I received word today that one of my favorite high school teachers died suddenly yesterday. Mr. Williams, my chemistry teacher at Fruita Monument, apparently died of a heart attack. I haven't read a death notice or an obituary yet, though, and I'm hoping it's a really sick joke or a mistake.
Mr. Williams was about the same age as my dad - mid-50's, I'd say. He wasn't a tall man, he was a bit shorter than me, actually. He had this crazy hair that would never stay down and it's like all the thoughts whirring around his brain were powering the strands of hair to stand up with the storm of electricity. He also wore these eclectic button-up shirts, made from vividly colored fabrics he and his wife had bought on travels in Asia.
He was a kind person, the sort of teacher who asked how you were and really listened to see what the answer was. He had glasses, was pleasantly gnome-ish, and usually grew a really long beard in the wintertime. This accessory proved to be an occupational hazard in the realm of high school chemistry. I'll never forget the time his beard touched down on a Bunsen burner and ignited during an experiment. But he had a great sense of humor and just laughed it off as he patted his singed beard.
I got to know Mr. Williams and his family a bit more after high school, through unfortunate circumstances when his daughter and my brother were in a near-fatal car accident together. I'll never forget him showing up at the hospital and the look on his face.
Thankfully, his daughter recovered and went on to college. I thought of Amber today and her brother, and their mom. And how it's really unfair that somebody who loved life so much has died so early. And how sorry I am for his family that he is gone and there will be such a gaping hole in their lives.
I saw Mr. Williams the last time in July, at OfficeMax. I was always running into him there or at a bookstore. We talked for about 30 minutes about stuff. I told him I was going to be a teacher. He said it would be great for me to travel in the summertime. He told me a funny story about the first time he met his in-laws.
I'll truly miss his random, colorful stories told spontaneously in store aisles. He was a guy who really lived a carpe diem sort of life.
The only thing that comforts me right now is the thought that he had probably thought about what comes next in this world, or other worlds, and that he was ready for it. I don't think he dwelled on it, but I'm sure he had a belief of what comes next. I know some of you will make fun of me for quoting Harry Potter books, but at the end of the first book, Dumbledore says, "To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure." I'm certain that Mr. Williams was ready for the trip.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
It'll all be over soon...
Isn't that what you say to your kitty that you're putting to sleep? That's what everyone's been telling me about this friggin' joke of a teaching program at Mesa.
Well, it will all be over soon. This week, hopefully! I have a presentation I have to give tomorrow, then my licensure should be taken care of. Yippeee! And then after just a few more short weeks of school with the kids, I'm good to go.
I'm actually going to be very sad to let go of my precious little fifth-graders. I've loved every minute with them, even when I was exasperated because one of them told me his essay that I spent 30 minutes editing was accidentally shredded for his cat's litter box (because the cat had surgery and couldn't use regular cat litter) and was covered with urine so he couldn't make the changes.
Now THAT's more creative than "my dog ate it," right? Gotta give him points for that.
Well, it will all be over soon. This week, hopefully! I have a presentation I have to give tomorrow, then my licensure should be taken care of. Yippeee! And then after just a few more short weeks of school with the kids, I'm good to go.
I'm actually going to be very sad to let go of my precious little fifth-graders. I've loved every minute with them, even when I was exasperated because one of them told me his essay that I spent 30 minutes editing was accidentally shredded for his cat's litter box (because the cat had surgery and couldn't use regular cat litter) and was covered with urine so he couldn't make the changes.
Now THAT's more creative than "my dog ate it," right? Gotta give him points for that.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Coming up for air...
Hi all,
I'm updating all of you on my progress in Purgatory, otherwise known as the end of the one-year teaching program. Most of my projects are due Wednesday, but to make it extra painful, there is another project and a presentation I have to give in another two weeks.
My retinas are burning from staring at the computer screen so much and my estranged dog and husband wonder if I will ever mutter more than three words without bursting into a tirade about how much of my life is being wasted on crap. Mostly, they're lying low and leave the house a lot as to not disturb "the beast."
To make matters worse, the weight that is pushing down on my shoulders to finish this project seems to slowly be creeping southward. I've developed a really bad habit of using chocolates, jalapeno-cheddar Cheetos and everything else I can shove in my mouth to endure the project. I have a horrible feeling that at the end of this project, the weight off my shoulders will have migrated to my ass.
The end is near... And then I will write funny things again when "the beast" leaves. I feel like Kafka in that story about the man turning into the rodent. eek.
I'm updating all of you on my progress in Purgatory, otherwise known as the end of the one-year teaching program. Most of my projects are due Wednesday, but to make it extra painful, there is another project and a presentation I have to give in another two weeks.
My retinas are burning from staring at the computer screen so much and my estranged dog and husband wonder if I will ever mutter more than three words without bursting into a tirade about how much of my life is being wasted on crap. Mostly, they're lying low and leave the house a lot as to not disturb "the beast."
To make matters worse, the weight that is pushing down on my shoulders to finish this project seems to slowly be creeping southward. I've developed a really bad habit of using chocolates, jalapeno-cheddar Cheetos and everything else I can shove in my mouth to endure the project. I have a horrible feeling that at the end of this project, the weight off my shoulders will have migrated to my ass.
The end is near... And then I will write funny things again when "the beast" leaves. I feel like Kafka in that story about the man turning into the rodent. eek.
Monday, February 26, 2007
It's really sad when...
... people in Grand Junction don't even recognize you when you're famous.
I've always said that our little town has a special place on the road to and from stardom. Either people hit it on the way shooting up, or on their way falling down, down, down. Such is the life of burnt-out musicians traveling the road from Denver to Salt Lake. At least they get to have a few pathetic groupies in Grand Junction.
Last night we glimpsed the sight of a falling star at dinner. We were walking into the Rockslide, our favorite place to debrief after movies featuring dirty old men in them at the Avalon.
We were just laughing at the marquis at the concert spot down the street, which featured Winger. Let me jog your memory with this:
And as we were wondering exactly what Winger was known for, besides the kid named Stewart on Beavis and Butthead wearing a shirt with the band's name on it, one of the Rockslide workers informed us that we could ask a member of the band who was sitting in the back.
Lucky us! We sat two tables away from one of the esteemed members of Winger (who also used to play guitar for White Snake). He was chowing down on dinner and flirting with all the waitresses, inviting them to the show. I guess he knew that he needed to recruit his own groupies in GJ.
My sister contemplated having the Winger dude sign a body part, and she even had her camera with her, but she chickened out. Mike kept saying, "Leave Winger alone!" And so we did.
I think it might have been the guy second from the left in the picture. But I couldn't tell. His Farrah-like hair was pulled back in a greasy ponytail and he was pretty much dressed like the homeless man who was playing the harmonica on the sidewalk when we left the restaurant.
It's the only time I've seen a falling star and I didn't make a wish. By the way, you might recognize Winger from this clip on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzuAKBu366k
I've always said that our little town has a special place on the road to and from stardom. Either people hit it on the way shooting up, or on their way falling down, down, down. Such is the life of burnt-out musicians traveling the road from Denver to Salt Lake. At least they get to have a few pathetic groupies in Grand Junction.
Last night we glimpsed the sight of a falling star at dinner. We were walking into the Rockslide, our favorite place to debrief after movies featuring dirty old men in them at the Avalon.
We were just laughing at the marquis at the concert spot down the street, which featured Winger. Let me jog your memory with this:
And as we were wondering exactly what Winger was known for, besides the kid named Stewart on Beavis and Butthead wearing a shirt with the band's name on it, one of the Rockslide workers informed us that we could ask a member of the band who was sitting in the back.
Lucky us! We sat two tables away from one of the esteemed members of Winger (who also used to play guitar for White Snake). He was chowing down on dinner and flirting with all the waitresses, inviting them to the show. I guess he knew that he needed to recruit his own groupies in GJ.
My sister contemplated having the Winger dude sign a body part, and she even had her camera with her, but she chickened out. Mike kept saying, "Leave Winger alone!" And so we did.
I think it might have been the guy second from the left in the picture. But I couldn't tell. His Farrah-like hair was pulled back in a greasy ponytail and he was pretty much dressed like the homeless man who was playing the harmonica on the sidewalk when we left the restaurant.
It's the only time I've seen a falling star and I didn't make a wish. By the way, you might recognize Winger from this clip on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzuAKBu366k
Sunday, January 28, 2007
You know you're from GJ when...
I'm so busy and buried with homework that I've resorted to posting lists of mildly amusing things to assure you all that I am still alive. The fifth-graders haven't drained me of (quite) all my energy yet, so long as I can paste a list. - E.
...have no idea where this came from... but so true. Feel free to add some if you think of them.
You Know You're From Grand Junction When:
-You never use a compass. Mountain ranges tell you which directions you're headed
-Although your city has an airport, you always drive to Salt Lake or Denver for flights
-The term "Devil's Kitchen" doesn't intimidate you
-You've ever cruised North Avenue on a Friday night
-You know why Clifton Village South is not somewhere you want to live
-You travel out of town just to go to a decent movie theater (not anymore- thank you, Regal Cinemas!)
-You miss the cow on 12th Street.
-You spend every summer evening at Canyon View Park.
-You've driven all the way up to Glade Park to watch a movie projected on the side of a building and eat $2 hamburgers that were grilled on the back of a fire engine.
-You've actually climbed the face of a mountain merely to touch a flag pole.
-Floating down the river is a favorite past time.
-There are more churches per capita than anything else!
-The best day of your life was the day Krispy Kreme opened.
-You know which Wal-Mart is the "good one" and which is the "bad one"
-The name Gay Johnson doesn't offend you or cause you to blush
-No one knows what a yellow light means much less a yellow arrow
-You drive around all night looking for a corn maze that may or may not exist
-Your kids have gone trick-or-treating as skiers because it's so cold they need a coat
-You've actually cut down your own Christmas tree before out of a real forest
-You know the difference between Powderhorn and Old Powderhorn.
-Color Sunday is something you look forward to every year.
-No U-turns allowed. Anywhere.
-You have ever worked at Star Tek. And quit when you found out it has nothing to do with astronomy.
-You've ever timed your trips around railroad crossings to see if you made time avoiding the coal trains.
-Driving "all the way" across town only takes 20 minutes
-There's only one mall, and it's only one story, and you can stand in the middle and see each end
-You wonder where Jamba Juice went. And wonder what Jamba means.
-All major roads have two names.
-It's not weird to you that a road name can have a letter and a fraction.
-You call the state line the "Utah border" because you really think of Utah as another country instead of a state.
...have no idea where this came from... but so true. Feel free to add some if you think of them.
You Know You're From Grand Junction When:
-You never use a compass. Mountain ranges tell you which directions you're headed
-Although your city has an airport, you always drive to Salt Lake or Denver for flights
-The term "Devil's Kitchen" doesn't intimidate you
-You've ever cruised North Avenue on a Friday night
-You know why Clifton Village South is not somewhere you want to live
-You travel out of town just to go to a decent movie theater (not anymore- thank you, Regal Cinemas!)
-You miss the cow on 12th Street.
-You spend every summer evening at Canyon View Park.
-You've driven all the way up to Glade Park to watch a movie projected on the side of a building and eat $2 hamburgers that were grilled on the back of a fire engine.
-You've actually climbed the face of a mountain merely to touch a flag pole.
-Floating down the river is a favorite past time.
-There are more churches per capita than anything else!
-The best day of your life was the day Krispy Kreme opened.
-You know which Wal-Mart is the "good one" and which is the "bad one"
-The name Gay Johnson doesn't offend you or cause you to blush
-No one knows what a yellow light means much less a yellow arrow
-You drive around all night looking for a corn maze that may or may not exist
-Your kids have gone trick-or-treating as skiers because it's so cold they need a coat
-You've actually cut down your own Christmas tree before out of a real forest
-You know the difference between Powderhorn and Old Powderhorn.
-Color Sunday is something you look forward to every year.
-No U-turns allowed. Anywhere.
-You have ever worked at Star Tek. And quit when you found out it has nothing to do with astronomy.
-You've ever timed your trips around railroad crossings to see if you made time avoiding the coal trains.
-Driving "all the way" across town only takes 20 minutes
-There's only one mall, and it's only one story, and you can stand in the middle and see each end
-You wonder where Jamba Juice went. And wonder what Jamba means.
-All major roads have two names.
-It's not weird to you that a road name can have a letter and a fraction.
-You call the state line the "Utah border" because you really think of Utah as another country instead of a state.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Ode to the noodle who invented these noodles...
I can't believe it.
The inventor of the Cup o' Noodles is dead.
Of a heart attack. Only days after he enjoyed some of his oh-so-good chicken delight.
Check it out (compliments of the AP):
______________________________________________________
TOKYO - Momofuku Ando, the Japanese inventor of instant noodles -- a dish that has sustained American college students for decades -- has died. He was 96.
Nissin Food Products Co., the company Ando founded, said on its Web site that he died Friday after suffering a heart attack.
Born in Taiwan, Ando founded his company in 1948 from a family operation. Faced with food shortages in post-World War II Japan, Ando thought a quality, convenient noodle product would help feed the masses.
In 1958, his Chicken Ramen -- the first instant noodle -- was introduced after many trials. Building on its success, the company added other products, such as the Cup Noodle in 1971.
The Momofuku Ando Instant Ramen Museum opened in 1999 in Ikeda City in western Japan commemorating his inventions.
_____________________________________
And what would the world be without Ramen? The convenience and cheapness of this great food not only sustained the Japanese, but it also fed great minds. Imagine all the poor, starving college students who went on to invent useful things beyond the Ramen. But could they have done it without frugal brainfood? I think not...
As Calvin Coolidge once said, "Economy is the method by which we prepare today to afford the improvements of tomorrow."
The inventor of the Cup o' Noodles is dead.
Of a heart attack. Only days after he enjoyed some of his oh-so-good chicken delight.
Check it out (compliments of the AP):
______________________________________________________
TOKYO - Momofuku Ando, the Japanese inventor of instant noodles -- a dish that has sustained American college students for decades -- has died. He was 96.
Nissin Food Products Co., the company Ando founded, said on its Web site that he died Friday after suffering a heart attack.
Born in Taiwan, Ando founded his company in 1948 from a family operation. Faced with food shortages in post-World War II Japan, Ando thought a quality, convenient noodle product would help feed the masses.
In 1958, his Chicken Ramen -- the first instant noodle -- was introduced after many trials. Building on its success, the company added other products, such as the Cup Noodle in 1971.
The Momofuku Ando Instant Ramen Museum opened in 1999 in Ikeda City in western Japan commemorating his inventions.
_____________________________________
And what would the world be without Ramen? The convenience and cheapness of this great food not only sustained the Japanese, but it also fed great minds. Imagine all the poor, starving college students who went on to invent useful things beyond the Ramen. But could they have done it without frugal brainfood? I think not...
As Calvin Coolidge once said, "Economy is the method by which we prepare today to afford the improvements of tomorrow."
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Things you never knew about Chuck Norris
My sister, showing her propensity for offering true thank-yous from the heart, sent this. I edited it slightly to spare you the mental repercussions from the original version.
Just wanted to say thanks for helping with the invites by sending some really important information about Chuck Norris:
Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.
Macgyver can build an airplane out of gum and paper clips, but Chuck Norris can kill him and take it.
Chuck Norris once roundhouse kicked someone so hard that his foot broke the speed of light, went back in time, and killed Amelia Earhart while she was flying over the Pacific Ocean.
Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.
If you ask Chuck Norris what time it is, he always says, "Two seconds till." After you ask, "Two seconds to what?" he roundhouse kicks you in the face.
Rather than being birthed like a normal child, Chuck Norris instead decided to punch his way out of his mother's womb. Shortly thereafter he grew a beard.
Chuck Norris appeared in the "Street Fighter II" video game, but was removed by Beta Testers because every button caused him to do a roundhouse kick. When asked bout this "glitch," Norris replied, "That's no glitch."
Chuck Norris lost his virginity before his dad did.
Since 1940, the year Chuck Norris was born, roundhouse kick related deaths have increased 13,000 percent.
Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse-kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.
Filming on location for Walker: Texas Ranger, Chuck Norris brought a stillborn baby lamb back to life by giving it a prolonged beard rub. Shortly after the farm animal sprang back to life and a crowd had gathered, Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked the animal, breaking its neck, to remind the crew once more that Chuck giveth, and the good Chuck, he taketh away.
Chuck Norris built a time machine and went back in time to stop the JFK assassination. As Oswald shot, Chuck met all three bullets with his beard, deflecting them. JFK's head exploded out of sheer amazement.
There is no chin behind Chuck Norris' beard. There is only another fist.
The original theme song to the Transformers was actually "Chuck
Norris--more than meets the eye, Chuck Norris--robot in disguise," and starred Chuck Norris as a Texas Ranger who defended the earth from drug-dealing Decepticons and could turn into a pick-up. This was far too much awesome for a single show, however, so it was divided.
The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.
Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.
When Chuck Norris plays Oregon Trail his family does not die from cholera or dysentery, but rather roundhouse kicks to the face. He also requires no wagon, since he carries the oxen, axels, and buffalo meat on his back. He always makes it to Oregon before you.
It was once believed that Chuck Norris actually lost a fight to a pirate, but that is a lie, created by Chuck Norris himself to lure more pirates to him. Pirates never were very smart.
Chuck Norris recently had the idea to sell his urine as a canned beverage. We know this beverage as Red Bull.
Just wanted to say thanks for helping with the invites by sending some really important information about Chuck Norris:
Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.
Macgyver can build an airplane out of gum and paper clips, but Chuck Norris can kill him and take it.
Chuck Norris once roundhouse kicked someone so hard that his foot broke the speed of light, went back in time, and killed Amelia Earhart while she was flying over the Pacific Ocean.
Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.
If you ask Chuck Norris what time it is, he always says, "Two seconds till." After you ask, "Two seconds to what?" he roundhouse kicks you in the face.
Rather than being birthed like a normal child, Chuck Norris instead decided to punch his way out of his mother's womb. Shortly thereafter he grew a beard.
Chuck Norris appeared in the "Street Fighter II" video game, but was removed by Beta Testers because every button caused him to do a roundhouse kick. When asked bout this "glitch," Norris replied, "That's no glitch."
Chuck Norris lost his virginity before his dad did.
Since 1940, the year Chuck Norris was born, roundhouse kick related deaths have increased 13,000 percent.
Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse-kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.
Filming on location for Walker: Texas Ranger, Chuck Norris brought a stillborn baby lamb back to life by giving it a prolonged beard rub. Shortly after the farm animal sprang back to life and a crowd had gathered, Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked the animal, breaking its neck, to remind the crew once more that Chuck giveth, and the good Chuck, he taketh away.
Chuck Norris built a time machine and went back in time to stop the JFK assassination. As Oswald shot, Chuck met all three bullets with his beard, deflecting them. JFK's head exploded out of sheer amazement.
There is no chin behind Chuck Norris' beard. There is only another fist.
The original theme song to the Transformers was actually "Chuck
Norris--more than meets the eye, Chuck Norris--robot in disguise," and starred Chuck Norris as a Texas Ranger who defended the earth from drug-dealing Decepticons and could turn into a pick-up. This was far too much awesome for a single show, however, so it was divided.
The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.
Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.
When Chuck Norris plays Oregon Trail his family does not die from cholera or dysentery, but rather roundhouse kicks to the face. He also requires no wagon, since he carries the oxen, axels, and buffalo meat on his back. He always makes it to Oregon before you.
It was once believed that Chuck Norris actually lost a fight to a pirate, but that is a lie, created by Chuck Norris himself to lure more pirates to him. Pirates never were very smart.
Chuck Norris recently had the idea to sell his urine as a canned beverage. We know this beverage as Red Bull.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Distractions
Ack! I should be doing my homework right now! But for some reason, my brain is thinking of everything else I could POSSIBLY be doing. And somehow, I can't help doing everything that isn't really very important right now.
Like writing this blog confessional about my supreme wasting of time. Ugh.
It's 7 a.m. and I'm already starting off on the wrong side of my brain this morning.
Like writing this blog confessional about my supreme wasting of time. Ugh.
It's 7 a.m. and I'm already starting off on the wrong side of my brain this morning.
Slipping away...
Does anyone else feel like they blinked and summer was over? I can't believe that I'm being assaulted with Christmas bling already. Ugh.
Needless to say, things have been busy at my new school. I was placed in a fifth grade with 50 students. They're great. I look forward to going. The days go so fast, it's like time actually has another dimension at school.
Last night, I helped out with a Charlotte's Web book fair reading thingy. Got stuck handing out safety coloring sheets. Blech. Finally gave up on trying to make them fun and started telling kids they could make paper airplanes out of them, IF they read about how to not get hit by the bus first.
The most exciting moment of the night came from the star of the show, Nellie Belle. You see, Nellie is a potbellied pig. Wearing a pink, studded collar. She's a punk pig. And at one point during the evening, she was out of her cage for some reason. I heard a first-grader yell, "It POOPED!" and run screaming down the hall. Oink oink oink oink. Nellie Belle trotted past the cafeteria door, kids yelling and laughing.
So this is my life now. Really not that different than the days when old, senile guys would call the newsroom wanting me to write stories about farm animals that happened in 1950. Right? At least this is live-action.
Needless to say, things have been busy at my new school. I was placed in a fifth grade with 50 students. They're great. I look forward to going. The days go so fast, it's like time actually has another dimension at school.
Last night, I helped out with a Charlotte's Web book fair reading thingy. Got stuck handing out safety coloring sheets. Blech. Finally gave up on trying to make them fun and started telling kids they could make paper airplanes out of them, IF they read about how to not get hit by the bus first.
The most exciting moment of the night came from the star of the show, Nellie Belle. You see, Nellie is a potbellied pig. Wearing a pink, studded collar. She's a punk pig. And at one point during the evening, she was out of her cage for some reason. I heard a first-grader yell, "It POOPED!" and run screaming down the hall. Oink oink oink oink. Nellie Belle trotted past the cafeteria door, kids yelling and laughing.
So this is my life now. Really not that different than the days when old, senile guys would call the newsroom wanting me to write stories about farm animals that happened in 1950. Right? At least this is live-action.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
I want that 2 hours of my life back...
I have to warn you about the latest WORST movie EVER...
It's called "The Science of Sleep" and it's another testament to the fact that 3 stars don't mean crap.
The movie is about a socially awkward, almost Woody Allen-like guy named Stephan who comes back to France after his father dies in Mexico. He becomes infatuated with his neighbor, Stephanie, but he doesn't want her to know that he lives there. They both like to make weird little dioramas out of cellophane and felt.
Stephan gets a mundane job gluing things on calendars, which stifles his creativity. He wanted to make a calendar with his own illustrations, showing a disaster in history for each month (people burning up in volcanoes and airplane crashes). It's called "disasterology." But he gets stuck cutting and gluing things instead. For some reason, he keeps this horrible job that he hates.
He can't differentiate between sleep and awake - his dream world and reality. There is one amusing part where he falls asleep in a bathtub and wakes up to find that he wrote a gobbledygook letter to her and sleep-walks naked across the hall to put it under her door.
These weird dream sequences blend into the reality of Stephan's life so much that you can't tell what is happening when he is awake or asleep. Maybe this is artsy, but I find it just plain annoying. Unless you're watching a part where he's constructing and performing his dreams on this bizarre cardboard and egg-carton set in his subconscious mind, you can't tell he's dreaming.
I couldn't relate to the characters at all.
The only redeeming parts in the movie mostly come from a minor character, Guy, a guy who works with Stephan. He's a middle-aged perv who wears a leather jacket with pins on it to look "punk." He also farts on a park bench when he's eating lunch with Stephan. He provides most of the weird sexual references in the film and makes a hobbit-esque coworker smell his armpit.
Interesting trivia: This guy was the voice of the French Shrek. Huh.
It's called "The Science of Sleep" and it's another testament to the fact that 3 stars don't mean crap.
The movie is about a socially awkward, almost Woody Allen-like guy named Stephan who comes back to France after his father dies in Mexico. He becomes infatuated with his neighbor, Stephanie, but he doesn't want her to know that he lives there. They both like to make weird little dioramas out of cellophane and felt.
Stephan gets a mundane job gluing things on calendars, which stifles his creativity. He wanted to make a calendar with his own illustrations, showing a disaster in history for each month (people burning up in volcanoes and airplane crashes). It's called "disasterology." But he gets stuck cutting and gluing things instead. For some reason, he keeps this horrible job that he hates.
He can't differentiate between sleep and awake - his dream world and reality. There is one amusing part where he falls asleep in a bathtub and wakes up to find that he wrote a gobbledygook letter to her and sleep-walks naked across the hall to put it under her door.
These weird dream sequences blend into the reality of Stephan's life so much that you can't tell what is happening when he is awake or asleep. Maybe this is artsy, but I find it just plain annoying. Unless you're watching a part where he's constructing and performing his dreams on this bizarre cardboard and egg-carton set in his subconscious mind, you can't tell he's dreaming.
I couldn't relate to the characters at all.
The only redeeming parts in the movie mostly come from a minor character, Guy, a guy who works with Stephan. He's a middle-aged perv who wears a leather jacket with pins on it to look "punk." He also farts on a park bench when he's eating lunch with Stephan. He provides most of the weird sexual references in the film and makes a hobbit-esque coworker smell his armpit.
Interesting trivia: This guy was the voice of the French Shrek. Huh.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Coolest site ever...
Compliments of my brother's random knowledge of cool stuff on the Internet, I bestow a really awesome site upon all of you.
It's called pandora.com. It exists to help you find music you enjoy, using the music you already love as a tool. It creates lists of this new music for you to listen to, and plays them randomly.
Only drawback: You can only skip like 5 songs during one hour. So it's not really conducive to surfing. BUT you can get around this little problem by creating new playlists. Hah!
It's called pandora.com. It exists to help you find music you enjoy, using the music you already love as a tool. It creates lists of this new music for you to listen to, and plays them randomly.
Only drawback: You can only skip like 5 songs during one hour. So it's not really conducive to surfing. BUT you can get around this little problem by creating new playlists. Hah!
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Gassy dog
As if getting kicked out of my elementary school wasn't enough today...
I get home from an "I have to go do something so I quit feeling sorry for myself" trip to Barnes and Noble, and Maxwell the wonder hound is prancing around the yard with a treasure in his mouth.
It's a red, mangled piece of plastic. The last remnants of a butane gas grill lighter. You know, the little clicky ones.
A certain someone at our house has a habit of leaving things outside that the dog can use to poison himself. "It's been out there for weeks," he says. "He never bothered it before." That's what he always says.
I flip out and call the vet. "He ate the whole lighter?" he asks. All that's left is the clicky part and the part the flame comes out of. It looks like he ate the part with the butane. There's a child warning on another one I found in the cupboard, but I can't tell if it's there because your child shouldn't EAT the lighter, or because your child shouldn't BURN the f-ing house down.
Gah! Like I need this today........
I get home from an "I have to go do something so I quit feeling sorry for myself" trip to Barnes and Noble, and Maxwell the wonder hound is prancing around the yard with a treasure in his mouth.
It's a red, mangled piece of plastic. The last remnants of a butane gas grill lighter. You know, the little clicky ones.
A certain someone at our house has a habit of leaving things outside that the dog can use to poison himself. "It's been out there for weeks," he says. "He never bothered it before." That's what he always says.
I flip out and call the vet. "He ate the whole lighter?" he asks. All that's left is the clicky part and the part the flame comes out of. It looks like he ate the part with the butane. There's a child warning on another one I found in the cupboard, but I can't tell if it's there because your child shouldn't EAT the lighter, or because your child shouldn't BURN the f-ing house down.
Gah! Like I need this today........
Good Riddance
It just occurred to me that I haven't posted anything about my student-teaching experience. So to bring those of you who haven't heard up to speed, here's the short version.
I've been student teaching in a third-grade class since August. I thought winning over the poor kids with meth-head parents would be the hardest part. Boy was I wrong.
Somehow I was placed with a teacher who never welcomed me or the students into her classroom. To say the least, she is extremely unstable and I never knew if Jekyll or Hyde would show up to school every day. She didn't include me when she planned lessons, I never knew what was going on in the class. When she DID give me something to do, it was either a menial task like sharpening all the pencils... or the opposite extreme - when she would just throw books at me and tell me to plan lessons on my own. Some days, she only said two sentences to me. Whenever she did let me teach the kids, she left the room.
After enduring this for six weeks, she and I finally had the "this isn't working" conversation. It ended with a mutual agreement that I should be transferred to another school for the rest of my student teaching. Then, for some odd reason, she started being nice to me. She planned the afternoon with me. She planned the next two days with me. Then she asked me if I wanted to solo teach the whole day. I said I would teach a few lessons but not the whole day.
When I showed up today, she wasn't in the classroom. I sat down to get ready for school, and the principal came in. He asked me what I was doing there. Long story short, she's nice to me and plans to have me teach, then she has the principal come tell me to get out. I wrote a note saying goodbye to the students and left.
I feel like I've been to crazytown and back. I'm frustrated and confused. But not defeated. I realize that I have to stop trying to understand what my mentor was all about. I don't know when she was being real or fake. It's pointless to dwell on the whole thing. I guess the main point is, I'm outta there and I'm not wasting any more time on this.
A personal mentor of mine told me today that we can't dwell on understanding sick, twisted individuals. Because if we truly did understand how they work and why they do these things, we would be capable of doing the same things ourselves. I have to accept what happened in my brain, then dump it out and move on. She's right.
I've been student teaching in a third-grade class since August. I thought winning over the poor kids with meth-head parents would be the hardest part. Boy was I wrong.
Somehow I was placed with a teacher who never welcomed me or the students into her classroom. To say the least, she is extremely unstable and I never knew if Jekyll or Hyde would show up to school every day. She didn't include me when she planned lessons, I never knew what was going on in the class. When she DID give me something to do, it was either a menial task like sharpening all the pencils... or the opposite extreme - when she would just throw books at me and tell me to plan lessons on my own. Some days, she only said two sentences to me. Whenever she did let me teach the kids, she left the room.
After enduring this for six weeks, she and I finally had the "this isn't working" conversation. It ended with a mutual agreement that I should be transferred to another school for the rest of my student teaching. Then, for some odd reason, she started being nice to me. She planned the afternoon with me. She planned the next two days with me. Then she asked me if I wanted to solo teach the whole day. I said I would teach a few lessons but not the whole day.
When I showed up today, she wasn't in the classroom. I sat down to get ready for school, and the principal came in. He asked me what I was doing there. Long story short, she's nice to me and plans to have me teach, then she has the principal come tell me to get out. I wrote a note saying goodbye to the students and left.
I feel like I've been to crazytown and back. I'm frustrated and confused. But not defeated. I realize that I have to stop trying to understand what my mentor was all about. I don't know when she was being real or fake. It's pointless to dwell on the whole thing. I guess the main point is, I'm outta there and I'm not wasting any more time on this.
A personal mentor of mine told me today that we can't dwell on understanding sick, twisted individuals. Because if we truly did understand how they work and why they do these things, we would be capable of doing the same things ourselves. I have to accept what happened in my brain, then dump it out and move on. She's right.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
"What's a prikit?"
I experienced one of the saddest moments of realization thus far in my teaching career last week, when a student asked me a question during silent reading time.
"What's a prikit?" he asked.
Puzzled, I asked him to show me the word.
"Oh!" I said. "That's apricot. You know, like the fruit."
He stared at me blankly and shook his head. I explained, "It's sort of like a peach but it's smaller and it's not as sweet." He didn't respond.
This child had never seen or tasted an apricot. I thought about expanding into the whole tomayto-tomahto quality of the word but decided it was too much for someone who had never even cracked one open.
I was sad. If the book had the words "roach" or "prison" he wouldn't have had to ask what they meant. But an apricot? The closest thing he's probably tasted is a syrupy, mushy canned peach.
It's not just missing out on the whole concept of the apricot that bugs me. The apricot holds a special place in my childhood memories. Along with other foods like rhubarb, cherries and tomatoes in the summertime, apricots spark the goodness of youth to return to my thoughts.
Apricots remind me of my Grandma Welch, a petite, gentle but firm woman who has been gone for nearly a decade. She had two gnarled apricot trees in her yard at the old house in Fruita. Early summer brought the hard green fruits to the trees, sprouting from the fragrant, delicate blossoms.
I always trusted my mother to pick a good one for me. We both liked them slightly underripe. Grandma didn't quite understand that.
We'd crack the fruits open with our thumbs and stand in the backyard eating them. Mom would tell me about the time she caught a hummingbird in her bare hands in this same yard. And how she wished she hadn't afterward, because her hands were so bruised. We threw the apricot pits in an old coffee can and keep eating as many as we wanted to pick.
Grandma kept a flattened sandstone rock on a weathered wooden bench by her shed. It was similar to the flat rocks the Indians used to grind corn on. We'd take turns smashing the apricot pits after they had a chance to dry out, on this flat rock. The nuts were small, teardrop-shaped delights with a milky-white interior.
I can't tell you how many blood blisters Grandma soothed with tiny band-aids after we aimed badly and smashed fingers holding the wobbly pits in place on the rock.
The apricots were good. We ate them until we could eat no more. And we did the same with the nuts from the pits. And we took time to be with each other in the backyard under the apricot tree and enjoy life simply. We didn't know there was any other way to be.
But the kids in my classrom wouldn't know about these things - their lives are devoid of the habitus of savoring something they just picked from a tree.
Instead, they know a life I probably couldn't even imagine. I'm sure their apricots are things like tattoos that remind them of Mommy's boyfriend of the month, or cigarette burns on their arms or seeing a policeman and remembering when Daddy got hauled off to jail.
But they wouldn't know about apricots.
"What's a prikit?" he asked.
Puzzled, I asked him to show me the word.
"Oh!" I said. "That's apricot. You know, like the fruit."
He stared at me blankly and shook his head. I explained, "It's sort of like a peach but it's smaller and it's not as sweet." He didn't respond.
This child had never seen or tasted an apricot. I thought about expanding into the whole tomayto-tomahto quality of the word but decided it was too much for someone who had never even cracked one open.
I was sad. If the book had the words "roach" or "prison" he wouldn't have had to ask what they meant. But an apricot? The closest thing he's probably tasted is a syrupy, mushy canned peach.
It's not just missing out on the whole concept of the apricot that bugs me. The apricot holds a special place in my childhood memories. Along with other foods like rhubarb, cherries and tomatoes in the summertime, apricots spark the goodness of youth to return to my thoughts.
Apricots remind me of my Grandma Welch, a petite, gentle but firm woman who has been gone for nearly a decade. She had two gnarled apricot trees in her yard at the old house in Fruita. Early summer brought the hard green fruits to the trees, sprouting from the fragrant, delicate blossoms.
I always trusted my mother to pick a good one for me. We both liked them slightly underripe. Grandma didn't quite understand that.
We'd crack the fruits open with our thumbs and stand in the backyard eating them. Mom would tell me about the time she caught a hummingbird in her bare hands in this same yard. And how she wished she hadn't afterward, because her hands were so bruised. We threw the apricot pits in an old coffee can and keep eating as many as we wanted to pick.
Grandma kept a flattened sandstone rock on a weathered wooden bench by her shed. It was similar to the flat rocks the Indians used to grind corn on. We'd take turns smashing the apricot pits after they had a chance to dry out, on this flat rock. The nuts were small, teardrop-shaped delights with a milky-white interior.
I can't tell you how many blood blisters Grandma soothed with tiny band-aids after we aimed badly and smashed fingers holding the wobbly pits in place on the rock.
The apricots were good. We ate them until we could eat no more. And we did the same with the nuts from the pits. And we took time to be with each other in the backyard under the apricot tree and enjoy life simply. We didn't know there was any other way to be.
But the kids in my classrom wouldn't know about these things - their lives are devoid of the habitus of savoring something they just picked from a tree.
Instead, they know a life I probably couldn't even imagine. I'm sure their apricots are things like tattoos that remind them of Mommy's boyfriend of the month, or cigarette burns on their arms or seeing a policeman and remembering when Daddy got hauled off to jail.
But they wouldn't know about apricots.
Goodbye, Sammy...
I don't like posting sad stuff. But this is something I'd like to share with all of you.
http://www.gjsentinel.com/news/content/news/stories/2006/09/20/9_20_1a_ag_Safken_Obit.html
Sam was our next-door neighbor. We only knew him for a year. He found out he had cancer after his back started hurting and he lost 40 pounds.
He graduated from Fruita with my brother. He was only 21. He was the local football star.
He really did approach his battle with cancer like another match or the biggest game of his life. Throughout his treatment, I kept saying, "If anyone can beat this, it's Sam."
He was a genuinely nice guy who would do anything - move the weird neighbors' TV for them, give someone a ride, buy a hamburger for the homeless guy at McDonald's who looked hungry.
And now I don't really know what to say to his family next door. There are tons of cars over there and people were swarming the house yesterday. I guess I'm waiting for all the people to disperse to take over some food. I tell myself that part of it is - I would be overwhelmed at this point and I would want everyone to leave. But the other part is - I don't know what to say or do.
http://www.gjsentinel.com/news/content/news/stories/2006/09/20/9_20_1a_ag_Safken_Obit.html
Sam was our next-door neighbor. We only knew him for a year. He found out he had cancer after his back started hurting and he lost 40 pounds.
He graduated from Fruita with my brother. He was only 21. He was the local football star.
He really did approach his battle with cancer like another match or the biggest game of his life. Throughout his treatment, I kept saying, "If anyone can beat this, it's Sam."
He was a genuinely nice guy who would do anything - move the weird neighbors' TV for them, give someone a ride, buy a hamburger for the homeless guy at McDonald's who looked hungry.
And now I don't really know what to say to his family next door. There are tons of cars over there and people were swarming the house yesterday. I guess I'm waiting for all the people to disperse to take over some food. I tell myself that part of it is - I would be overwhelmed at this point and I would want everyone to leave. But the other part is - I don't know what to say or do.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Making good on the promise...
Compliments of Philly tour guides Jeff and Meg (And their trusty, drooling mascot, James), we experienced the euphoria of a true Philly cheesesteak sandwich.
Now, it's not just like you go to a restaurant and sit down and order one. There's a distinct formula to ordering a cheesesteak.
And if you're not prepared to order at Jim's, you might as well leave now and save yourself the ridicule of the four ginormous spatula-weilding black guys behind the counter.
Luckily, we were properly trained and the line was long enough for us to practice before we got to the counter (it ran out the door and around the corner of the building. The place is THAT good). As we approached the guy chopping up all of the meat and onions, we quizzed ourselves on the right way to order a cheesesteak.
As Jeff and Meg said, you don't get up there and be like, "Uh, I'd like a sandwich. I mean a steak sandwich, and, uh, cheese. Um, what kind of cheese do you have again? Uh. ..."
These people mean business. And plus, their Eastern. That translates to: impatient, pushy, direct and fast-talking. They don't have time for us slow-talking, slow-walking Western people who are here for the joie de vivre.
"WHADDAYA WANT???!" Is the bottom line. And here's the way to order a Philly cheesesteak with Cheese Whiz and onions.
"I wanna steak wit' whiz an' onions," and you'd better not mumble because if they have to ask you twice, you're probably going to be laughed out the door. And yeah, they really say, "Wit." These people don't even have time for an "h" on their "with."
Yes, we ate at the cheesesteak Nazi's place. This place was so cool, there were celebrities' photos plastered all over the walls. Even John Denver wrote on his photograph, "I'd be a vegetarian if it wasn't for your cheesesteaks."
Now that's a testimonial.
Now, it's not just like you go to a restaurant and sit down and order one. There's a distinct formula to ordering a cheesesteak.
And if you're not prepared to order at Jim's, you might as well leave now and save yourself the ridicule of the four ginormous spatula-weilding black guys behind the counter.
Luckily, we were properly trained and the line was long enough for us to practice before we got to the counter (it ran out the door and around the corner of the building. The place is THAT good). As we approached the guy chopping up all of the meat and onions, we quizzed ourselves on the right way to order a cheesesteak.
As Jeff and Meg said, you don't get up there and be like, "Uh, I'd like a sandwich. I mean a steak sandwich, and, uh, cheese. Um, what kind of cheese do you have again? Uh. ..."
These people mean business. And plus, their Eastern. That translates to: impatient, pushy, direct and fast-talking. They don't have time for us slow-talking, slow-walking Western people who are here for the joie de vivre.
"WHADDAYA WANT???!" Is the bottom line. And here's the way to order a Philly cheesesteak with Cheese Whiz and onions.
"I wanna steak wit' whiz an' onions," and you'd better not mumble because if they have to ask you twice, you're probably going to be laughed out the door. And yeah, they really say, "Wit." These people don't even have time for an "h" on their "with."
Yes, we ate at the cheesesteak Nazi's place. This place was so cool, there were celebrities' photos plastered all over the walls. Even John Denver wrote on his photograph, "I'd be a vegetarian if it wasn't for your cheesesteaks."
Now that's a testimonial.
Don't adjust your screen - we're BAAAACK!!!!
Don't check the address - this is McWiggins 2006 with a new-and-improved look.
(Which means our former look was old and inferior)
Nevermind that. In an attempt to start fresh and rid myself of my non-blogging habits, it's time for a change.
Not that this makes it any better, but I think we can attribute the non-blogging to a few factors.
1. Erin being swamped with homework all summer.
2. Third-graders sucking all the life out of Erin this fall
3. Erin attributing bad ju-ju to the computer because she only uses it for meaningless crap homework for the past four months. Begone, bad ju-ju!!!
(ignore the dead chickens in the corner and the Marie Leveau biography, please)...
Thanks to those who have been checking this site for months to no avail. I'm back, baby, I'm BAAAACK!
(Which means our former look was old and inferior)
Nevermind that. In an attempt to start fresh and rid myself of my non-blogging habits, it's time for a change.
Not that this makes it any better, but I think we can attribute the non-blogging to a few factors.
1. Erin being swamped with homework all summer.
2. Third-graders sucking all the life out of Erin this fall
3. Erin attributing bad ju-ju to the computer because she only uses it for meaningless crap homework for the past four months. Begone, bad ju-ju!!!
(ignore the dead chickens in the corner and the Marie Leveau biography, please)...
Thanks to those who have been checking this site for months to no avail. I'm back, baby, I'm BAAAACK!
Monday, May 29, 2006
McWiggins Adventure 2006 – Philly, NYC and … the Amish! (?)
Wow. I’m not sure where to start.
We embarked on our latest great adventure after I finished up a freelance job in Denver on May 19. The aforementioned Mike Faybik hooked us up with some sweet stand-by plane tickets from Frontier, since he works there.
For once, we didn’t have any trouble at the airport or with the flights. Mike didn’t get wand-molested at security because he fits the normal white guy profile. We squeezed on both flights, which arrived early. Man, this stand-by thing is awesome!
So we made it to our friends’ house in Levittown, PA. I’m not sure that Jeff and Meg Groves took us seriously when I told them that weird things happen when we go on vacation, but I think they believe us now.
More on that later... with pictures!
We embarked on our latest great adventure after I finished up a freelance job in Denver on May 19. The aforementioned Mike Faybik hooked us up with some sweet stand-by plane tickets from Frontier, since he works there.
For once, we didn’t have any trouble at the airport or with the flights. Mike didn’t get wand-molested at security because he fits the normal white guy profile. We squeezed on both flights, which arrived early. Man, this stand-by thing is awesome!
So we made it to our friends’ house in Levittown, PA. I’m not sure that Jeff and Meg Groves took us seriously when I told them that weird things happen when we go on vacation, but I think they believe us now.
More on that later... with pictures!
To the readers…
Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not keeping up on this blog. I’m going to promise to try to be better even though it might not happen (but I’ll TRY). And to Mike Faybik, thank you for alerting me to the inadequacy of my postings.
We get by with a little help from our friends. Gonna try with a little help from our friends.
We get by with a little help from our friends. Gonna try with a little help from our friends.
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