I will never become a teacher

I was in Seventh Grade (I feel the capitols are deserved, it is after all one hell of a year)and I vowed in a speech to my english class that I "will never become an actor or a teacher".

As you will see, along with many things from the years 12-13, these vows didn't quite pan-out.

Come to think of it, another solemn vow from that year was that I will never, ever go back to middle school.

Now I go back every day.

So far my solemn vow stats are pretty poor 0-2, that would hardly earn a roster invite.

"Sure", you say, little promises that one makes oneself when one is twelve don't amount to much. However, given the fact that it is nearly March on the academic calander, these vows seem like moments of clairity to my 'Mr. Mycapacity' brain.

If you are a teacher, or know one, or god forbid live with one, you know that the months March through May suck.

I am not talking normal sucking either. This is not like acceptance speech at the academy awards sucky. This is like Will Farrell playing Hamlet sucky, 'Pet Cemetary the Musical' Sucky, living through seventh grade sucky.

Here is why.

If you are a teacher you actually care about the kids in your class who have one hell of a time from march through may in middle school and there is nothing you can do about it. I now have sympathy for my teachers.

Here are some examples from my life.

During a few moments of particular desperation in a history class in May of Seventh grade I asked a question of a friend of mine (a friend mind you) during class and he responded rather flippantly with a remark questioning my relationship with my mother.

Now, at 12 'you mom' jokes are the norm.

It is not outside the realm of possiblity to hear this exchange.
"Hey, Steve, how are you?"
"I'm pretty good"
"your Mom's pretty good"
"huh, good one"

or

"I don't feel good today"
"yeah, your mom isn't feeling good"
"huh, good one"

or

"Man, I can't believe Truman would use the atomic bomb on Japan twice. That's bogus"
"Your mom would use the atomic bomb"
"huh, good one"

However on this day the man went too far (the slight is not remembered.
)I reached over, pulled him out his desk in a head lock (I had him by four inches and 60 pounds) and with his feet three inches off the ground punched him in the kidneys four or five times before dropping him back on his desk face first. And said something pithy like 'that's nothing like the pounding your mom took last night'.

now, that I am a teacher, here is the event I just described from the teacher P.O.V.

Teacher: I want you to imagine class that you were living in a society where everything you do is suspect. Where if you were to want to leave the country for vacation the govenment would look into every aspect of your life to make sure you were not a risk to provide secrets to a communist country. Yes, Suzy?
Suzy: Can I go to the bathroom?
Teacher: Yes but hurry. Any other questions? Yes, Tony.
Tony: Uh, so what country was this that you couldn't leave?
Teacher: The U.S. Tony during to cold war.
Tony: No way, my grandpa traveled all the time.
Teacher: Yes, but like I said if you had a job like scientist, entertainer...
Tony:Whatever, is this going to be on the test?
Teacher: Probably. Now,
(big fat kid in the fourth row out of nowhere picks up a little tiny kid and begins to beat him soundly in the middle of the classroom.)
Big Fat Kid: 'That's nothing like the pounding your mother took last night'
Teacher: MYCAPACITY what? why? Go to the office.
Big Fat Kid: no.
Teacher: (loud with teacher voice) Go right now.
Big Fat Kid: No, I don't think I will.
Teacher: Don't you get smart with me.
Big Fat Kid: oh, sorry, (affects 'retard face' that stupid ass seventh graders do)Duhhhh
Teacher: go...to...the...office.
Big Fat Kid: Kay.

That was the beginning of my capacity of self-destruction.

I now see kids like this all the time. Normal, happy kids who have some sort of neuron misfire in their little brains and for 13 seconds they become Charles Manson.

So. Despite the random beatings and sophomoric humor of my 12 year old self, it seems I made some sense. I could have stuck to my guns and never become a teacher.
But where else would I get to have exchanges like

"Johnny, where is your other sock?"
"what?"
"come to think of it, where are you shoes?"
"My what?"
"Shoes man."
"Oh, dude"
"That doesn't answer my question"
"I don't know"

Amen Brother, Amen.

Mind over matter, ass over tea kettle

You can't write this stuff.
Not three minutes after my previous post about my lack of motivation I got my butt up and went downstairs to collect my much neglected running togs.
I had listened to The Darkness song "I believe in a thing called love" and was grooving appropriately. I was feeling good about defeating my impulse to not move at all so I was doing a little hoppy skippy thing down the stairs.
Five steps into my journey I tripped and all 235 pounds of me plummeted down the stairs.
Normal people don't do this.
If something like this has ever happened to you, you know that it feels as though about three hours elapses between the time you trip to the time you finally end up in a puddle at the bottom of the stairs.
I had time to think these thoughts.
"oh crap."
"I am falling"
"I am an idiot"
"Maybe I can catch myself"
"nope"
"Ow"
"I hope I don't break the drywall"
"Ow"
"Oh, Good, I am almost to the bottom"
"I can't possibly write about this, no one will believe it"
"I hope the kittens aren't at the bottom of the stairs"
"Oh, I seem to have stopped"
"Ow"
"Do I still have all my teeth?"
"Yes, Good."
"Oh, Hi Kittens"

I then sat at the bottom of the stairs a little spinny, two cats on various parts of me purring for about ten minutes.

I stood up.
swore.
walked up stairs slowly (without gym bag).
I sat down to write this post.
my ass hurt so I stood up and called She of the Stolen Bike and whined.
Then I went to the comic book shop and the library.

At lunch with my parents I betrayed my misadventure (it was pretty obvious 'cause I am walking like I have a pant load)they laughed.
hell, I am shameless.

now my tofu is burning (not a euphemism)
I will try not to tumble on the way to the kitchen.

Long of Wind, Short of Breath

Last year I ran a marathon.
I plan to this year.
The question 'why am I writing this instead of running?' plagues me.
And yet I write.
Here is what is interesting about my capacity for self-destruction. I don't always do what feels best or what I most enjoy.
I would think if I were you, dear reader, that your friend mycapacity would be destructive of himself in order to increase pleasure and mitigate displeasure.
This is not the case.
I know this because I am not running right now, and I really like running. I am not using right now in the abstract. I have the day off. I could leave right now. I could be running in a climate controlled environment (for which I pay for the privilege of using) in about half an hour.
The honest reason I am not lacing up my asics right now is that I ate so damn much last night that I cannot possibly get it together to go running.
Also, I know that when I get there I will be hosed because I know my run would be sucky.
I used to run 90 minutes on my 'normal days'. Meaning a day where I wasn't really trying.
Now with the torpor that has set into my system, a beer run sounds daunting.
In any event, this has been a very long explanation about a very small moment, I'll be back later, gotta run.

For reasons beyond comprehension

I have fabulous friends.
Sometimes this mystifies me.
I have the best wife in the history of...well, the planet as far as I am concerned.
wha?
What do I do?
I have an unfortunate prediliction towards sophomoric humor.
I read, no, I love comic books.
I have spent inordinate amounts of time and money on music of all kinds.
I am pretentious.
I believe in everything in moderation.
I am a liar.
I believe in everything to excess.
I am always honest.
I am a surly, surly person.
I am always sarcastic.
I do anything for a joke.
I maintain a blog.

And yet I have this collection, this motley crew if you will (no vince or tommy lee)of people for whom I would happily jump in front of a truck and can count on the fact that they would do the same.

I am honestly mystified.
I am honestly honored.
I am honestly humbled.

For reasons beyond comprehension

I have fabulous friends.
Sometimes this mystifies me.
I have the best wife in the history of...well, the planet as far as I am concerned.
wha?
What do I do?
I have an unfortunate prediliction towards sophomoric humor.
I read, no, I love comic books.
I have spent inordinate amounts of time and money on music of all kinds.
I am pretentious.
I believe in everything in moderation.
I am a liar.
I believe in everything to excess.
I am always honest.
I am a surly, surly person.
I am always sarcastic.
I do anything for a joke.
I maintain a blog.

And yet I have this collection, this motley crew if you will (no vince or tommy lee)of people for whom I would happily jump in front of a truck and can count on the fact that they would do the same.

I am honestly mystified.
I am honestly honored.
I am honestly humbled.

Why can't Johnny Pee?

For the second time in my life I have failed to help Johnny Weir to achieve Gold.

Watching Johnny skate last night in the winter Olympics brought back memories for me. These are not memories of former Olympic glories, of Brian Boitano or even coming in from the cold apple-cheeked waiting for a cup of steaming coco.

No, my Johnny Weir memory involves the basement of the X-Cel Center in St. Paul, Sample cups and an anti-doping badge. You see, I, in fullness of my capacity for self-destruction was assigned to watch Johnny pee.

My wife (She of the Stolen Bike) has a friend who was somehow in the judging circuit for figure skating. The friend asked She of the Stolen Bike if she wanted to come watch the event, (it was one of those championship stars on ice thing) She of the Stolen Bike being frugal and enjoying skating said sure.

The price of admission? Watching figure skaters pee.

You are probably aware that professional sports have a 'no performance enhancing drugs' policy. In order to enforce that policy the anti-doping consortium (to be here on referred to as the Pee Society) enlists VOLUNTEERS to sit in a little room, watching little people drink little bottles of water so that they can pee into a little cup and hand it to a little doctor who will test it for pernicious substances. It is this penultimate moment that She of the Stolen Bike signed up to watch. And I being the dutiful Husband agreed. However not enthusiastically.

It struck me as strange to be a guy who volunteers to watch someone pee. The strangeness is primarily because there is no way to pretend you didn't know what was going to happen. Its not like the skaters think you were just hanging out and then somebody in a trench coat walks up to you and goes "psst. hey come here" then puts an ether soaked rag on your face and drags you to the pee room.

Nope, the little skaters see you and think 'oh, Jesus, here's the guy who volunteered to watch me pee'. This is awkward.

Here, let me paint you a picture.

First, not all skaters have to pee in a cup. Skaters who finish first have to pee in a cup to pay the price of victory. Then some evil vindictive skating judge randomly draws another pee-er. In my case it was the person who came in second. Our boy, Johnny Weir.

Here is how it works. After your skater gets off the ice go up to him and say 'Mr ______ please come with me we need to take you to anti-doping.' He will then look at you like 'oh, poop on a stick' and will walk with you to...the pee room(actually a room set up for just this purpose).

Now, I am 6'3" about 235 pounds. This means as I was walking Johnny back to the pee-room I could have tucked him into my back pocket.

In another age, he would have been stoned to death after being mistaken for an imp.

We get to the room and I sat down in the little molded plastic chair chair sitting next to this wildly famous (to other people, I had never heard of him)skater watching him suck back ice mountain water and talk to the guy who won (I still don't know who he is) about all sorts of things you don't expect to hear figure skaters talking about. You know about cars, parties and such the like. Those little segments during the olympics make it seem like all they do is skate and review tape.

Over the course of the next few minutes female skaters kept walking by and giving the 'oh, you have to pee in a cup' face and saying 'bummer' and other such kindnesses, giving hugs to our boys and saying encouraging 'come on and pee' things.

With each passing tiny, tiny woman Johnny would roll his eyes and dutifully go back to his water making small talk with me...who now felt like the guy in My Giant talking to Billy Crystal.

Sasha Cohen came through, Michelle Kwan and a bunch of others, the pattern held true.
"Oh, Johnny, your number got pulled"
"Yep" (big ass smile, scallywag roll of eyes to show how above the process he is)
"oh, that sucks"
"Yep, well, good luck" (tiny little women kiss the tiny little man on the cheek)
"Yeah, Ok, I hope I can land my ________"
"oh, yeah"
"well, gotta go" (little woman version of the scallywag eye roll)
"bye" (looks to me, real eye roll to suggest that he would say 'bitch' but he is exercising discretion)

5 minutes turned to 10, 10 to 15 and 15 to 45 and there was Johnny still drinking water,and actively not peeing.

The winner comes back from the bathroom where he was escorted by a much more experienced pee-watcher and goes on about his day while I sit with Johnny 'I ain't gonna pee for nobody' Weir.


All this time I am sitting there thinking "oh, my god, I volunteered to watch this tiny person pee...does this make me a pervert?"

Finally the other volunteer pee watcher came to the rescue. He had a ton of pee watchings under his belt and volunteered to watch Johnny pee releasing me to watch the rest of the competition skate...not pee.

I looked over to Johnny as if to ask 'is that OK?' but realized that any response to the contrary would have essentially be saying 'no, thanks, I really want to watch Johnny pee'. So I took volunteer pee-guy up on his offer and went to watch Michelle Kwan skate.

Michelle won as it turned out, and then She of the Stolen Bike got to watch her make the only gold she would ever get.

Anyway. Last night was the second time I abdicated my responsibility for watching Johnny make gold. This one was much more heart-breaking. But he and I will always have the pee-room in St. Paul Minnesota.

My Secret Shame

I have a secret shame.

It is not that I am a pedophile, necropheliac, or republican. I now have a blog. To me a blog is like a 26 year old writing a memoir out of the honest belief that s/he has something interesting to say. There are exceptions, Augusten Burroughs, Dave Eggers, Jewel and her book of poetry (OK that was low, I haven't read her book, but for God's sake she is famous for yodelling).

I take some comfort in that very few people will read this. You being the exception and frankly, I will save you some time. Go play outside.

No really.

I have a hard time justifying why I am spending my time writing my thoughts into a computer.

The best guess that I have come up with is that I will never, ever keep a diary, until now. This is sort of like pretending that G.I. Joe is not a doll. It's not a fashion doll (though now that you mention it...Snake Eyes would be fetching in evening wear) but they are a damn doll. And this, my friend is a journal.

My capacity for self-destruction however indicates that I must now keep a journal. Why? Because everybody else is doing it. Here is the other problem everybody I know who keeps a blog (read: everybody) is a much MUCH better writer than I (for the love of everything I am married to she-whose-bike-was-stolen) so I am very self-conscious.

so? Come here often?

This is awkward.

Only somebody with a firmly established capacity for self-destruction, would argue with himself, in public, about whether or not the vehicle for his own self-destruction is self-destructive.

Anyway. I am off to go reflect some more. And what was it they said about the unexamined life?

There is a lot to do

I often feel that there is too much going on.
Why then, am I doing none of it?
It's Valentine's day tomorrow. I feel like there is so much I could be doing to make my wife feel more special, to really tell her how I feel with some grand gesture or kick-ass gift. I have thought of a lot of things. But right now, it is 2 minutes to 2:00pm on February 13 and I am waiting for an email from my friend the One Man Blue State, to email be back with his ideas.
He doesn't even get married until this summer.

This is what I do. I over think things. I come up with grand plans and big splashy ideas and end up giving the proverbial gift card.

Oh, this is not limited to gift giving.

This is professional as well as personal.

I am directing a beloved Shakespeare play right now. I am directing middle school students in this production and they are great kids. However, for reasons beyond my comprehension I keep wanting them to be adults.

"Just hug him, now"

I can be heard saying. However, at 13 having a big old scary director yelling at you to "calm down and hug the boy you most likely have a crush on" seems to me a very poor choice indeed. But I can't do it? My capacity for Self-Destruction demands that I treat 13 with the same expectations as I would my adult actors.

Here is the problem though. It keeps working.

My wife loves the things I get her.

My students do great work.

How do they ever expect me to learn.

I have now officially procrastinated beyond the point of no return.

I have a theory

I have a theory.
Everybody's level of success is inversely proportional to their own capacity for self-destruction.

What is a capacity for self-destruction, you say? Well, its that little niggling voice in the back of your head that allows you...No demands of you...That you make insignificant decisions that will eventually end in your ultimate demise.

A few examples
1) you have 8,000,000 things to do. This number is overwhelming. A person with a very badly developed capacity for self-destruction would begin working on the things on the list.
A person with a healthy well developed capacity would not have a list, and would create a blog.

2) you have a weight problem. Your body issues are all consuming and filling you with despair. The person with the sad anemic capacity would start a diet and begin to work out. A person with a healthy all you can eat buffet capacity would go to Taco Bell get $10.48 worth of food, sit in front of a Star Trek: The next generation rerun and drink alone. Heavily.

3)You desire a lucrative career. People who are in the far right lane of the capacity for self-destruction highway would go to school to become trained in some lucrative skill. The people doing 90 in the far left lane with their hazard lights on and listening to Journey...We become actors. In the theatre.

You may have guessed that my capacity for self-destruction borders on the epic. Others look up to me, desire to sit at my feet and say things like 'teach me, oh master of all things useless and self-destructive'. To all comers I say: " have a seat, pull up a burrito and get something to drink you have a lot to learn."