m there.
I like how emotional the players get. Like that defeated player who openly weeps on the field at the end of the game. He’s so upset, he can’t even get his jersey off. Some handsome lad from the opposing team goes up and consoles him, helping him take the shirt off. It’s so Brian’s Song-meets-Ambercrombie.
My love for the game goes way back: in Spain during the 2006 world cup, the entire country shut down during their games. Everyone sat and stood frozen in tapas bars, gazing at screens. The waiter couldn’t even slide me a plate of olives. My lesbian roommates in Madrid threw a world cup party and explained the game to me, while shouting obscenities at the TV. Four years later, I’m a pro. Now, seeing a player like David Villa, I can understand the obsession. I hope Spain wins. They deserve it over uber-smug Germany. Spain really needs the ego boost. They haven’t really been successful since that Americas/conquistador thing awhile back.
You’re right.
They just do it with so much style. I like that the clock doesn’t stop. I like that the referees are so infallible and moody. I admire the endurance of the players. I like that I can finally saddle up to a bar, chug a “brewski” and -- for once -- bullshit about a sport or a player or a score with someone. True, I’m drooling over my Stella, but at least I’m there.
I like how emotional the players get. Like that defeated player who openly weeps on the field at the end of the game. He’s so upset, he can’t even get his jersey off. Some handsome lad from the opposing team goes up and consoles him, helping him take the shirt off. It’s so Brian’s Song-meets-Ambercrombie.
My love for the game goes way back: in Spain during the 2006 world cup, the entire country shut down during their games. Everyone sat and stood frozen in tapas bars, gazing at screens. The waiter couldn’t even slide me a plate of olives. My lesbian roommates in Madrid threw a world cup party and explained the game to me, while shouting obscenities at the TV. Four years later, I’m a pro. Now, seeing a player like David Villa, I can understand the obsession. I hope Spain wins. They deserve it over uber-smug Germany. Spain really needs the ego boost. They haven’t really been successful since that Americas/conquistador thing awhile back.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Flying South
The day after school got out, I fled to Argentina. Metaphorically, this is how far I needed to get away from my job. While the principal wishes us “time to refresh, rejuvenate and spend time with family and friends”, her minions are scouring the campus recruiting you to take summer workshops. Isn’t this why I’m a teacher? So I can NOT think about this CRAP for two months? A 12- hour flight did wonders. Buenos Aires was friendly, safe and very delicious.
The only problem was those late hours. They dine at 11:00 p.m. and hit the clubs at 2:00 a.m. I fell asleep at 10:00 p.m. watching a lot of trashy Argentine television. Did you know they have their own version of Paris Hilton? He is a 5-foot tall heir to a chocolate fortune. He has many girlfriends, but is allegedly homosexual. It’s hard to tell how old he is from all of the plastic surgery, but he’s a hybrid of Liberace and Satan. There is a scandalous story about him on Argentine television at least once an hour, usually after the weather forecast. It is reassuring to know that the rest of the world is as stupid and inane as we are.
Argentines love hearing that they remind you of Europe: the buildings, their food, their attitude, their very souls. “Como Paris, si?” the taxi drivers ask me, beaming proudly. “Si,un poco,” I politely reply. Yes, sort of like Paris’s slutty and worn out step-sister. I just wish I could’ve kept up with her.
The only problem was those late hours. They dine at 11:00 p.m. and hit the clubs at 2:00 a.m. I fell asleep at 10:00 p.m. watching a lot of trashy Argentine television. Did you know they have their own version of Paris Hilton? He is a 5-foot tall heir to a chocolate fortune. He has many girlfriends, but is allegedly homosexual. It’s hard to tell how old he is from all of the plastic surgery, but he’s a hybrid of Liberace and Satan. There is a scandalous story about him on Argentine television at least once an hour, usually after the weather forecast. It is reassuring to know that the rest of the world is as stupid and inane as we are.
Argentines love hearing that they remind you of Europe: the buildings, their food, their attitude, their very souls. “Como Paris, si?” the taxi drivers ask me, beaming proudly. “Si,un poco,” I politely reply. Yes, sort of like Paris’s slutty and worn out step-sister. I just wish I could’ve kept up with her.
My Blank Period
I know it's been awhile since I've written. A lot has happened since March: SB 1070 was signed by our smoky governor who sounds and looks more suitable as someone who should pour coffee in a Perko's; British Petroleum with their once-pretty logo has indeed gone Beyond Petroleum; a general resigned as wars rage on; Southern Europe was on the verge of bankruptcy; and most importantly, Ricky Martin came out.
Reasons for not writing: I get very cranky from March on at my job. Feb-April is the season of students' standardized tests. These are administered by our harpy administrator who has a voice that makes one pine for the siren song of 10,000 vuvuzelas. Also, I took a creative writing class that gave me a severe case of writer's block. Kind of weird. It was taught by this local author who has capitalized on her Arizona/Mexican-American indigenous background. She writes about desert barrios, Indian myths, shady street people and appearances of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the back wall of a Circle K. Stuff like that. I really admire her because she loves her writing and has no problem promoting it, or herself.
"Wait ‘til you read my latest piece. It's hysterical. You will absolutely love it."
Most of the class bought it and became part of her fan club. I hadn’t realized until I met her that most writers have to be like this, at least nowadays. I always thought writing was a hermit’s life and not one spent emailing people about your appearances at local Borders for poetry readings and book signings. This depressed me. I always fantasized that becoming a writer meant you were done with customer service once and for all. I thought you could go live in a lighthouse and eventually pass, needing a liver.
As with most adult classes, it had its share of interesting people. Sometimes, however, it was more like group therapy. One woman had obviously watched too much Oprah and was obsessed with remembering her spirit, or whatever it is Oprah wants people to do. Her prose was often about being a victim but taking clean refreshing showers that “sang to my fractured soul whilst renewing my inner child’s strength”. Another woman was unhappily married and unhappy with most of the world it seemed. She never said much, perhaps due to her broken Spanish accent, but she glared at people really well. She was like one of those mothers in a Lorca play. I could imagine her dancing flamenco and lighting the floor on fire. Her writing was usually about how useless and stupid people were. The men she wrote about usually had small penises. That’s probably why I was drawn to her. The class was good, however. I realized how Structure is very important in writing. And how I haven't really paid attention to it in my writing. Things like having a main character want something; (instead of just whining) Things like real conflict; (instead of the character not being able to afford a Mini Cooper) And how a short story is just that – short. Not a short story dying to be a novel.
Reasons for not writing: I get very cranky from March on at my job. Feb-April is the season of students' standardized tests. These are administered by our harpy administrator who has a voice that makes one pine for the siren song of 10,000 vuvuzelas. Also, I took a creative writing class that gave me a severe case of writer's block. Kind of weird. It was taught by this local author who has capitalized on her Arizona/Mexican-American indigenous background. She writes about desert barrios, Indian myths, shady street people and appearances of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the back wall of a Circle K. Stuff like that. I really admire her because she loves her writing and has no problem promoting it, or herself.
"Wait ‘til you read my latest piece. It's hysterical. You will absolutely love it."
Most of the class bought it and became part of her fan club. I hadn’t realized until I met her that most writers have to be like this, at least nowadays. I always thought writing was a hermit’s life and not one spent emailing people about your appearances at local Borders for poetry readings and book signings. This depressed me. I always fantasized that becoming a writer meant you were done with customer service once and for all. I thought you could go live in a lighthouse and eventually pass, needing a liver.
As with most adult classes, it had its share of interesting people. Sometimes, however, it was more like group therapy. One woman had obviously watched too much Oprah and was obsessed with remembering her spirit, or whatever it is Oprah wants people to do. Her prose was often about being a victim but taking clean refreshing showers that “sang to my fractured soul whilst renewing my inner child’s strength”. Another woman was unhappily married and unhappy with most of the world it seemed. She never said much, perhaps due to her broken Spanish accent, but she glared at people really well. She was like one of those mothers in a Lorca play. I could imagine her dancing flamenco and lighting the floor on fire. Her writing was usually about how useless and stupid people were. The men she wrote about usually had small penises. That’s probably why I was drawn to her. The class was good, however. I realized how Structure is very important in writing. And how I haven't really paid attention to it in my writing. Things like having a main character want something; (instead of just whining) Things like real conflict; (instead of the character not being able to afford a Mini Cooper) And how a short story is just that – short. Not a short story dying to be a novel.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Pot and the Kettle
“THAT IS SO GAY!”
I hate that statement. My students use it constantly. They usually respond that it doesn’t mean anything, although whenever they use it, they’re referring to the stupidity of a person or a situation. So to them, gays are stupid? I usually shut them up by saying,
“Do I go around saying, That’s so Mexican?”
Nevertheless, I find I use the above statement frequently with my boyfriend. But I mean it in its truest sense. So I think I’m being the most offensive here. I use it when:
1. He seriously discusses the career of Jennifer Lopez.
2. He fills up the DVR with every type of reality show that features wives, models and other assorted trampy-looking skeletons.
3. He reads all of those books about teenage vampires.
Those are tame compared to the thing that is almost too embarrassing to speak its name: beauty pageants. He loves them. He lives for them. He debates with his other gay Latin American friends about them. They get together and watch them, much like an Oscar party or a Super Bowl party, but with a lot less testosterone. Months before the pageant, he goes on the internet and checks out pictures. He finds Miss Puerto Rico and figures out what she must do stylistically and surgically to compete with the bane of all international beauty pageants: Venezuela. It’s obvious that country has been breeding or cloning contestants for years. I guess any country that supports Hugo Chavez has to have something else to brag about. Puerto Rico isn’t much better. When the last Miss Puerto Rico won a Miss Universe, a legal holiday was declared on the island. For awhile, I thought they were going to rename the airport after her.
Ricardo -- his Puerto Rican friend who wears lip gloss and a girdle -- called today. Miss Universe will be in the Bahamas this year. They are now considering going. Taking days off, flying across the country to sit in the same room with Donald Trump and Perez Hilton and scream at the top of their lungs.
Instead of blurting out,
“You are such a faggot!”
I take a deep breath and take stock.
What’s the difference between him watching a beauty pageant and me and my penchant for any PBS Jane Austen tale? It’s all the same: women acting silly in fancy dresses.
So I can laugh at him watching Project Runway, but I sit glued to any version of Coco Chanel’s life. What’s the difference?
I get irritated with his fascination with American Idol, yet I watch Glee religiously. Do I need to say anything more?
Until I join a rugby team and start changing my own tires, I think I need to watch what I say in my own fabulous glass house.
I hate that statement. My students use it constantly. They usually respond that it doesn’t mean anything, although whenever they use it, they’re referring to the stupidity of a person or a situation. So to them, gays are stupid? I usually shut them up by saying,
“Do I go around saying, That’s so Mexican?”
Nevertheless, I find I use the above statement frequently with my boyfriend. But I mean it in its truest sense. So I think I’m being the most offensive here. I use it when:
1. He seriously discusses the career of Jennifer Lopez.
2. He fills up the DVR with every type of reality show that features wives, models and other assorted trampy-looking skeletons.
3. He reads all of those books about teenage vampires.
Those are tame compared to the thing that is almost too embarrassing to speak its name: beauty pageants. He loves them. He lives for them. He debates with his other gay Latin American friends about them. They get together and watch them, much like an Oscar party or a Super Bowl party, but with a lot less testosterone. Months before the pageant, he goes on the internet and checks out pictures. He finds Miss Puerto Rico and figures out what she must do stylistically and surgically to compete with the bane of all international beauty pageants: Venezuela. It’s obvious that country has been breeding or cloning contestants for years. I guess any country that supports Hugo Chavez has to have something else to brag about. Puerto Rico isn’t much better. When the last Miss Puerto Rico won a Miss Universe, a legal holiday was declared on the island. For awhile, I thought they were going to rename the airport after her.
Ricardo -- his Puerto Rican friend who wears lip gloss and a girdle -- called today. Miss Universe will be in the Bahamas this year. They are now considering going. Taking days off, flying across the country to sit in the same room with Donald Trump and Perez Hilton and scream at the top of their lungs.
Instead of blurting out,
“You are such a faggot!”
I take a deep breath and take stock.
What’s the difference between him watching a beauty pageant and me and my penchant for any PBS Jane Austen tale? It’s all the same: women acting silly in fancy dresses.
So I can laugh at him watching Project Runway, but I sit glued to any version of Coco Chanel’s life. What’s the difference?
I get irritated with his fascination with American Idol, yet I watch Glee religiously. Do I need to say anything more?
Until I join a rugby team and start changing my own tires, I think I need to watch what I say in my own fabulous glass house.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Scottish Dream
Most people in theater know the proverbial dream: the one where you’re doing a show and you realize you don’t know any of the lines, missed all of the rehearsals and now you need to go on to a full house complete with a New York Times critic. I have that dream often, although since I’ve been teaching, my subconscious has added in a shrill school administrator who usually shows up to ask for test score data. Last night I had the most vivid variation of this dream yet. I was playing Macbeth in a production comprised of those reverent actors one usually only sees on the James Lipton Tongue-in-Butt Hour. I showed up to the front door of the theater and realized the show had already started. Oh, well, I thought. I wasn’t feeling particularly in the mood to perform and I knew I didn’t know the lines. I decided to take off my pants, leave them at the door and go have a beer instead. Later, the cast found me at the pub and berated me, except for one astute, organically-trained Lesbian actress. It turns out they had miraculously gotten through the entire performance without the appearance of Macbeth. No stand-ins, no understudy. They all just ad-libbed and talked about him a lot. The Lesbian, playing Lady Sarah, (who’s Lady Sarah?) devised a plot turn where she takes over the crown. She was really proud of her improvisational skills and the fact that a woman could rule Scotland in the 11th century. I’m not sure if she shacked up with Lady Macbeth, as things got a bit fuzzy after my third pint. I’m so glad theater is still in my blood.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Desert Storm
Desert Storm
Phoenix is right now in the middle of a major weather event. It's been raining for at least two days. The meteorologists on the local news are now purpose-driven and absolutely giddy since they have something to report. The news opened with the forecast, the sky-cam showed headlights, and some grandmother was stuck in her AMC Pacer in a puddle of water. When rescued, all she said was a thank-you to Jesus that she had brought her gun along with her. I'm glad this was the top news story as we already know all about Haiti.
It's understandable that Phoenix gets excited with any kind of precipitation. After all, we get a meager three inches of rain per year. I just don't understand why every time it rains, it's like a hurricane blew in. The airport closes, (don't planes land in rain in other cities?) electricity gets knocked out at the slightest mention of a breeze, and there are auto pile-ups because people are learning how to turn on their windshield wipers.
Because of the rain last night -- and it really was more like a steady drizzle -- there were all sorts of failures at my school this morning: the bells didn't work, no one could print from their computers, the copiers were jamming paper and everyone was wet. (no one owns an umbrella here, it seems)
And it wasn't just happening at school. Later on at the gym, they announced there was a tornado warning. Cory, the 210 lb bodybuilder with a lisp, screamed and tried to duck under the squat machine. Someone had to tell him not to worry since the gym was in a basement. On my way home, my Florida instincts were kicking in. I debated about stopping in Safeway to buy bottled water, batteries and canned sardines, but decided to live dangerously.
To be fair, it is sounding rather windy out there now and the rain hasn't stopped for at least an hour. Having an add-on with a flat roof plus a pool deck that slopes conveniently toward our bedroom doors does give one pause. Flooding is as frequent here as Sheriff Joe on a dollar store sweep.
I just wonder why Phoenix's infrastructure -- electricity, sewer, airport, highways etc -- seems to be so damn sensitive. Why can't city planners study a place where there's like 300 days of rain a year -- like Seattle or Ireland -- and see how they cope with a little wet?
This reminds me; I need to save this right now, as my lights are flickering and that can only mean one thing: 30 Rock will not make it on the DVR tonight.
Phoenix is right now in the middle of a major weather event. It's been raining for at least two days. The meteorologists on the local news are now purpose-driven and absolutely giddy since they have something to report. The news opened with the forecast, the sky-cam showed headlights, and some grandmother was stuck in her AMC Pacer in a puddle of water. When rescued, all she said was a thank-you to Jesus that she had brought her gun along with her. I'm glad this was the top news story as we already know all about Haiti.
It's understandable that Phoenix gets excited with any kind of precipitation. After all, we get a meager three inches of rain per year. I just don't understand why every time it rains, it's like a hurricane blew in. The airport closes, (don't planes land in rain in other cities?) electricity gets knocked out at the slightest mention of a breeze, and there are auto pile-ups because people are learning how to turn on their windshield wipers.
Because of the rain last night -- and it really was more like a steady drizzle -- there were all sorts of failures at my school this morning: the bells didn't work, no one could print from their computers, the copiers were jamming paper and everyone was wet. (no one owns an umbrella here, it seems)
And it wasn't just happening at school. Later on at the gym, they announced there was a tornado warning. Cory, the 210 lb bodybuilder with a lisp, screamed and tried to duck under the squat machine. Someone had to tell him not to worry since the gym was in a basement. On my way home, my Florida instincts were kicking in. I debated about stopping in Safeway to buy bottled water, batteries and canned sardines, but decided to live dangerously.
To be fair, it is sounding rather windy out there now and the rain hasn't stopped for at least an hour. Having an add-on with a flat roof plus a pool deck that slopes conveniently toward our bedroom doors does give one pause. Flooding is as frequent here as Sheriff Joe on a dollar store sweep.
I just wonder why Phoenix's infrastructure -- electricity, sewer, airport, highways etc -- seems to be so damn sensitive. Why can't city planners study a place where there's like 300 days of rain a year -- like Seattle or Ireland -- and see how they cope with a little wet?
This reminds me; I need to save this right now, as my lights are flickering and that can only mean one thing: 30 Rock will not make it on the DVR tonight.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Watching Obama, Clinton and Bush outside the White House as the president introduces their group effort at relief for Haiti. It's like a student presentation in front of the class. Barack, the A-student, is well-spoken, regal, the one who sits in the front of the classroom. Bill is still and solemn, waiting for his turn to be Elvis-sincere. Poor George is the special-ed student. He can't stand still or stop smirking. I'm waiting for him to do bunny ears behind Barack's head. Thankfully, the CNN camera moves in for a closeup, taking problem George out of the shot. I hope he keeps staying in Crawford doing what he does best -- chopping wood.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Lonely Goatherd
I finally saw The Sound of Music -- in sixth grade and ten years after its initial 1965 release. My mother took me on a hot August day to the Crest Theater, the last remaining movie palace in downtown Fresno. We sat in the empty art-deco auditorium with a few misguided Chicano drunks and witnessed Julie Andrews on the big screen singing her heart out to the Alps. It only took the opening credits and I was smitten: my Austro-Hungarian Empire phase had begun. I decided to take German in the seventh grade that September. I collected European model trains and had a layout complete with paper Mache Alps, A-frame pensiones and gilded cafes. I devoured books: The autobiography of Maria Von Trapp, the life story of the waltz king, Johann Strauss, Heidi and Mein Kampf.
In Mr. Adair's geography class we were to give a presentation on a country of our choosing. I seized the dramatic opportunity and came to school in lederhosen and a felt Tyrolean hat. In character, I presented the glory of Austria -- once the center of the Great Hapsburg Empire -- when people built real palaces and really knew how to live it up. I spoke in a broken German accent that prompted the slovenly Annette Messina to shout from her back row seat,
“Why are you talking like that? Are you retarded?”
After digressing about German dialects, I elaborated on Austria, home of the most cosmopolitan of European cities, Vienna. Home of the Sacher Torte, the perfect cup of coffee, the Strausses and their music, and opulence for days. Die Fledermaus played on the phonograph for background ambience. Lori Silver, the sole Jew in our school, shot up her hand:
“Didn't the Austrians exterminate my people?”
I had anticipated this from overly whiny Lori and rebutted that Austrians were a peaceful people who were bullied by the Nazis. “Didn't you see The Sound of Music?” I asked her with exasperation. The Austrians were personified in the character of Baron Von Trapp, beautifully and wryly played by the handsome Christopher Plummer. The Austrians were a poor, once-great people forced into occupation or else their beautiful churches would be burned down and their musical festivals cancelled, I explained. They were victims; they would have rather stayed home with their flocks of sheep and compose music and enter
amateur singing contests. I ended the presentation with a class sing-a-long of "Edelweiss". Appallingly, no
one knew the lyrics. Mr. Adair interrupted my solo because of time constraints. Billy Drucker then got up and did his "country" report on Oklahoma. No costume, no music, no audio/visual. Because he was the hyperactive class clown and imitated his father's "Okie" accent, they all laughed and ate it up. While I faced a barrage of historical challenges and sneers over my choice, my costume, my gift bags, no one even flinched when Billy tried to pass off the nation of Oklahoma.
My middle-European obsession led to a pen pal for three glorious months. Gerhardt Ladstatter was a tall, Aryan boy who looked older than his 13 years. I had found my Rolf. Best of all, he was from Vienna. I never went into detail about my Fresno home in the middle of farmlands and devoid of western civilization. I played up the California card and sent postcards of rocky cliffs, massive redwoods and Hearst Castle with the note, "I live near here". His correspondence at first was frequent and full of photos: Gerhardt fishing, Gerhardt riding his bike in what I imagined were the Vienna Woods, Gerhardt hunting in the Alps -- could that be a nun singing in the distance? One picture had Gerhardt with his arm casually draped over a friend's shoulder after what appeared to be a dirty and grueling futbal game. There was master-race victory on their faces mixed with something intimate I couldn't grasp. A real pal shot: Something nowadays Abercrombie and Fitch would blow up to the size of a wall. In his letters, Gerhardt was warm, affectionate and so European -- not like those cold American boys here who only liked you if you played that stupid American invention, baseball. I was determined to learn German fluently and take up some sport to impress Gerhardt. The 1976 winter Olympics from Innsbruck had just finished. My most recent Austrian hero was Franz Klammer, winner of the gold medal. I decided to follow in his footsteps and become a championship skier. I started by stealing my sister's sun lamp and stared at it while wearing sunglasses. Arriving to school on Monday with a face looking like a raccoon with radiation was the height of Fresno status. I spent two months looking at ski equipment to rent and would only choose it if were German or had some hard-to-pronounce guttural name attached to it.
I wrote Gerhardt that I was training using my Kneisal skis and had bought my florescent yellow and orange plastic ski parka and could he take me to the Alps soon? The Sierra Nevadas in California were puny and the lodges hadn't the Tyrolean atmosphere I was looking for. I finally went to the Yosemite ski resort for my first time with my friend, Brian O'Connor. He was a good skier and abandoned me pretty quickly for the intermediate run. I took a beginner's class where I learned how to stop by bringing my knees together, letting the skis angle towards one another and braking into the snow. I didn't like it. It wasn't a Franz Klammer power slide and it looked slightly handicapped. I went to the lodge and sat for three hours drinking cocoa in front of the fire. There was a nice, old woman from Modesto sitting next to me who was chatty and dim. I told her I was a foreign exchange student from Salzburg. My name was Gerhardt. She had seen The Sound of Music so I had a lot to tell her. When Brian came in to get me -- interrupting and almost blowing my story of how I was a runner-up in that year's music festival with my accordian solo -- I excused myself and said I needed to return to my host family.
Brian tutored me on the "bunny slope" and how to get on and off the t-bar until I thought I got it. It was fun for about 15 minutes. I was disappointed since the sun had gone away and now I couldn't even return to school looking like a burn victim. Finally I had to attempt the last run of the day; feeling pretty cocky and in homage to Franz, I crouched down to gain speed like I saw them do on the Olympics. I must have sped up to at least 10 miles per hour. As I approached a large Ponderosa Pine in my way, I tried to stop beginner-style but my skis crossed and I tumbled over, hearing and feeling a snap in my right leg. I broke two bones and was in a cast for what seemed most of my puberty.
Gerhardt was empathetic to my slightly revised story and was amazed I could slalom on the pro's hill as a beginner. With nothing to do in my cast, I started writing him more. I told him how I didn't much like the American way. We didn't have electric trains -- we had Amtrak. We didn't have coffee houses -- we had tins of General Foods instant coffee and palm oil and called it Cafe Vienna. We didn't have downtowns to shop in with streetcars -- we had a mall with a parking lot and a JC Penney's as an anchor, for Chris sakes. Gerhardt wrote back with innocent questions like, How is McDonald's hamburger? Do you own a gun? He dreamed of all things American: eating Big Macs in the Grand Canyon and wearing cowboy boots. The poor, deluded lad, I mused. During my convalescence, I relayed my dreams of flying to him in Vienna and riding the old Ferris wheel with him, attending the Vienna opera with him, and eating strudel in the Schonbrunn palace with him. I wanted to take a picture with him in front of the Rathaus, his arm casually draped over my shoulder. As my letters became more Rococo of our future together, his became more spare and infrequent. I couldn't help but think my failure as a downhill skier turned the pen-pal into pen-pity. It seemed that Gerhardt, like his people, couldn't tolerate weakness. Perhaps owning a hunting rifle would've helped matters.
His last correspondence was a postcard of the Danube. On the back he scribbled something about great fishing with his Dad. No best wishes, no fond words -- just a p.s. about his moving and the new address would be forthcoming. I read in-between the newly cool, Teutonic efficiency of his words: It's Over, Kaput -- Achtung. I looked at the picture of what looked like a castle overlooking the river. Why is the water brown? I thought. The Danube is supposed to be blue. And what's he fishing in it for? Doesn't he know? You're supposed to waltz on it.
I finally saw The Sound of Music -- in sixth grade and ten years after its initial 1965 release. My mother took me on a hot August day to the Crest Theater, the last remaining movie palace in downtown Fresno. We sat in the empty art-deco auditorium with a few misguided Chicano drunks and witnessed Julie Andrews on the big screen singing her heart out to the Alps. It only took the opening credits and I was smitten: my Austro-Hungarian Empire phase had begun. I decided to take German in the seventh grade that September. I collected European model trains and had a layout complete with paper Mache Alps, A-frame pensiones and gilded cafes. I devoured books: The autobiography of Maria Von Trapp, the life story of the waltz king, Johann Strauss, Heidi and Mein Kampf.
In Mr. Adair's geography class we were to give a presentation on a country of our choosing. I seized the dramatic opportunity and came to school in lederhosen and a felt Tyrolean hat. In character, I presented the glory of Austria -- once the center of the Great Hapsburg Empire -- when people built real palaces and really knew how to live it up. I spoke in a broken German accent that prompted the slovenly Annette Messina to shout from her back row seat,
“Why are you talking like that? Are you retarded?”
After digressing about German dialects, I elaborated on Austria, home of the most cosmopolitan of European cities, Vienna. Home of the Sacher Torte, the perfect cup of coffee, the Strausses and their music, and opulence for days. Die Fledermaus played on the phonograph for background ambience. Lori Silver, the sole Jew in our school, shot up her hand:
“Didn't the Austrians exterminate my people?”
I had anticipated this from overly whiny Lori and rebutted that Austrians were a peaceful people who were bullied by the Nazis. “Didn't you see The Sound of Music?” I asked her with exasperation. The Austrians were personified in the character of Baron Von Trapp, beautifully and wryly played by the handsome Christopher Plummer. The Austrians were a poor, once-great people forced into occupation or else their beautiful churches would be burned down and their musical festivals cancelled, I explained. They were victims; they would have rather stayed home with their flocks of sheep and compose music and enter
amateur singing contests. I ended the presentation with a class sing-a-long of "Edelweiss". Appallingly, no
one knew the lyrics. Mr. Adair interrupted my solo because of time constraints. Billy Drucker then got up and did his "country" report on Oklahoma. No costume, no music, no audio/visual. Because he was the hyperactive class clown and imitated his father's "Okie" accent, they all laughed and ate it up. While I faced a barrage of historical challenges and sneers over my choice, my costume, my gift bags, no one even flinched when Billy tried to pass off the nation of Oklahoma.
My middle-European obsession led to a pen pal for three glorious months. Gerhardt Ladstatter was a tall, Aryan boy who looked older than his 13 years. I had found my Rolf. Best of all, he was from Vienna. I never went into detail about my Fresno home in the middle of farmlands and devoid of western civilization. I played up the California card and sent postcards of rocky cliffs, massive redwoods and Hearst Castle with the note, "I live near here". His correspondence at first was frequent and full of photos: Gerhardt fishing, Gerhardt riding his bike in what I imagined were the Vienna Woods, Gerhardt hunting in the Alps -- could that be a nun singing in the distance? One picture had Gerhardt with his arm casually draped over a friend's shoulder after what appeared to be a dirty and grueling futbal game. There was master-race victory on their faces mixed with something intimate I couldn't grasp. A real pal shot: Something nowadays Abercrombie and Fitch would blow up to the size of a wall. In his letters, Gerhardt was warm, affectionate and so European -- not like those cold American boys here who only liked you if you played that stupid American invention, baseball. I was determined to learn German fluently and take up some sport to impress Gerhardt. The 1976 winter Olympics from Innsbruck had just finished. My most recent Austrian hero was Franz Klammer, winner of the gold medal. I decided to follow in his footsteps and become a championship skier. I started by stealing my sister's sun lamp and stared at it while wearing sunglasses. Arriving to school on Monday with a face looking like a raccoon with radiation was the height of Fresno status. I spent two months looking at ski equipment to rent and would only choose it if were German or had some hard-to-pronounce guttural name attached to it.
I wrote Gerhardt that I was training using my Kneisal skis and had bought my florescent yellow and orange plastic ski parka and could he take me to the Alps soon? The Sierra Nevadas in California were puny and the lodges hadn't the Tyrolean atmosphere I was looking for. I finally went to the Yosemite ski resort for my first time with my friend, Brian O'Connor. He was a good skier and abandoned me pretty quickly for the intermediate run. I took a beginner's class where I learned how to stop by bringing my knees together, letting the skis angle towards one another and braking into the snow. I didn't like it. It wasn't a Franz Klammer power slide and it looked slightly handicapped. I went to the lodge and sat for three hours drinking cocoa in front of the fire. There was a nice, old woman from Modesto sitting next to me who was chatty and dim. I told her I was a foreign exchange student from Salzburg. My name was Gerhardt. She had seen The Sound of Music so I had a lot to tell her. When Brian came in to get me -- interrupting and almost blowing my story of how I was a runner-up in that year's music festival with my accordian solo -- I excused myself and said I needed to return to my host family.
Brian tutored me on the "bunny slope" and how to get on and off the t-bar until I thought I got it. It was fun for about 15 minutes. I was disappointed since the sun had gone away and now I couldn't even return to school looking like a burn victim. Finally I had to attempt the last run of the day; feeling pretty cocky and in homage to Franz, I crouched down to gain speed like I saw them do on the Olympics. I must have sped up to at least 10 miles per hour. As I approached a large Ponderosa Pine in my way, I tried to stop beginner-style but my skis crossed and I tumbled over, hearing and feeling a snap in my right leg. I broke two bones and was in a cast for what seemed most of my puberty.
Gerhardt was empathetic to my slightly revised story and was amazed I could slalom on the pro's hill as a beginner. With nothing to do in my cast, I started writing him more. I told him how I didn't much like the American way. We didn't have electric trains -- we had Amtrak. We didn't have coffee houses -- we had tins of General Foods instant coffee and palm oil and called it Cafe Vienna. We didn't have downtowns to shop in with streetcars -- we had a mall with a parking lot and a JC Penney's as an anchor, for Chris sakes. Gerhardt wrote back with innocent questions like, How is McDonald's hamburger? Do you own a gun? He dreamed of all things American: eating Big Macs in the Grand Canyon and wearing cowboy boots. The poor, deluded lad, I mused. During my convalescence, I relayed my dreams of flying to him in Vienna and riding the old Ferris wheel with him, attending the Vienna opera with him, and eating strudel in the Schonbrunn palace with him. I wanted to take a picture with him in front of the Rathaus, his arm casually draped over my shoulder. As my letters became more Rococo of our future together, his became more spare and infrequent. I couldn't help but think my failure as a downhill skier turned the pen-pal into pen-pity. It seemed that Gerhardt, like his people, couldn't tolerate weakness. Perhaps owning a hunting rifle would've helped matters.
His last correspondence was a postcard of the Danube. On the back he scribbled something about great fishing with his Dad. No best wishes, no fond words -- just a p.s. about his moving and the new address would be forthcoming. I read in-between the newly cool, Teutonic efficiency of his words: It's Over, Kaput -- Achtung. I looked at the picture of what looked like a castle overlooking the river. Why is the water brown? I thought. The Danube is supposed to be blue. And what's he fishing in it for? Doesn't he know? You're supposed to waltz on it.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
I'm intrigued by a sign in my neigborhood. It's one of those signs with changeable letters, like high schools have. It's in front of the Meinecke Brake shop at a not-very-nice intersection highlighted by a Pizza Hut Wing Stop, a check cashing store and a CVS Pharamcy. The sign says, "Your life is shaped by your thoughts." It's been there quite awhile now. I'm surprised -- in this economy -- it hasn't been changed to "Brake Special 4 just $34.95" or "Tuesdays is Ladiez Day for Oil Changes," like most other auto shops have. This gets me thinking about the owner or whoever is responsible for putting up that message. He must be cool to work for. It makes me think perhaps I chose the wrong profession and I should be changing brake pads and having metaphysical discussions with the boss. I know it's condescending of me to question a sign like this at this shop, in this blue collar neighborhood. It just strikes me as an ironic location as most of the time, this intersection is punctuated by people who don't look too happy or content with their lives: overweight mothers in a halter top and shorts, pushing a baby stroller followed by three toddlers, homeless men yelling at bus stops, and other assorted characters usually only seen on Spanish-speaking talk shows.
So I guess the sign is needed. It certainly is reassuring to me. It makes me think that enlightenment is not strictly a high-end luxury -- a thing only reserved for poeple who live in Sedona or shop in Whole Foods.
"Your life is shaped by your thoughts." Of course I've seen that message throughout my life and in different variations. My problem is I always get it mixed up and think, "My thoughts are shaped by my life,"
which is something entirely different. Coincidentally, my car needs an oil change. I should go there tomorrow, meet this guru and thank him for improving the 'hood.
So I guess the sign is needed. It certainly is reassuring to me. It makes me think that enlightenment is not strictly a high-end luxury -- a thing only reserved for poeple who live in Sedona or shop in Whole Foods.
"Your life is shaped by your thoughts." Of course I've seen that message throughout my life and in different variations. My problem is I always get it mixed up and think, "My thoughts are shaped by my life,"
which is something entirely different. Coincidentally, my car needs an oil change. I should go there tomorrow, meet this guru and thank him for improving the 'hood.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Mr. B
Lately, the Bogeyman has returned to me. I actually haven't see him, but I definitely feel him. It's been more than 40 years since I waited for his nightly visits, so I'm finding it strange that it's taken so long for him to return.
As a child, I pictured him as an obese apparition -- shrouded in white, tattered rags with blood oozing from his mouth and eyes. As if the Michelin Man had been put through a food processor and was really pissed off about it. I would lay in the dark of my twin bed, saying Hail Mary's and Our Father's since this was the proven method for keeping him at bay. My parents, of course, always disputed the existence of such a creature. It was my older brothers who warned me about him. Sometimes they would sneak into my room and imitate his groans and thumping feet, sending me screaming to my parents' bed. I think I stopped believing in the threat of him around adolescence, when I discovered I could do other things in my bed at night besides pray to the Virgin Mary. Instead of dwelling on this ghoul, I decided to direct my nocturnal thoughts towards my future adult life: my fabulously successful careers, the interiors of my Manhattan penthouse and my brief, but memorable, marriage to Jaclyn Smith.
Where did the Bogeyman go? Throughout high school, college and all of my erratic careers, I had completely forgotten about him. Through a variety of pursued and broken dreams, friendships and romances, he never bothered me. I'm now in my 40's; I have a great relationship; and I have a teaching job that pays the bills. You would think he would've grown bored of me and moved on.
This time, the Bogeyman -- or Mr. B as I've taken to calling him -- doesn't haunt me late at night like he used to; he's changed his schedule. Now, I wake up to him. What's more is he's taken a new shape. Several, in fact. He seems to be everywhere: glowing blue in my alarm clock, stalking the cold, morning floor, floating in the Mr. Coffee water reservoir, condensing in the ceiling of the shower. The picture of me now in the morning makes a terrible Folger's commercial. To be honest, I've never been a morning person, but this awaiting Mr. B makes me look like that snot-nosed scene from The Blair Witch Project.
I talked to my doctor about it. I explained to her several things: my mother had just been diagnosed with a terminal illness; I had just moved across the country to a place I never particularly thought I would move to, much less stop along the way for gas; and I had a new teaching job that made me feel talent-less and stupid. Was it depression? Sure, she said, as she wrote the prescription for a popular anti-depressant. I gave the pills more than two months to kick in. Instead of transforming me into a Lark at sunrise, they made the presence of Mr. B even more formidable than before. One morning I experienced what I can only call a panic moment followed by a blackout; several minutes later, I woke up from a nap I had taken after I had fainted in the tub and under the running shower head. I decided the drugs weren't a very good deterrent for Mr. B's charms.
Recently, I've been sensing Mr. B. in strange disguises. Like in certain administrators and in fellow faculty members. He is playing a game of cat and mouse with me. His is no longer the chubby, bloody man from a horror movie; he has gotten slicker in his old age. He is able to transform himself and hover in my empty classroom, in the ennui of a faculty meeting, in a memo full of educational-speak words that only makes me dizzy.
Sometimes, he'll hide in students. Usually it's the students who don't understand me, who don't get my references, or who look at me like I stepped out of Avatar. And the other day, during my planning period, I swore I could feel him on Facebook, wanting to befriend total strangers.
I often wonder if Mr. B plagues other people. In the morning, I see a fair amount of teachers --sitting in their cars with the engines running -- drinking coffee and staring nervously at the cacti in front of them. And I don't think they're camped out there because of Sirius Radio. This comforts me.
Strangely enough, Mr. B is usually gone by lunchtime. Unless there's a department meeting that afternoon. And I can't feel him until the next morning, although he often makes surprise visits on Sunday nights when I'm ironing clothes.
When I'm on vacation, Mr. B seems to take a vacation, also. I should thank him for this when I finally meet him. But I don't think that's going to happen. This makes me sad, because if I did -- at last -- get to actually shake his hand, I would do my best to strangle him with my school ID, or stab him with my teacher scissors, or bludgeon him with my 25 pound teacher's edition textbook. It would be lovely to finally use that book for something.
In truth, however, Mr. B wont show up anytime soon. I'm aware of that. I know that if he ever does decide to make an appearance, it will be at some profound moment, like at my retirement lunch. And it will be too late. Then, that son-of-a-bitch will change his game again and visit for altogether different reasons.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Annie says I should blog. She's an old friend of mine from college and she works in the world of New York media, so I'm thinking she must know something. And if some whiny girl could do it and then write a book without ever having met Julia Child or gone to cooking school, then maybe I can. Still, all this -- and I hate this word -- journaling feels like masturbation, but without the happy ending. I teach high school English and journaling is the last thing I want my kids to do. I know this sounds like I'm a bad teacher, but personal lives are one thing I wont get into. We can talk all we want about Hamlet's life with all that incest, premarital sex, homoerotic longing (I'm talking about Horatio here) and stupid friends with weird names, but don't start with the student's personal histories. There are several well-paid social workers in the main office planning potlucks who can handle them.
I've written stuff before, but most of it sits untouched, unedited and unpublished. Several friends have kindly read them and given me a pet or two like I'm one of those abused dogs in the ASPCA commercials. I was in theater, but nothing is as vulnerable as writing. I'd rather do a nude play in winter -- with a frigid penis as large as Michael Jackson's nose -- than submit my writing for publication.
So why am I doing this? Well, for one, no one's going to read this.
The real reason I'm attempting this is because of a New Year's resolution. I know New Year's resolutions are about as lame as those Sunday morning exercise infomercials or that shrill geriatric lady who sells cookware for people who dig crock pots, but I realized I need to change my ways if Hugh Jackman ever comes a-knocking. (It will happen)
I wouldn't call myself an alcoholic, or even an alcohol abuser. I just spend too much time and too much money drinking and meeting people who I don't ever remember the next day. I'm too old for this. Once I have two drinks, I'm done. Forget about reading a book or writing something. I end up watching my boyfriend's inane reality shows and feeling alternately disgusted and superior through my vodka-soaked haze. So instead of drinking, I'm going to write. Here. On my high-tech spiral-bound. Let's see what happens.
I've written stuff before, but most of it sits untouched, unedited and unpublished. Several friends have kindly read them and given me a pet or two like I'm one of those abused dogs in the ASPCA commercials. I was in theater, but nothing is as vulnerable as writing. I'd rather do a nude play in winter -- with a frigid penis as large as Michael Jackson's nose -- than submit my writing for publication.
So why am I doing this? Well, for one, no one's going to read this.
The real reason I'm attempting this is because of a New Year's resolution. I know New Year's resolutions are about as lame as those Sunday morning exercise infomercials or that shrill geriatric lady who sells cookware for people who dig crock pots, but I realized I need to change my ways if Hugh Jackman ever comes a-knocking. (It will happen)
I wouldn't call myself an alcoholic, or even an alcohol abuser. I just spend too much time and too much money drinking and meeting people who I don't ever remember the next day. I'm too old for this. Once I have two drinks, I'm done. Forget about reading a book or writing something. I end up watching my boyfriend's inane reality shows and feeling alternately disgusted and superior through my vodka-soaked haze. So instead of drinking, I'm going to write. Here. On my high-tech spiral-bound. Let's see what happens.
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