kellementology

life according to me

Category: Uncategorized

  • Thank you, San Diego. Please leave your trash on the beach.

    The frenzied July 4th crowds began Tuesday evening. How could they not? The weekend had just ended, so it seemed that people were on simmer and waiting for an opportunity to really get going on their summer vacations. We could see them as we drove through the beach area on our way to the ball game many others decided would kick off their holiday as well. Lots of traffic, people hustling to get somewhere — anywhere — even if it meant getting stuck at the place where Interstate 8 ends at the Pacific Ocean. On that evening, there wouldn’t have been a glorious sunset to keep them entertained as they swore at each other, trying to squeeze from four lanes into two.

    I’m such a party pooper. For some reason, I’d rather be an observer than a participant. People watching is far more interesting to me than putting myself in a place where I could become the object of another’s scrutiny. I’m quite capable of making an ass of myself given the perfect circumstances, so best I avoid those situations by enjoying others while they are in their element — or not.

    IMG_2531.JPG Being one of about 46,000 at a ball park guarantees superb opportunities for people watching. But we were fairly early, so dinner was in order. The expected fish tacos never materialized. Instead, we tried the sushi restaurant. Sushi? At a ball park? The MoH has baseball in his veins, so seizing the opportunity to sit in a restaurant with a view of batting practice is seriously his cup of tea. Petco Park Er, ah, beer. With edamames, please. IMG_2525.JPG Nope. The RT was completely unimpressed with the California Roll because he most likely had boi-gahs on his brain. IMG_2526.JPG But the view was very relaxing and a great way to begin the evening. Unfortunately, the MoH is a jinx, so the home team lost. Again. IMG_2533.JPG

    E Ticket Seats to the Babe Watch The 4th was a very quiet blur with little or no fanfare. An excellent dinner with friends, with no celebratory songs of being glad to be Americans, and very little Souza. And why is it that the older one gets, the less important fireworks are? I won’t apologize for the bah-humbugging I’m doing because I’ve seen some fairly amazing fireworks shows and unless someone is interested in taking me to see the pyrotechnics competition they hold in Monte Carlo every year, then I’ll only feign interest. Actually, the view from our friends’ home is quite spectacular on a good night. But Monte Carlo?

    Small Boat, Big Flag Sadly, no Monte Carlo for me. I was more interested in heading down to the beach to walk early the next morning because I had to see with my very own eyes what the local paper had published the year before. I had to see the mountains of trash that others feel no discomfort in leaving behind after they’ve had their one day at the beach for the year. I had to see. Someone's Party Leftovers

    Junior Lifeguards It was early enough by the time we had stopped at Kono’s to get our coffee that beach rental folks were barely stirring, and there was nary an officer in sight at the SDPD Mobile Command Unit trailer. But many others had already been up for quite some time. Junior Lifeguards were congregating to pick up trash; the Surfrider Foundation was organizing the clean up event; Helping kids in summer day camp programs were collecting even the tiniest pieces of litter; men in skip loaders were gathering what the cans had held. Beach Clean Up It seemed that everything was under control. By the time that we walked by, compared to the ugliness of last year, the beach was relatively clean and it was only 8:30 am. Amazing. The greatest aspect of this was seeing people walk up to do their part just to help out.

    How might it be if people took the responsibility of not leaving trash to begin with? My evil side imagines for just a second, what people would do if a garbage truck removed the trash, drove it to a neighborhood where the once-a-year beach goers live, and summarily dumped it, leaving it for others to clean it up. But that wouldn’t be kind, would it? I wonder what their thinking is? Well, it’s only a bit of trash. Someone will clean it up. Or, everyone else is doing it, so what difference does it make? People are willing to carry very heavy bags, boxes, and coolers through the sand, but can’t think for 5 minutes on how to remove something that takes up less space in their SUVs, Trucks, and MiniVans, than when they arrived. Lazy? I’m thinking it’s something more subversive, but I’m not in the mood to stir that pot right now. Think about it. I still have the Black Beast sitting in my garage right now. I could have rolled it down to the beach and left it there, right? Take some time to see what last year was like and watch this video clip . Barbie, anyone?

    Enough. Hope your 4th was relaxing if you celebrate declaring independence from an overbearing monarchy. I could let you in on all the tourismo “stuff” we’ve been doing since then, but I’ll spare you. At least for now. The perspective I’m attempting to employ at this point is along the lines of working to appreciate the city I have lived in since 1968. The one I often say I don’t appreciate.

    The one I often consider leaving.

    And a Bev Holder

  • Internet Storminess with a Chance of Fish Tacos

    For the first time that it really ever mattered, the Internet wasn’t available today. Assuming it was a glitch that forced me to get down on my hands and knees to dig around in the wires and see if everything was plugged in, reset the router, and whatever that box is with the flashing lights that has something to do with our phones, cable, and internet service, I completely avoided calling the Time Warner for quite a while. Stupid me.

    There was no service available in our area. Sheesh. And right after I’d been able to finally find a new wrap for my blog. One that everyone seems to be able to see. Abe was so wrong about not being able to please all the people all the time. So what do you do without Internet?

    Organize photos on the external hard drive. There’s about 17oo of them. And play around with albums and iMovies and slide shows. Oh. And ask the RT to share with all of you how tired our Big is from her race at the County Fair last week. She needs a bone, and then she’ll perk right up. Better not be a pork bone, though. Gotta wait until tomorrow for that one since NOTHING is moving right now. That stoopid little wheel is turning and turning, slower than molasses in January.

    Oh, well. I just got the “42 minutes until departure time” call from the MoH. No time to do more than say I haven’t fallen off the edge of the earth. I’m still enjoying my summertime cold, and getting ready to go to a Padres game. You do know that:

    • Jake Peavy is 9-2 with a 2.09 ERA and is the league leader in strike outs, right? Too bad he’s not pitching tonight.
    • Chris Young is 8-3 with a 2.14 ERA and a league leading 0.88 home ERA, but nope, he’s not pitching tonight either.

    So why the hell are we going then?

    • Because Greg Maddux with a career 340 victories IS. And our ball park is cute. With fish tacos. Served at your seat.

    Good thing I get to just sit there and stare at the grass, or the guys on the field in their spiffy uniforms. That’s always a nice distraction. And I hope our seats allow me to stare straight ahead since I can’t turn my eyes without howling silently in pain. Truly.

    Does wine taste good when you have a neutron bomb style head cold?

  • Headaches and Old Photographs

    The RT hasn’t been feeling great lately. I guess “sick” would be an accurate descriptor, and yet he’s trooped through what we’ve had going on. I think this is only the third time he’s ever been ill. Amazing, actually. He had that head-achy, eyeballs hurting when you look one way and then the other kind of sluggish don’t really care about much malaise.

    I have it now.

    What is it about being sick in the summer that makes it seems so much worse than just generally feeling like crap? It must be the warmth, and all that happy sunshine. You can’t exactly cozy up in a comforter, or languish in bed all day. It’s too warm.  So I’ve been up, but not as early as I would have liked since I could feel the drum pounding in my skull at what must have been two or three o’clock this morning with the idea of a cup of hot tea wafting through my delirium.

    The decadent chocolate fudge cake with cream and strawberries left over from the RT’s birthday get together yesterday perked me up a bit while I was reading the paper, but the idea of eating the rest of it just to keep myself perked up didn’t seem too logical. So here I am with you guys. I employed a new technique to claim my seat at the computer this morning by sitting in the chair in the corner of the office, casually looking at the Adobe Photoshop and Photoshop Elements for Teens book I got the RT for his birthday. You do know that book is really for me, right? Sitting in the room while the RT was surfing only lasted about 10 minutes, and then he moseyed into another room, leaving me to think. Scary when my head feels like it’s filling up with something more dense than my brain today.  All those thoughts crashing into each other, making me wince each time I move my head.

    Montage It is a good day to think about all the family photographs my mother has been bringing to our house over the past several weeks with nudgings of, “Go through these when you get a chance and keep the ones you want. Then you can ship the rest to me in Virginia after I’m there.” There are so many of them. So many years, so many people whom I’m related to in some way or another, and so many memories that aren’t always pleasant.

    I’ve wandered past the growing stack of boxes taking the time to move some of them to the landing on the stairs where they wouldn’t be such a reminder of something I need to do that I’m not always especially fond of doing. Even the good memories are tinged with a bit of sadness now that so much time that has passed. So many changes have occurred in a face, or in one’s smile — eyes that had a different kind of wistfulness than they do today. It’s hard for me to look and to not notice. To sort and choose. And to ache a bit for what used to be, or could have been.

    So I’m going to treat my heavy head to Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir edited by William Zinsser whose books on writing have been favorites of mine over the years. Books like On Writing Well, and Writing to Learn. No, this book isn’t one of those on my stack. It doesn’t count because it isn’t fiction, and I don’t read nonfiction the same way. I scan the titles, notice the contributing authors — Anne Dillard, Frank McCourt — and skim until I settle on something that catches my eye.

    Reading what others have to say about memoir will take up time. Call it avoiding setting about the task myself. You can imagine that if it’s challenging for me to look at years of pictures, that writing about what’s behind some of those pictures will be something I have to force myself to do.

    With respect to memoir, Zinsser writes:

    A good memoir requires two elements — one of art, the other of craft. The first element is integrity of intention. Memoir is the best search mechanism that writers are given. Memoir is how we try to make sense of who we are, who we once were, and what values and heritage shaped us. If a writer seriously embarks on that quest, readers will be nourished by the journey, bringing along many associations with quests of their own.

    Who we are, indeed.  Inventing the Truth

    In my time deciding how to go about starting, or at least think about starting, I’m sure I’ll return to Phillip Lopate’s The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. James Baldwin’s “Alas, Poor Richard” begins this way:

    Unless a writer is extremely old when he dies, in which case he has probably become a neglected institution, his death must always seem untimely. This is because a real writer is always shifting and changing and searching. The world has many labels for him, of which the most treacherous is the label of Success. But the man behind the label knows defeat far more intimately than he knows triumph. He can never be absolutely certain that he has achieved his intention.

    So what would my actual intention be to write down all that I’ve kept in my head for so long? To purge myself of it? I wouldn’t want that, because it has become part of me, and not holding onto it would be similar to cutting a hole in the center of me. So then might it be so others can understand? If so, what might they understand? That you can choose to either dwell on what happens to you in life and let it mark you, or acknowledge that it’s now a part of who you are, and turn it into something you can leap from inventing yourself.

    That would be a good place to begin.

    I like the jaunty tone of Wendy Lesser, though in “Overture,” the first of her pieces in The Amateur: An Independent Life of Letters. She writes in a pointed, but less pedantic way of the choices we make in life, and who we are as a result of them:

    The autobiographical mode implies the justification of a life, but that is rather hard to do when one is still in the midst of living it. Also, it is not clear exactly what in the life could justify it. The plan you conceived and executed? A laughable chimera, believable only when you are nineteen years old and deciding on a college major. The choices you made? But if they turned out well, you don’t necessarily deserve the credit, and if you try to take it, you will merely sound foolish or smut. Do you, in any case, make the important choices, or are they thrust on you?

    Thrust? A more gentle word than I may use for some of what I am compelled to write.

    Subjected to? Withstood.

    Never resigned.

    I need to go lay my fat head down before I topple out of this chair. My eyeballs ache. But if I stare straight ahead at my books, quietly reading, it’s not so bad. And then I can read and think about writing, instead of writing.

    Instead of sorting through those photos.

  • Makin’ Like a Tourismo in So Cal

    The weekend was lovely. Completely. Go figure. I don’t especially like driving — or riding in a car. LA Traffic I’d like that twitching nose thingy so I could just pop in and out of places. And it is summer, so the potential for a hot day anywhere in Southern California is quite high. But the wind was blowing, and we were up high on a ridge with a lovely view. Crowds? Oh my…we don’t mix. All those bodies, that mass of humanity. But it was fine. Miraculously fine. Really. Even though the parking lot attendant said they were expecting 25 thousand people Saturday. The MoH and I looked at each other. Was that a lot?

    IMG_2293 I know my mother was doubting my confirmation that all was well on my call home to her. She would have a hard time believing me because she completely knows that I usually don’t enjoy this sort of thing. For years, I’ve completely avoided it, or just gone along with it in the spirit of familial companionship. Or something like that. So now I’m wondering what was up? Perhaps again, I less than enjoyed anything that took time and energy because I needed to savor my down time — store up my energy — get ready for Monday. Can you imagine doing that for nearly 20 years? What a complete loser I’ve been. A lesson in moderation would have been nice along the way to learn a bit of tolerance.

    So off to Universal Studios we went a la family road trip style. Now, I did have something up my sleeve. The Hotel. I love nice hotels. Swanky lobbies, eight million percale count sheets, and lovely bathrooms. It’s a problem. I could totally be one of those traveling people who just stay in hotels. I’m thinking it’s the clean factor. There’s no clutter, the bed is made when you return from a difficult afternoon touristing, car parking is valet only, and they hand you an ice cold bottle of water as you head out for your day of adventure. And if you’re feeling special — room service. *sigh* Not on this trip, though. The Graciela Lounge But you do remember The Stagecoach Inn in Monterey, right? You decide.  The Graciela… The Graciela Coffee Bar Or the Stagecoach Inn?  Hot Towel?  I rest my case.

    What was nice about this trip was knowing that there was only so much we could do and see. There was no hurry to fit in a zillion things, no itinerary, no waking up to the blare of an alarm clock. And surprisingly, no serious traffic. What? And we drove through LA? Go figure. Okay, so the picture above is the only snag we hit and it was only a 15 minute one at that.

    High points? The back lot tour. Yes, I’ve been on it several times over the years, but this time was the longest and the most seen. Maybe we just had a tour guide who was into it, wannabe actor that he stated he was. I had to stop and wonder about what kind of life that would be. But he looked like he was enjoying himself talking to a tram full of blase tourists — most of whom probably do not know or care about all those old glorious black and white movies. All those gorgeous and perpetually glam shot ready stars like Hedy Lamarr, or Carole Lombard. And there’s no way they could possibly get a thrill looking at those old deco style dressing rooms of the stars and famous costume designers. Or knowing that those soundstages have housed a very unique brand of history. Somehow, Terminator 2 doesn’t cut the mustard as something to get nostalgic over. Astro Studs

    The brand spankin’ new Mummy roller coaster ride is way fun. You have to totally love a ride that whirls, spins, and shoots you through the darkness. Yes, I scream. A lot. Of course, I yell on the simulated Back to the Future ride also, and it’s more than 10 years old. Does anyone but me scream on a fake ride? I’m hopeless.

    A semi high/low point was the Jurassic Park ride. Yes, you get wet. I knew that. But the advertised “new and improved” was a bit too much improved. As the ride concluded, I wondered what the Japanese man sitting in the row in front of us was looking at, but I smiled at him none the less. After I asked the MoH whether my eyes were black or not, he said, “You’re going to have to go to the ladies room” quite graciously, and with not the slightest hint of controlled laughter. Not, what he could have said, like, “Oh My Gawd Your Eyes Are Completely Black and You Have Streaks of Mascara Running Everywhere!” No, he didn’t say that, kind man that he is. But he could have.

    I spent about 15 minutes in the bathroom trying to rub the black streaks of mascara from my cheeks and around my eyes. And no sunglasses to hide behind because they were in a locker. By the time I was done rubbing, I was left with some freaky black eye liner and no sun screen. So should I have thought about waterproof mascara when I was in the drug store purchasing my “Buy One–Get One Free” Maybelline that I haven’t worn for years? I wasn’t planning on crying, no weddings were booked, and most days, putting on mascara isn’t high on my list of priorities. So I got soaked. Completely drenched. It took my shirt several hours to completely dry. It was a blast.

    The nicest surprise was the original Bob’s Big Boy around the corner from the hotel. It was in the cutest little neighborhood called Toluca Lake, “Established 1923,” or that’s what all the signs said anyway. It was cool. And the whole area had remnants of that old LA look when things weren’t so slick and smoggy. When neighborhoods were quaint, and you could walk down the sidewalk to a store close by. It made me wonder for five seconds about living in LA. Well, maybe 10.

    IMG_2365  Where was I? Oh yes, breakfast. It was completely saturated with calories, but my goodness, was it delicious. I didn’t lick the plate, but I wanted to. Have you ever had deep fried French toast? With cinnamon? And syrup. And butter? Coffee refilled every time I got it doctored up just right. Hot coffee. Not warm you better be careful or our lawyers will sue your lawyers coffee. *sigh* I didn’t even need a crane to get off the vinyl bench. But I also haven’t eaten much the past two days. I just wanted to see if my arteries still worked to be safe.

    The “mall” next to the theme park is pretty interesting as well. Musicians, food, strange tee shirt shops and stores that sell chocolate covered Twinkies. Really. No, we didn’t buy one. Chocolate Covered Twinkies  But the RT and I are thinking we can come up with something better. Plus, we’re headed to the County Fair on Friday where I hear they have deep fried Twinkies. I couldn’t spoil my appetite, right? Ewww….How do you spell C-A-R-C-I-N-O-G-E-N-I-C, class?

    Completely low point? The theme park food. I can’t believe I got sucked into it. Again. They just have you by the short hairs so know they can charge a chunk of change for warm cardboard. IMG_2342  School cafeteria food is better. Real warm cardboard is better for that matter. Really. Put a little bernaise on it….The giant Corona helped wash it down, though. And the giant Heinekin the next day was even better.

    On that note, I’ve survived the assault on my taste buds and have been cooking. If you’re in the mood for a salad or hunk o’ beef (sorry to my vegetarian friends) then check it out. We’re giving our Barby the workout. I’m still not back to my usual blog self, however, and the MoH has more days off scheduled next week, so I’m going to have to figure out how to keep things running smoothly in Bloggsville. Stay up all night? Schedule particular days for visiting my favorite people? The word “schedule” makes me quake in my flops.

    Anyway, thanks for bearing with me while I figure it all out. And know, that when I’m not sitting here, you are sorely missed. *sniff*

  • It’s…like…Totally Random — or is it?

    Is anything really random? Does the interconnectedness of life preclude that anything is accidental or coincidental? Can one person who has an obsessive tendency to make sure lights not in use are turned off really save the planet? Ray Bradbury, scifi writer extraordinaire, once suggested that it is possible. In “A Sound of Thunder,” a man travels back through time to the age of dinosaurs. Although he is cautioned about remaining on the path during his visit, he doesn’t. And the dead butterfly later noticed on the sole of his shoe causes repercussions in his modern day world.

    And what about chaos? Webster’s defines it as “complete disorder and confusion.” But it adds a second definition specifically linked to physics: “behavior so unpredictable as to appear random, owing to great sensitivity to small changes in conditions.” Appear random. Small changes in conditions…wikipedia image

    When first experimenting with the concept of chaos, Edward Lorenz discovered that minute variations can cause huge differences in data analysis. The subsequently coined Butterfly Effect is explained here:

    The flapping of a single butterfly’s wing today produces a tiny change in the state of the atmosphere. Over a period of time, what the atmosphere actually does diverges from what it would have done. So, in a month’s time, a tornado that would have devastated the Indonesian coast doesn’t happen. Or maybe one that wasn’t going to happen, does. (Ian Stewart, Does God Play Dice? The Mathematics of Chaos, pg. 141)

    This is quite an involved way to lead into the fact that I’ve been tagged by the ever gracious techie, Phil at Thought Sparks to disclose eight random facts about myself. This one has clearly been around the block and back a bejillion times.  The rules are (and you do know how I abhor rules, right?):

    • Players start with 8 random facts about themselves
    • Those who are tagged should post these rules and their 8 random facts
    • Players should tag 8 other people and notify them that they have been tagged.

    Got it? I’ll do what I can to make it relevant, even though it’s random, and things are really never random… Phyllotaxy Are they?

    1. My former student, Mary, is a member of the Peace Corps, living in Honduras, and working on educational projects there. She still emails me! Mary was one of my top 8th grader writers in 1993, and a violinist with the San Diego Youth Symphony who went on to study music at UC Irvine. Now she shares her music with kids. She has a call out for pen pals to act as mentors for 12-13 year olds in Tegucigalpa, the city where she works.
    2. Between 12-15 magazines show up at our house monthly. We can’t figure out why 4 of them show up, because we’ve never paid for them, and never ordered them. They just come. I love magazines and always thought that if I didn’t work, I’d have time to read them. Now, we’re getting rid of the subscriptions (most of them) because I don’t read them. Think of all those trees I’ll help save.
    3. I was forced into Catholicism by a physically abusive step-father who ironically neglected to reference those commandments he must have had to memorize at one point in his childhood. Funny how that works, isn’t it? The Dynamics of Science and Religion
    4. I have been known to frankly share my thoughts on religion with those bold enough to knock on my door, or walk up my driveway selling theirs. My “church” is filled with plants, animals, the ocean, the mountains, sunsets, and rainstorms. I don’t need a box, an organ, or a certain day of the week to be thankful for all I have and consider what others need.
    5. The concept of reincarnation fascinates me. At times in my past, the idea of becoming a rock seemed much less stressful, and far less painful. Didn’t Simon and Garfunkel write a song about that?
    6. I absolutely believe that if art and music were as important in school as reading and math, our country would be a far less violent place.
    7. The most heavenly combination of flavors that I could eat every single day is tomatoes, basil, garlic, shallots, lemon juice, and extra virgin olive oil. And the aroma…
    8. Although it would be interesting to visit aspects of my childhood and early adult life again, I have never feared getting older. I relish looking forward to whatever comes my way, knowing that what I do right now, is completely connected to that eventuality.

    So what can you do to leave your imprint on what comes next? To what extent are the sum of your parts woven into the future’s code? We’re waiting to hear about your 8 random facts.

    .…..why paisley????

    Twisted sister…..totally pissed off!

    Wonderland or Not

    the domestic minx

    Melting Wok

    One Old Green Bus

    Electric Writer

    Eat Drink Live

    I actually took the time to see whether any of you had been recently tagged by someone else…but I may have overlooked. Cheers!

  • Just Words

    Learning By Heart Words can bring me to a screeching halt. Yes, of course, spoken words — especially when I’m not expecting them, take issue with their purpose, or with the person who delivers them. But that isn’t what I’m talking about. At least not today.

    When I’m reading, a phrase molded in just the right way, or a thought expressed at a particular point in the text begs to be captured and saved for another time — to be marked, or jotted down and saved much like a penny found on a sidewalk. Found coins add up over time.

    My frame of mind guides me to these bits of someone else’s thinking — bits buried in much larger and sometimes very forgettable text. The weightiness of the words and their message, not quite in focus, sit on the edges of my life, pushing at me to notice them and to think about what is important. Or better yet, force me to wonder why I haven’t committed myself to pin point their significance. It’s odd to think that words written hastily on a two-inch square note can hover in and around an office, and then a house without becoming lost. Car keys are misplaced, sunglasses left behind, and important papers tossed carelessly aside — but a red sticky note manages to appear here and there over the course of a couple of years, moving from desk, to organizer, to counter and patiently waiting for interpretation, and application

    Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. This is the interrelated structure of reality.

    I don’t remember where I found the words, or what text they were buried in, or who made reference to them. I read so many different eye-crossing publications then:

    Leading in a Culture of Change by Michael Fullan;

    The Magic of Dialogue: Transforming Conflict into Cooperation by Daniel Yankelovich;

    Leadership Without Easy Answers by Ronald A. Heifetz;

    Big Brother and the National Reading Curriculum: How Ideology Trumped Evidence by Richard Allington;

    Paradoxes of Group Life: Understanding Conflict, Paralysis, and Movement in Group Dynamics by K. Smith & D. Berg;

    Execution: The Discipline of Getting Things Done by L. Bossidy & R Charan; and

    Learning by Heart by Roland Barth.

    Only a fraction of the list. I won’t bore you with the countless publications read on methodology, content, and practice that also filled my brain. But you do have an idea, about why I may not exactly remember where I first saw the words, right? And why I choose not to read such meaty books right now? I’ll understand if you suggest my head is buried in the sand.

    What does matter — or at least it used to — is what was happening at the time that I found the words.

    I was serving in my first assignment as an administrator at a large elementary school located in an impoverished area just south of our city center. The school was nearly a hundred years old, surviving rebuilding, renaming, and a shift from its original population of immigrant students from Eastern Europe, to that of African American, and then in the past decade, to immigrants from Mexico. The poverty rate was 99%. Over 95% of the children spoke English as a second language. The literacy rate was dismal in both Spanish and English for a majority of them. A unique aspect of the school was that a good portion of the staff had worked there for a long time — many for ten, even more than 20 years. Unusual for an inner-city school. Approximately one-third of the staff was male — also unusual for an elementary school, many of which are completely staffed by females.

    For more years than I know, the school had been struggling academically, regardless of its population. At one point, it was designated as one of a group of schools court-mandated by the state to improve and monitor student reading, language, and mathematics progress. For twenty years this went on until it was decided that the initiative largely failed. Nothing had really changed — except the shift of ethnicity of the students.

    The school is closed now, but before that happened, emotions amongst staff and local community members ran high. People were angry. Teachers were tired of the expectations thrust upon them with regard to improving their practice. Staff was split between: 1) those who felt they couldn’t possibly work harder than they already were for little or no “measurable” gain in student learning; and 2) those who were viewed as dead weight, and professed to care about the students, but never quite walked the talk. Teachers vacillated between being angry with parents for not providing for their children, and contributing what they could to support family members who often had not been in school themselves.

    Fuzzy Martin Luther King Jr.’s words — found and written on that small piece of paper — were apropos, but never quite tacked to the bulletin board over my desk. Instead, they began their drift in and out of presence, catching my eye on just the right day, conjuring a flare of vindication when I most needed it. But upon hesitation, they forced me to think about my role in the tension the school was wrapped in. When you’re the leader, everything is your responsibility, regardless of when you arrived. Regardless of what you know. Regardless of what you believe everyone can join together in doing for the school.

    I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be…

    I couldn’t say the words aloud. If I said them in reference to the seething undercurrent that was our “professional” community, then I believed I would appear to be casting blame. I would be perceived as pointing my finger at the naysayers, exhibiting weakness, behaving as one of our very young students upset to be accused of something he or she didn’t do. I kept the words to myself.

    I don’t know that I believe the words at this point, five years later. They suggest that I’m incapacitated unless others pull themselves together. Is that always true?

    Isn’t it more true that with each example we set, another follows? Isn’t the effort I make to live my life in the best way I know, something others may emulate?

    Am I incapable of being the best that I know how to be if I point fingers at those who I deem as obstacles to my success?

    The red square of paper will continue to hover in and around my life prodding me to occasionally wonder about the decisions that could have been made with my staff at the elementary school, but the context is so different now.

    Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly…

    My small experience seems so inconsequential considering King’s intent, rallying individuals to consider their involvement, or lack thereof, in making a difference, in speaking out and doing something — anything — about what is not just.

  • Looking for Light in All the Wrong Places

    WQED: Pittsburg Magazine  A round of applause for at least getting closer to the raging All Warholled Up me in the header, please?

    Yes, I know you all still have a strange box at the top (even though it doesn’t show on my computer screen).  It’s for advertising.  That’s my next quest.  To rid my blog of the space.   For you.  All for you.

    But you should be able to read the font better now, right?  Except for those of you who really need to put on your glasses, realizing that that’s what glasses are for.  I suck it up and wear mine.  All twenty dollars of them.  So if you’re not wearing your glasses, don’t complain about not being able to read the screen.  But you do know how to magnify your screen, right?  Well, figure it out, already, or get a cork.

    And for those of you who say the middle section isn’t loading right away, I think that’s fixed, too, right?  Or are you just tolerating it?  Is it your crappy Internet connection, your PC (you shouldagotaMac) iMac  or my stoopid Blob?  Come on.  Fess up.  How the hell can I cater to your every freaking need if you only whine and complain in the dark?  Step up to the plate for godssakes.  Sheesh.  Next?

    I don’t especially want you thinking I have my head where the sun doesn’t shine, even though much of the time, my snail’s pace of digging through the code of my site, and the codex at WordPress leaves me somewhat pale, and in need of some color.  And needing a shower.  Recycled Self

    Today, the RT saw me come from my room after changing from my pjs and asked,”Are you going somewhere, Mom?” because it was only 11am, and on many days, real clothes just aren’t something I get around to.  Bear in mind that I have on a tee shirt and a pair of yoga pants.

    Not exactly going out clothes…

  • Slogged through Dog Days and alive to rant about it!

    Sometime around Valentine’s Day earlier this year after visiting my sister in VA, I was headed toward a security checkpoint at Regan National in D.C. and was sidetracked by the lure of books lined up in a shop. Cruising through the independent Olsson’s Books and Records before my flight home pretty much guaranteed that my wallet would be at least fifty bucks lighter. I love book stores in general, but my idea of heaven is to spend eternity in an independent book store.

    Why independent? The unique way that their selection of books comes together to convey a concise statement on what the shop is about, and how it differs from the next, intrigues me. Of course, they also stock the best-selling books that Barnes & Noble sells, that Borders is featuring, or that Amazon is promising to get to you faster than you can blink, but the books I’d never find, by authors I’ve never heard of who are published by smaller presses  is what captures my attention. The selection is unique, sometimes a bit odd, and of course, there is the tease of finding the perfect read that no one else has mentioned…yet. Oprah hasn’t put her seal of approval on it, it isn’t anywhere near the NY Times best seller list, and no Pulitzer Prize or Booker short list mention is on the radar screen.  So I would have to actually be looking at recently published books for any of this to happen, right?  Feh.

    I suppose I could find a book like that in a humongous chain store as well, but not always. And as much as I truly enjoy surfing through Amazon with obscure searches just to see what I can uncover, there are still gems that I know I would not find. Gems waiting to be found and marveled over. Well, not always.

    Back in February, I hadn’t started blogging yet. Was there life before blogging? If I think about it, I’m not sure blogging had even occurred to me yet– or had it? Anyway, while I was in Olssens, I did purchase five books. One, Slow Man, I finished on the flight home, and truly enjoyed even though it wasn’t an especially light-hearted read. The second, Dog Days, I naively waited to read, duped into thinking it would be “irresistable,” and all the while trudging through Mapping the Edge. Waiting, waiting to open that cover and surely snort the book up in one lazy afternoon. Dog Days by Ana Marie Cox NOT.

    For those of you who have been faithful, you know that I’ve been complaining about dragging myself through a book — kicking and screaming incessantly.  It’s been so long, I had to go back through my posts to see when I started it. It was April 9th! Ohmigod — that’s two months ago. Two months? Gone With The Wind Hell, I read Gone With the Wind in the 9th grade in a week. When I was a sophomore in college, I read one of Hemingway’s novels and several of his short stories every single week until I had read everthing. Two months? For a book that’s only 300 pages long and published over a year ago?  What the hell.

    Clearly, this has been an experiment. I’ve been on a quest to prove that not all books deserve to be read. Yes, I’ve already had S-U-C-K-E-R permanently printed on my head for purchasing Dog Days, but torturing myself to read the entire thing? It’s because I made that committment to myself to read all the books I currently have at home. You do remember part of that stack, right? IMG_1029   I spent the money, so I need to read the damn books! I can hear that nagging voice in my head saying, “Don’t go and spend more money for more books when you can force yourself to read the ones you already have, dork.”  Whot-evah.   The public library is calling my name right now…

    So if Dog Doo Days was such a complete waste of time, why did I buy it anyway, you’re wondering? No, I know you aren’t wondering, but it’s simple, really.  I must have had the idea of blogging on my brain, because I focused in on the back cover:

    “Ana Marie Cox is a columnist for Time and is the founding voice of the hugely popular political blog Wonkette. She has also written for Elle, Wired, Mother Jones, Slate, Salon, New York, and The New York Times Book Review, among other publications. She lives in Washington, D.C.”

    You get the idea, right? We’re all getting warmed up for the election next year, and something described as “snarky” and “a biting debut” with an author who’s a blogger as well? This had me written all over it. It didn’t matter that I had never heard of the blog. She sounded cool, looks way bitchy in the photo, and I love reading “firsts.”

    I really wanted to like the book’s main character, Melanie, but never could.  Her apartment is too dirty, her affair too gratuitous, and her best friend, too shifty. The political tidbits are interesting at times — the whole plot was a takeoff on Dubyah’s re-election campaign — but not enough to make me smile, let along giggle with evil glee at the parallels being drawn. I just didn’t care. I didn’t care so badly that not knowing who the “Clearheads” were for the entire book, and not once flipping back to refresh my memory, or correct my comprehension — a normal thing that readers do — didn’t really make a difference. And knowing who the Clearheads were, what their group believed, and how they could damage a campaign would be a key aspect of the plot. The only reason I know this now is because I flipped back to find out where the Clearheads first appeared — page 41 — right after the hotel room sex with the married journalist who refers to Melanie as “babe.”  Ick.

    I still don’t get it, because I can pretty much read anything. Thumbing back through the book, I suspect the style of Cox’s writing — something that works quite well for, uh… anything but fiction, just didn’t fit. When I read a novel, an edgy, biting tone from the author won’t carry the narrative. The dialogue of a character? Of course. But not the ins and outs of the story. It would be like trying to read a newspaper article that conjured up the voice of Mr. Rodgers — distracting — even if the piece is actually on Fred Rodgers, right?

    Anyway, I nursed my wounds by reading reviews at Amazon. Misery has to love company, right? And I hit pay dirt. After reading through several of the worst reviews I ever read (14 of 30 gave it only one or two stars with the rest seeming to come through because of their status as faithful blogflock members), I felt vindicated, but still pissed off that I read the whole thing. Ugh. Not worth it! Many reviewers agreed that although Cox is a superb writer, this book doesn’t come close to showing what she is capable of.  Can all good writers write fiction?

    So here’s the deal. I will proceed with my cost-saving commitment to read the books I currently have — but I’m going back to my tried and true method of reading. If any book doesn’t capture my complete attention by page 40, it is so not going to be finished. AT ALL.  And don’t mess with me on this.  I really don’t give a flying fart if you’re obsessed with having to read an entire book once you start it because Hell will freeze over and God will fall from the sky if you don’t.  Get over it because you won’t get more brownie points at the freaking pearly gates just because you finished all those stoopid books.  Nobody cares.  *Ahem*

    Now that I’ve wasted copious amounts of reading time (and blogging time) on two books in a row that have been less than entertaining, I’m so due for something painless.

    Painless usually means light and frivolous. Or something written about a place I’d love to travel to. Or that has characters I can live vicariously through. Oh, hell. Something that has steamy sex on every single page and burns my fingers just holding it, okay? Sheesh.  The Flame and the Flower  Nope.  Sneak read this one when I was fifteen!  Delta of VenusAh…no, again.  Read this one when I was 19.  Enthralling doesn’t quite get the point across.

    For the snobs out there who think I’m trashing my brain — or who are just too snooty to confess that they, too, occasionally read less than “constructive” material, I also have pulled up alongside me The Soul’s Code and Imperfect Control — both old books, but dusted off because of some of the crap that has been traveling through my brain lately. And no, I don’t read that sort of thing cover-to-cover. That would be completely dreary.
    I’ll bet you just can’t wait for that. You know me — I’ll try to find a way to connect the acceptable reading with the smut. Woot! Let’s hear it for the trash readers of America!

    What’s in your closet?

  • So Not Feelin’ the Photosh*t Love

    TrichotillomaniaOh my gawd — all I want to do is write.

    I don’t want to read Photoshop tutorials.

    I just want to poke the buttons to create something. You know — like my banner. The one I really want. Not the palm tree. But maybe me hanging from the palm frond and screaming, “I HATE PHOTOSHOP!”

    I don’t want to have to ask what the hell the “editor” is and then get completely pissed off when there isn’t a simple answer for what is probably the tool bar. And if it is the tool bar, why can’t they just call it that? You know, like why can’t all microwaves and remote controls be made exactly alike? What is up with always calling things different names? Jeez. Especially when it is a freaking functional thing.

    I just don’t want to deal with why I can’t open a photo, open a new workspace (or whatever the hell they call that!) then click and drag the photo into the workspace. I mean, how completely easy would that be? CRAP!

    I don’t want to watch the stoopid videos telling me how to do something and then when it’s time to do it, not be able to figure it out. Let’s see…how do I watch the video, which opens and runs on Firefox (okay by me) and have Photoshop open (which sort of goes away unless you’re “clicked” on it) and do what the tutorial says? Ph*ck! It just MAKES ME WANT TO PULL ALL MY HAIR OUT. Yah. I can do that and spin upside down while whistling Dixie out of where the sun doesn’t shine. Sign me up for the freak show before I completely explode.

    Every single direction has another set of directions so you can understand a term that’s in another set of directions. Can I please have visuals for gawd’s sake. That wouldn’t be TOO DIFFICULT would it?

    I want Al Gore’s computer set up The Guru of 3D -- Al Gore's Kind of a Computer Freak discussed here so I can open 14 freaking windows and look back and forth at them. Then maybe, just maybe I won’t have to jump up and do laundry, or get the hell out of this room before I start throwing things. REALLY.

    Cut and paste. Okay? It could be that simple. sh*t-s*it-*hit-shi*#@#!^%&*$$#^*(^$#%^^&*&**(*^%$$^&&*!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    I don’t like NOT being productive. EVER. I’m not good at it. Doing NOTHING or having NOTHING to show for my time just doesn’t cut it. And I’m NOT going for a walk to blow off this steam BECAUSE I ALREADY DID AT 5:30 THIS MORNING.

    Maybe if I lay down on the floor and kick and scream I’ll feel better. The capital letters and symbols aren’t cutting it. AT ALL.

    Watching this guy made me feel a bit better, however, because I LOVE my Mac. But he’s having the same sort of melt down that I am, so we must be soul mates or something. He does come around, though, so I’m sure that I will too, because I’m tenaciously, persistently, annoyingly, unceasingly, freaking NOT GIVING UP.

    But I’m so NOT loving PHOTOSHOP. NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT.

  • Me ‘n’ the Big

    Smile Warhol I can hear the MoH in the bedroom cooing loving endearments softly to the Big, calling her his latest rendition of her moniker: Quatro Formaggio. Yes. Four Cheeses. I know it isn’t quite Italian, or Spanish, but still. You get the idea. Now why a man would call his dog Four Cheeses and have it come from his lips as a velvety verbal gift is beyond me. The MoH is hilarious. He never coos at me. He probably knows I’d slug him for being so gooey. But he makes me laugh and that’s lovely.

    “Quattro Formaggio” is a bit more tolerable than the former derivative of her name; one which lasted for about two weeks and was never uttered as a pleasantry — “Jose Biggedy Jones the Quatro.” Or the all time favorite, “Biggedy Jones” which we think came from Indiana Jones or Harrison Ford, or something and came before the Quattro fixation the MoH has right now. And “Biggedy R.L. Jones the Third” was a good one for a while, but the RT and I could never get the MoH to tell us what the hell R.L. stood for. Go figure.

    Or sometimes he just calls her “Jones Jones,” just in case one Jones isn’t enough. All the names — and I am leaving an amazing number out because I can’t remember what order they morphed in — are all delivered in a pure falsetto that the Big always responds to with a shift of her brows or a rhythmic tap of her tail. The thing about the Big though, is she always knows her name. Even if it’s just Big, which is the name I use. After all, she is my dog. Me — a cat person with a dog — one that really looks like a cross between a pig and a deer. Or a cow with a pointy nose. The RT decided I needed one for a birthday about eight years ago, so voila. Now, do I look like someone who needs a d-o-g? Is that a zit?

    The Big doesn’t seem very smart most of the time, but understands a lot of language. I defensively remind the MoH of this fact when he’s telling her she’s not very smart. We even test her to see if the tone of our voice is the key to her understanding language, but it isn’t. It’s the vowels. You know — those a-e-i-o-u thingy-mo-bobs. She even understands the spelling of many sentences — not just words, so if we don’t want to get roped into doing whatever it is she’s listening for, we have to be very careful.

    Hoot Hey Big! Do you want to go for a ride? This one makes her crazy. She hips and hops — very difficult for a plus size girl — and tries very hard to make her sad excuses for floppy ears perk up. She cocks her head, her tail freezes, and she waits for confirmation that she has correctly translated her favorite sentence into Dog Speak. The Dog Speak version goes something like this: /uwannagoferaride?/ Pretty cool, huh? She loves to go for a ride, but not when we drive over 40 mph. Because then she can’t poke her face out the window and assail her olfactory system with the billions of scents she picks up along the road, providing dream fodder for a week of dog naps.

    Or: Do you want a bone? This was the first one she learned. Well, actually, she learned bone first, and the rest was added over time just to see if she could anticipate bone at the end of the sentence. Yep. She could.

    And: Where’s your boy? That’s the RT in case you forgot. She understands the boy part and is somewhat glum when he goes to visit his cousin for a weekend or two. I think she’s really attached to his basic teenage stinkiness, so when he’s not here, she completely gets it. The only reason she’s laying next to me right now is because the RT is sleeping in — call that avoiding his Geometry homework that has to be done by noon each Sunday. As soon as the RT is up, she’ll go lay on his bed, inhaling that earthy locker room fragrance that can only be the RTs. Well, except he’s discovered Axel deoderant which adds an interesting spin to things. Kind of a pungent spicy mustiness. The girls should be lining up any time now.

    I have to head downstairs to accompany the MoH on a walk to the farmer’s market again. He really liked that last weekend, and I’m on a quest to get in five walks this week. That’s about 15 miles tallied and the best I’ve done for about two or three weeks. Woo Hoo! I need it considering the time I’ll be on my butt getting this blob up and looking gorgeous. I’m reaching obsessiveness about it at this point, but decided to throw in the Me Shots just to keep you in line while you’re waiting. And thanks for waiting. Crosshatch Me

    Have a loverly Sunday!