my capacity for self-destruction

an eternal question...

2008-07-30T19:59:00.000-07:00

Is it better to have a big damn zit on your forehead OR a big damn bloody oozy crater where the giant eff you zit was?

Few have dared to wrestle with this question because the premise is just so difficult.
Do I want to look like a bit of a twit with bad skin care?
or
Do I want to look like some 16 year old acne fiddler who got overzealous and has created the grand canyon out of Mt. Everest.

Well...in inestimable role as Captain Self-Destruction (which would be my super hero alias except I have just given it away) I took dermatology in my own hands.

For those of you who know me...for the past 6 months or so I have had a horn. Right smack dab in the middle of my forehead I had what can only be called an appendage. It was huge. It was evident in profile. It was visible from space. There is you tube footage of astronauts pointing and saying "hey look, it's the great wall of china" and the first mate saying "nope that's my capacity's big eff you forehead zit" to which the first astronaut said "damn, why doesn't he just pop it"

So, after watching this you tube video I thought, "yes imaginary astronaut I will pop it."

Obviously it didn't take me 6 months to start messing with this thing. I did all of the squeezing and the poking that you would imagine. But it just didn't cut it. So I thought (like so many primates before me) "what I need is a simple tool...off to the medicine chest!"

Options available to me:
1. emery board
2. eyelash curler
3. eyebrow pencil
4. tweezers
5. finger nail clippers
6. blush brush
7. vase...

wait. Did I see finger nail clippers? Score. You know why? (if you answered that question with a yes...you too have a high capacity for self destruction) Because of the pokey outy little nail file thing.

So. If you want to maximize damage to your facial region in order to solve a problem with your facial region (something about smiting and noses and faces...the expression escapes me)you take the nail file pokey thing and jam it into the giant zit.

The results were dramatic.

I excised material about equal to the size and volume of a clove of garlic from my forehead. Victory is mine.

On the other hand, I jabbed metal into my face. So now I look like I have a slightly seeping bindi.

Man do I know how to bring the awesome sauce.

I wore a band aid on my forehead all day because I felt the question "what did you do to your forehead?" a lot easier to handle than "Holy crap. Oh God. What the...what did you do? Oh, Jesus...I...I just threw up a bit".

Sometimes I run...rarely I write.

2008-05-28T14:49:00.000-07:00

There is something symbiotic in the life of a distance runner who is secretly out to destroy himself.
If you are looking for a guide of how to be a self destructive runner follow these simple steps!

1) Be a big damn dude. Being a Clydesdale (marathon euphemism for "big fatty fat fat" (ladies you are "Athena"s)) so I get an additional 60-100 pounds over my marathoning brethren (who seem to be made entirely out of pipe-cleaners, papier-mache and awesome) so that means I get to try a whole lot damn harder.

2) Have over-ambitious goals. I got it in my head that I was going to run a 4:15 marathon as my 'pie in the sky goal' so when I crossed the finish line of my last marathon and the clock said "4:15:30" my first instinct was to say "%#(%" and completely forgot that at worst I had missed my goal by 30 seconds and that I probably hung out at the starting line for at least 30 seconds before I started. Regardless... if you want to be disappointed set your goals super high, because by 26.2 miles you will not have the wherewithal to judge what is and is not good.

3) compare yourself to your friends who are, but for a few genetic quirks, Greyhounds. Part of being in a running group is inspiring...being with like minded people who have no problem talking about seeping blisters, peeing on yourself during a race or chafing and bleeding in areas not typically associated therewith over a plate of pasta can be empowering. The flipside is when your running friends talk about their disappointment in their marathon time when it is equal to your 10K time. Sure you get over it...but in the moment there is definitely an internal monologue that goes something like " damn".

That's about it. You follow this simple guide and you too can be a self-destructive runner.

I should say that I am extremely pleased by my last marathon 4:14:27 thank you very much, but I know that that time will beget little niggling thoughts like "you know what would be awesome?" and I will say "what's that" and the niggling thought will say " if you beat your PR (personal record) by another 15 minutes" and I will say "you are right little niggling voice, I should do that" and will then resume my life as a glutton.

talk about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

could be worse

2006-08-21T09:15:00.000-07:00

I am a little whiny sometimes. I get all 'ooh, my head hurts', 'oh, my legs are sore', 'oh, my tummy feels funny'. She of the stolen bike never EVER gives me any grief about these ailments or other perceived slights to my corporeal self. She always greets such exhortations of woe with an honestly sympathetic 'oh. I am so sorry'. Thus inoculated from further pain with this very sweet reminder that I am being cared for all gets better and I go bounding out the door for some new adventure.

This model did not hold true recently.

For some reason my seasonal allergies have come back this year after a decade of symptomatic summer frolicking. My head has been full of fluid, my nose had been running but I was still functioning at what appeared to be 'normal'.

Then days turned into weeks and my head had increased in weight by roughly 750 pounds and everything hurt.

I am sure you are aware that when gradual changes happen you barely notice them until one day you think to yourself 'what did it feel like to feel normal...or well even?'

That day was a Tuesday when I woke up and wished I hadn't.

I will not go on to describe the various methods of fluid removal or the relative volumes of mucus expelled, but suffice it to say that I expected to see Charlton Heston in the foreground parting a yellowish green sea as it issued from my head.

Enough was enough. She of the stolen bike suggested I try medication to cure this malady...I had not considered this option not because I fear medication, but because I hadn't thought of it. My wife was shocked when I returned from Wallgreens with a bag containing cold and flu tablets. I really don't ever take anything...ever.

That was nothing compared to the shock she suffered when the next day I called her at her office and informed her that I was going to the doctor.

I have no problems with doctors, they are all rather nice people who choose to spend most of their days looking at and prodding parts of the body I try to pretend don't exist. I don't mind shots or getting blood drawn so, why in the name of all that is holy don't I ever go to doctors? You guessed it, it is a symptom of my high capacity for self-destruction.

Anyway I was sounding like Cameron at the beginning of Ferris Beuller's Day off and was getting winded walking around the block where days before I was running ten miles at a stretch. I went to the doctor.

As soon as I made the decision to seek professional help (an impulse my friends and family wish I more often) launched in me a strange fear. What if I am not sick? What if I am just a whiny cuz? What if I get there and the doctor says 'I don't know what to say. Get over it guy'? What if that is what he said? It would prove my deepest fears and convictions that I am a wiener.

In the car on the way to the urgent care (I don't have a regular doctor) I was thinking. Damnit, I am feeling better. The doctor is going to laugh at me. Just as this thought passed through my head I had a coughing fit and like a scion from heaven a tissue full of all that a coughing fit could yield. I kept driving to the clinic.

The nurse was the kind of man I wish I could be. Scary fit talking about his marathon experiences and quoting some of his personal best times. It occurred to me that his personal best took less time than it took me to get my well fed but out of bed and into the car that morning. I coughed again desperate to be found truly sick.

The doctor came into the room. In his middle fifties he had the kindly manner one associates with places like Mayberry or Walnut Grove. He had me repeat my litany of complaints and symptoms. He nodded sagely and said 'yeah, we've been getting a lot of that'.

Crap. I am just another in a long line of 'sick' people who probably were just trying to parley a mild cold into a sick day. I am a charlatan.

He than took out his penlight and said 'well, let's take a look shall we?'. this is a strange turn of phrase, its almost as though he is inviting me to view my own nasal passages and say 'ah, yes I see'. But I digress.

He clicked that little light on, and as he was peering into my nose he uttered 'yuck' and with the light in my ears said 'sheesh' and then down my throat he actually said 'oof da'.

And with that I knew I was in. I was sick! rock on. I made a doctor say oof da!

He went on to say. 'well, it looks like you have a double ear infection a sinus infection and bronchitis. I am going to give you something for that.

I was elated. I was actually sick and not just a loser. I was so excited I went home and took a nap satisfied in the knowledge that I was a walking, talking infection. It doesn't get any better than this.

Duty's Done

2006-06-13T14:42:00.000-07:00

6/12/06

7:55. Dammit, use the fifth avenue entrance off of south sixth street? What the hell? Is it possible that the Hennepin County Government Center is located inside a damned parking garage. I swear what freaking mesomorph intern wrote these freaking....oh...fifth street.

8:05. Wow, what a beautiful building.

8:15. What is this like three hundred and seventy people. Man, throw a few photo stations in here and we have a makeshift DMV. OK, don't look anyone in the eye, if you do they will talk to you. They are bored and we are here all day... I don't want to have to make small talk with an elementary school teacher from miniaturized for the rest of the day. Just look at your coffee. Mmmm Coffee...I wonder if there is a coffee shop in here.

8:20 *tap, tap, tap* "Hello? Hello. Uh. Hello everybody, we are going to take attendance now. If you will just make a line over here with your bar code from your summons facing up we will take care of you. After I take attendance I have to compile a list for the sheriff's office for the people who are AWOL so please do get in line."
I wonder if anybody ever goes to trial for not showing up to jury duty...that would be funny, I could blog about that.

8:35 *tap, tap, tap* "Hello? Hello. Uh. Hello everybody, I am going to show you about a twelve minute video about your service here then I will do a little orientation...so here is the video."

8:36: *cheesy intro music* Terrible actors walk on screen talking about the privations they suffer by missing work for Jury Duty, but they are cautiously optimistic. Oh, there is a friend of mine. Ooof...she is on this video that tons of people see and she doesn't say anything. Hey, this is kind of like the video on a plane. I suppose not exactly since the chance of a water landing is very low.
Oh, there she is again, ooh...she must be pissed about that face.
Oh, pay attention...right.
did she audition for this?
No, no, pay attention!
Did she make SAG scale?
Pay attention!
I think she is wearing her own clothes, that's odd.
PAY ATTENTION.
"thank you for your service"
damn, should have paid attention.

8:48 *tap, tap, tap* "Hello? Hello. Uh. Hello, everybody. Does anybody have any questions about the video?

8:52 "Uh, what is our per diem?"
"20 dollars"
*collective groan"
"and 27 cents a mile for transportation no matter how you got here"
good thing I teleported.
"Do we have to fill out a W2?"
Oh my god, try not to swallow your own tongue, try not to swallow your own tongue.
"only if you make 600 dollars here"
*collective silence as people do the math*
"Not many people are here for six weeks."
*tight giggles and looks of horror to left and right* I keep my eyes on my coffee cup.

9:00. *tap, tap, tap* "Hello? Hello. Uh. Hello. So if we call a panel just bring all of your valuables with you and the officer will lead you up for jury selection.

I know feel like a steer awaiting the cutting shoot.

10:15. *tap, tap, tap* "Hello? Hello. Uh. Hello. We are pulling a jury panel, so here we go, this is a big one, 55 of you."
*collective groan*
"OK...(reads names alphabetically...gets to the letter sequences in my name and passes it.)"
I go back to reading my novel (A Feast For Crows, George R.R. Martin) I start feeling bad about not working. I vow to get the book I need during my lunch break.

10:22: "Ok that is everybody, thank you and sit tight"
Go back to reading and trying to ignore insipid conversations around me. One makes it through.
"So, you work right here in downtown."
"Oh, yeah, right there at HCMC then."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Uh, huh."
"So, where do you work then?"
"Oh me? Oh, I work down to Burnsville down there, yeah"
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah"
"What do you do there then?"
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I just work with sheet metal then, you know, grinding and finishing hinges on commercial freezers and refrigerators."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah"
"What do you do down there to the hospital?"
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"oh,I am a nurse in the psych ward."
"yeah?"
"Oh, yeah."
"So, All those psychos down to the ward gonna miss you there then?"
"Oh, I don't know about that."
"You work in the psych ward, eh?"
"yep"
" You must know my foreman"
"Oh, really? What's his name"

That is when I went into the business center. I actually transcribed that conversation. You can't make that crap up.

11:35: *tap, tap, tap* "Hello? Hello. Uh. Hello. We are ready to pull another jury panel."

Confident that my luck wouldn't hold out, I get all my stuff together and stand up.
I didn't get called.
I sat back down.
Heh. I am going to make it to lunch. Who knew?

2:45: *tap,tap,tap* "Hello? Hello. Uh. Hello. OK we are pulling another jury..." I get called. Sweet. Wait. Is that good or is that bad? I don't know.
Now I have to relinquish all my weapons. Those (I have been informed) include cigar cutters, nail clippers, fireworks, nail files, pepper spray, guns, knitting needles. So, my pockets lighter, I begin my ascent up the 17 floors to the chambers of a district judge.

3:00: They tell you where to sit. You need to sit there every time. Its so the principals can get to know you...wierd.

3:15: "Mr. uh... Mycapacity?"
"Yes"
"What did you think when you first got the jury duty summons?"
"Well, to say that I was excited would be overstatement."
flop sweat inducing silence.
Crap. Why do I need to entertain?
"Does jury duty cause you undo strain?"
don't try to be funny, don't try to be funny.
"nope"
Damn, I should have said 'nope, I try to eat right, exercise and stretch regularly'. That would have got them laughing...oh, wait...there is a guy in an orange jumpsuit whose life is actually affected by today's work. I am an ass.
"Do you think you could be a fair and impartial juror?"
"yes."

4:25:"Ok, today we are going to recess, be back here tomorrow at 10:00am."
but, but the jury wasn't selected...wait. wait. Ten O'clock.
Awesome.

10:15am Tuesday 6/13: "good morning ladies and gentleman we are going to continue with voir dire today. We may ask you some embarrassing or uncomfortable questions."
I work with 11-14 year olds...bring it on.

11:05: "Mr. Mycapacity. It says here that you are an actor."
"Yes. Well...I am actually a teacher. I act as part of my contract...uh...sorry, the answer to the question would be yes."
laughter
YES! Validation, I am a person. A sick person, but a person none the less.
"As an actor you understand the theatre"
"I hope so, or my students will be disappointed"
silence.
damn.
"Yes. well, as somebody who understands the theatre, do you understand the theatre of walking into the room and seeing one person wearing an orange jumper. what did that say to you?"
I so despearatly wanted to say that I thought he was joining the road company of Starlight Express but I said.
"Well, my first reaction was empathy" At that point I swear I heard the prosecutor cross my name off the jury roster.
11:50: After listening to my fellow 18 jurors answer questions that all would lead to their eventual use in a jury. Then the judge says....
"Thank you ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Right now we are going to break for lunch we will see you at 1:30."
1:45: "Alright ladies and gentlemen, right now we are going to tell you who is and who is not going to be on this jury."
I am surprisingly full of stomach butterflies.
"I am going to read off the names of the people on the jury. The rest of you report to the jury room for your next assignment."
1:50: My name is not read.
1:51: I go down to the jury room
4:20: I pee.
4:25: "...are now on 'on call' status."
what. What?
4:30: "Uh... I was in the bathroom."
"You are now on 'on call' status"
"Is there anyway I could get called this week?"
"What?"
"Could you fudge the system so that I could get called this week instead of next?"
"Uh...You're done."
"What?"
"We have enough people on call...you are done."
"I am done done?"
"Done done."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome"

4:35: I walk away from my civic duty. Am I happy? I have no idea. Man, if there was any clearer evidence for the breadth of my capacity for self destruction I think we need look no further than my desire to continue on jury duty.

others in whose path I follow

2006-05-30T15:58:00.000-07:00

To claim that I have the greatest capacity for self-destruction would be folly.I have sat at the feet of many people be they fictional, historical or contemporary who either far outstrip my capacity for self-destruction or who have a bit more flair. I will try to arrange my list is somewhat chronological order over a few entries. Some of the connections I draw will be bollocks... but even if I get them wrong factually, it is my interpretation of these characters that have ultimately added the depth and breadth of my capacity that I know enjoy. I will start with some people from the theatre...after all its my bread and butter...later we may find some other folks...stay tuned.

Oedipus- no matter which way your pronounce it (ed-ih-pus or eed-i-pis)brother got himself one solid capacity. Some hallmarks that make this guy a real champ.
1. He KNEW he was in for it. In my life I constantly have warning signs...some may not be quite as solid as an oracle...but some good indication to stop now. And frankly a good 'do you want all those cheetoes?' is as good as any oracle any day.
2.Minor success breeds mind shattering (if misplaced) self-confidence. Sure I have never out thought the sphinx but you get 31 eighth graders to all do the same thing at the same time ain't too shabby. Then, like my predecessor, I think I can do no wrong...and though the fallout for my hubris doesn't go quite as far as our hero's I think it is all a matter of degree.
3. overeaction. I overeact, do does Oed. OK, so I never killed my father and married my mother but I do know that blinding yourself for the offence doesn't seem off the rails. For example by degrees eating a bag of potato chips (read:big damn bag) feeling bad about it so eating ice cream is pretty much the same thing...hell, either way you go blind.

Hamlet-Though I like to think myself a little more fun-loving than our Danish friend he does seem to think a lot about ways to make things better which pretty much always makes him land on his twins.
1. Mother love. Let's get this out of the way first. Despite my last two selections for the wall of fame, and my admitted love of my mother I don't have these guys troubles. But again to acknowledge by degrees Ham-bone's actions it seems the same thing to be upset with your mom's new boyfriend and going around and stabbing people in arrases. This is just like not liking to clean so one creates a great mound of dirty clothes next to ones bed (which one (in this case) refers to as the poop deck)and looks at it affectionately and without irony as the pile...It's the same thing.

2. Bitch, bitch, bitch. So, I am pretty sure that Hamlet didn't have DSL in his dorm room but if he did, he would have a blog. There we could read all sorts of entries about 'I miss my dad, he was so great, this one time he took me fishing and let me taste beer' and 'god my mom is a pain, I wish she and my uncle would just get a room already' or ' o, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew!, or that the Everlasting had not fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter! Oh God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, Seem to me all the uses of this world!.' For one I freaking hate exclamation points so that is just overboard. But It sounds to me like hamlet would have a little blog maybe he would call it 'elsisnore' or some god-awful pun.

3. Can't find an ending. Ok, so this isn't Hamlet himself but rather the play. Shakespeare wrote about four hours worth of play and was just knackerd so he did what any guy with a big capacity for self-destruction would do and said 'screw it, just kill everybody' then when Anne Hathaway said 'honey, everybody's dead nobody will care about elsinore if nobody is there' he said 'fine, I will write a Norwegian in who will take everything' and thus Fortinbras, now there is a guy who can do a keg stand.

Helena- The first woman on my list, though my second Shakespeare creation. Helena may in fact have the largest capacity for self-destruction of any character that I am aware.

1. Pining. She is just so desperate for Demetrius that she can't stand it. She even says (of her nemesis Hermia who has beguiled the hapless Demetrius) 'Through Athens I am thought as fair as she, but what of that Demetrius thinks not so'. She is saying that I could have anybody I want...I just don't want anybody but Demetrius. This is just like my saying I want more than anything to be fit, but I am not, so lets eat!.

2. Disbelief at good fortune. Around the middle of the play Helena gets exactly what she wants...sure it is via a magic spell...but hey we all need a bit of fairy dust. Here is where you can see that her capacity for self destruction is beyond mortal ken. She doesn't believe him. He says 'O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, devine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?' which is EXACTLY what she wants but she replies 'O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent to set against me for your merriment' She thinks he is kidding. I recognize this, when she of the stolen bike and I were first together I asked her 75,000 times a day if she still liked me. Listen folks, if you got something good, don't provide it opportunity to reconsider.

3. Refusal to admit she is wrong. She fights (physically) Hermia not for the love of Demetrius but because she is so convinced that they are making fun of her. All of them swear they are not but it doesn't matter. It requires a magic spell cast by sprite (not the soda) to fix it all. To her credit, when magically altered she does change her tune, but come on how often does that happen here in the mundane world. I for one am convinced of my failure until the bitter, bitter end and would just about kill for good robin goodfellow to raise his magic wand and make everything all better. (not that things are wrong in the first place...Its all in my head.

Sixth graders like it

2006-05-22T10:58:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to post more I am using a strategy used by writers the world over. I am recycling crap that I already wrote for other reasons and putting it up as new work. This makes perfect sense because I could have gotten away with just posting the scene and not commenting on it and nobody would be the wiser. Alas, my capacity for self destruction demands I don't have a fuzzy relationship with the truth no matter how sad it may make my efforts seem.
This is not my favorite scene I have ever written...actually its not in the top ten. What it is is the first scene I ever wrote for students...or...anyone for that matter, so, I thought it warranted at least an historical spot on the blog. The scene does have one thing going for it. Sixth graders like it.
That sentence is rarely uttered. Sixth graders don't like many things if they are the idea of an authority figure. However, I have managed to stumble upon something that some girls in my class enjoy. It is a scene I wrote three years ago to get three girls to stop whining because every scene I gave them 'sucked'. So, The Glass Menagerie or Comedy of Errors it is not but for whatever reason 11 year old girls like this scene.

(2 students quietly working in their room, M (the loud one) entersÂloudly)
M: Guess what, you are never going to believe this!
H+S: Mmmm?
M: I've found him.
(H and S continue working)
M: I've found him.
H: Found who?
M: Him!
S: Him, who?
M: You'll never believe it.
H: not at this rate.
M: I've found him.
S: again?
M: what?
H: (to S)now its what and who.
S: (laughs)
M: Don't you guys want to know who?
H: I was kind of interested in what.
M: What?
S: yeah, what?
M: I hate you, since you obviously donÂt care I am leaving. Good bye.
(M leaves, comes back seconds later)
M: Guess what, you are never going to believe this!
(H+S look at each other and back at M)
H+S: (mock excitement) What?!
M: I've found him.
H: I'm going to kill you.
S: --Who?!
M: Brad,the man I am going to marry.
S: Oh Mollie.
H: Another imaginary boy?
M: No! This is him!
S: Him who?
H: (to S) don't you start.
S: Where did you meet him?
M: On the internet
S: What?
M (louder): ON THE INTERNET
H: OK, when did you first meet him in person?
M: Next Tuesday
S: Ok, and what did he look like?
H: Wait, next Tuesday?
S: NEXT Tuesday?
M: you guys going to break into song?
H: You haven't met him yet?
M: Yes online. He's very sweet, he sent me this ring (displays hideous ring)
(uncomfortable pause)
S: (to H) my turn?
H: yes.
S: Ok, Mollie honey. You know I love you.
M: Oh, I love you too.
S: Shut up. Here's the thing. This is crazy. This is running barefoot on broken glass crazy. This is eating fire crazy. Let me put it this way. If I bought a whole truckload of crazy and only this showed up. I'd be a satisfied customer. It's that kind of crazy.
M: We do crazy things for love.
isn't Mollie, this isn't love. This probably isn't even Brad. What's more likely is that this is some sixty year old, six hundred pound shut in named Reginald wearing a cub scout uniform who speaks fluent elvish. He sent you his dead grandmother's engagement ring so that you would spend the rest of your life filing corns off his feet and opening sardine cans. This person is not your true love.
M He's got friends who say they're interested in you guys.
S: really?
H: Shannon! No. This is not happening (blocking the door). You are not going to meet him. None of us are getting married until we all decide we're ready.
M: You're not the boss of me!
H: ooh, ouch (tdidn'tannon) at least she didn't call me liar, liar pants on fire.
S (on computer)
M: Listen you... shrew; (growing calm) you two are without question my best friends. (Totally seriously) My life is not going to be easy in the next few years. Think about it. My parents aren't going to be thrilled about my impending marriage. And can you imagine what its going to be like being the only married girl on the cheer team? I am going to lose friends, the love of my family, respect of my teachers and quite possibly the only chance IÂve ever had at having a normal life because I am sure, I am positive that I am in love. Love knows no age and has no wisdom of its own. But I've found it, and all I ask from the entire world is that you help me through it. If you can help me, I know my life will still be a good one.
H: (feigning sympathy) Molie, (truly harsh) that is the single stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life, if you do this.
S: ...guys
H: ...you will not only be the dumbest...
S: ...guys...
H: ...but, quite possibly the deadest...
S: guys! (they look at S) Mollie, come here (they both do) Is this Brad?
M: yes, why is he emailing you?
S: He just proposed to me.
M: You Tramp!
S: Stop. Listen. Brad is not a person. He's a reality T.V. show. He proposes to a group of young women online and whomever responds gets a ring. On the inside of the ring is a phone number, you cal that and you get an audition time. If you get cast, you will appear on the show every week and have to complete stupid tasks to finally earn "Brad's" love. Then, if you do, you're married on T.V.
H: (truly sympathetic) Oh Mollie, I'm so Sorry.
M: (nearly dumbstruck) How did you find this out?
S: (sorry) It's all on this web page
M: Is Brad real?
S: Sort of he's part of the show.
M: So this ring?
S: Just a marketing gimmick.
M: (soberly takes off the ring) Here's the number.
H: Mollie, I am sorry if I was harsh.
S: Yeah, I wish, I , uh.
M: I just can't believe it.
H+S: I know.
M: (joyfully) I'm going to be on T.V.!

So there it is. It doesn't hold pride of place for me or anything (especially since I so obviously cribbed other plays and movies) but it represents from where I come. I probably write 3-5 scenes a month for students and one out of ten is usually not crotch twingingly bad. So take it for what it is and let that little eleven year old girl in your soul giggle...just don't let your teacher catch you enjoying it.

Has't come to this?

2006-05-12T06:03:00.000-07:00

I suppose if you have a blog called My Capacity for Self-destruction and you don't write in it very often things are going OK.
Things are going OK, pretty great in fact, but I have just been slammed with end of the school year business as of late and haven't had a chance to sit down and write my little missives.
So, what am I going to do about it? What would somebody with such a highly developed capacity for self destruction do? I am going to cheat. Yep, I am going to cop right out and recycle old material. (Now you know I am a middle school teacher, right?).
What follows are a few very short scenes from the eighth grade play that I wrote with my students.
My capacity is evident in the process of this piece so I guess it isn't entirely specious.
The way I write the eighth grade play with kids is a four step process that takes about 6 months.
Here is how it starts. In October (October for Christ's sake) I have the students create a character out of nothing. I ask them to approach the opportunity in a you get to play whatever you want...so make it good.
It will come as no surprise to those of you who either work with 13-14 year olds or remember being one that the majority of these characters are tragic. The body count in the back stories for the characters most of the young women chose is staggering. The boys all have secret addictions. The third group of kids are the ones who create characters exactly like another person in class in order to punish them.
Anyway they create these characters.
I then put them in groups and they have to make scenes as their characters without much guidance at all. This takes about three weeks.
Next we have to find some reason for all these characters to be in the same place at the same time or find some way to put them all together.
This years group was so disparate and wide reaching that we did the only thing possible. Stuck them all on a cruise ship so nobody could get away. I also had to use the hackneyed 'play within a play' device.
sad, I know.
I should have just stuck in a pair of cross-dressing twins, a suicide or two and we'd have Shakespeare.
Anyway, I then take the character sketches and the scenelets they wrote home and make it into a play with a beginning, middle and end.
This year the play topped in at 115 pages, it ran 90 minutes long and I was really proud of the performance.
That's the other thing about kids, they make the schlock and drudgery I come up with on long December nights and make it worthwhile. Damn them.
Anyway I will be sharing a few sections that make me giggle from time to time. Here is one.
This little scene takes place before the auditions for the play within the play. Susie is a character who is enthusiastic but not too bright.
Sydney is a character who is edgy and a little needy.
Shannon is a character who everybody likes and who thinks she is very, very funny.
Sally is an ambitious gossip queen.

(preparing for an audition)
SHANNON (to herself)
What a to do to die today at a minute or two to two. A thing distinctly hard to say but harder still to do...

SYDNEY(to herself)
You talking to me? You talking to me? You look like you're talking to me?

SUSIE (to SYDNEY)
That's really good.

SYDNEY (to SUSIE)
What's really good?

SUSIE
Your little Pacino thing youÂre doing.

SYDNEY
De Niro.

SUembarrassedrased)
Oh, sorry. Gracias.

SALLY (to SUSIE and SYDNEY)
Will you guys quiet down, I got to go in there next.

SYDNEY (ignoring SALLY)
Gracias?

SUSIE
De nada

SALLY
What are you guys doing?

SUSIE
Speaking Spanish.

SHANNON
I speak Spanish.

SYDNEY: we weren't speaking Spanish. I was doing my De Niro monologue.

SUSIE (correcting)
No, no. De Nada.

SHANNON (To SUSIE)
What?

SALLY (to SHANNON)
What?

SUSIE (To nobody)
What?

SYDNEY (To SUSIE)
What?

SUSIE
Sorry, got carried away.

SYDNEY
OK, could we all shut up please?

SALLY
I am going in next and by heaven if I donÂt come out of that room as sleeping freaking beauty there will be hell to pay.

SYDNEY
Well, you are half way there.

SALLY
I am not above violence.

SUSIE
It's pronounced de nada.

So that is what I do. That is in fact my day job. A little window into my capacity.
well. I am on my way to teach, and I am sure we will all be better for the experience.

Don't break your face

2006-05-03T18:05:00.000-07:00

A hallmark of my capacity for self-destruction is that I find myself charming (hell, somebody has to).
One particular eccentricity that I use in order to sound particularly eccentric and interesting to my students...co-workers...friends...family...alright dammit, everybody is to minimize everything and masquerade as 'dry'or 'apathetic' or 'dispassionate'. I like to think that kids find it funny.
On the first day of class for my students regardless of age I say the following thing almost verbatim (I only appear to say things off the cuff...that's a whole other entry (then why don't you write it?(that is another level entirely of my capacity for self-destruction (that and my excessive use of parentheses (I mean, really, what is that...five open parentheses(I mean really (that makes six (seven))))))). I say: the number one rule I have is do not break your face or the faces of others.
you would think I would have no problem keeping within the parameters of my own rules.
Nope.
It all started in November when I decided it would be OK for me to be associated with a production of Grease (trust me, it was politically necessary). To me Grease is the genital wart of the musical theatre world. Its freaking terrible but when you get down to it, if you are desperate enough you will get in bed with it. Hate is a strong word, but it doesn't come close to the harshness with which I would attribute my feelings for Grease.
I will try to be succinct (for a change). In a nutshell Grease is a musical filled with hackneyed musical chum tying together a plot whose culminating event is the heroine 'Sandy' compromising her morals and sense of self in order to be cool. That to me sounds like a good show to do in high school.
I knew I was going to pay for it.
I should have seen it coming.
During the performance of Grease I was working (I swear I was only a technical supervisor) carried a profound karmic weight. If I were Hindu, I would be turned into...well...a genital wart. But no, the cycle that is samsara took my slight on the cosmic balance of the universe out on my sainted wife.
You see somewhere between the 'songs' greased lightning and mooning my beloved wife began her inning as catcher for our softball team 'phallic reference'.
As the high school students were struggling (in vain) to find their pitch, my wife tried to catch a pitch from the ace of our staff 'the one man blue state'.
Sadly, instead of catching the pitch, the batter took a hearty swing and tipped the ball off the bat.
For those of you who have played ball sports know that a 'foul tip' translates as to 'oh my god, hide your children' or something to that effect.
To her credit, She of the stolen bike did catch the foul tip. She just neglected to use her glove.
Lets skip to the phone message I received from our friend 'ferret boy' during the intermission of 'Ishtar on ice would be better' oh, I'm sorry...I mean Grease.
'hey Mycapacity its Ferret boy. Hey we're out here playing some softball. Hey listen, just wanted to let you know...'
this is where all of the blood leaves my face
'she of the stolen bike got hit by a pitch'
oh, thank god. Its slow pitch, who cares?
'she had a bloody nose so we sent her to the emergency room'
by this point I had my head between my knees because I started to see floaties
'I don't think its a big deal, we are just being safe'
I start now to realize that I am the only person in the middle school parking lot in his car with his head between his legs. I start to feel awkward. I also cannot leave.
To boil this whole experience down to five essential words I would choose:
Wife, emergency room, my fault.
My capacity for self destruction added the last two words. Ferret boy knows better than to say it...also, he knows that I would rather take a foul tip in the face than listen to 'we go together'.
Long story short (too late). She of the stolen bike is fine. She is wearing an awfully sexy nose cast (seriously, I am surprised that their is not a magazine in a back room somewhere called Nose Cast Grrls).
I am left with a quandry however, did she of the stolen bike break my rule, or, did I?
I couldn't tell you.
I am just glad that she is fine.
I still feel responsible, but I always have the forward thinking and socially responsible Grease to console me. I will leave you with its life affirming message.
We go together like
rama lama lama
ke ding a de dinga a dong
remembered for ever like
shoo bop shoo wadda wadda yipitty boom de boom
Chang chang chang-it-ty chang
shoo-bop
That's the way it should be
Wha oooh yeah!

Honest to god, if given the choice? Batter up.

The Wheels are off the wagon

2006-04-11T10:56:00.000-07:00

Ah...April.
The sun is out, the temperatures are rising, the flowers are blooming and the children are out of control.

I can see it in the faces of my fellow teachers. The exhausted befuddlement that comes from teaching half-naked husks containing naught but raging hormones.

All of the teachers in a middle school develop a twitch in April.
What happens is we will see a group of seventh grade girls, half of them will be giggling and the other half will be sobbing and all of them will be screaming. They pass us scream some sort of greeting and they walk away trailing wallgreens store brand perfume.
As soon as they gone our head articulates slightly to the right, our right shoulders lift almost imperceptibly and there is a small quiver often accompanied by sharp inhalation or exhalation.

By June we all have chiropractic appointments.

Here is where my capacity is truly evident.
I love the kids, even when they are like this.

Here is a little tableau of what a class period can be like for me in April.

Two boys, one very short, the other very tall walk into my classroom beating each other. They are laughing.

Three girls walk into my room arm in arm, they are flouncing. They all have purses, digital cameras, three inches of mascara and about one square foot of clothing each. They look at the boys, roll their eyes at their immaturity (feigning apathy) and then proceed to stare at them for the next ten minutes, stopping occasionally to giggle behind their hands.

Two more boys walk into the room. You can tell without seeing them due to the cloud of Axe body spray that precedes them. They are wearing polo shirts with the collars up. They are cool. They know it.

Four girls have been following them in the hall giggling behind their hands (honestly its like a Japanese comedy of manners)they fall into the room yelling and laughing. The room is now as loud as sound check at a Metallica show.

I try to quiet the room, but as I look into the student's eyes I can see that they are just quivering with hormonal energy.

I then begin the tricky process of teaching the children. I need to avoid using the following words and phrases.
balls
straight
job
get together
hook up
blow
hot
passion
bend over

now, out of context those could sound a little risque. Here is how I have used them recently to a chorus of sniggers and gasps.

"what if he crosses downstage and balls up the piece of paper and throws it away"
"you are going to have to give it to him straight" (Ok, that was is a little rough)
"That's not his job"
"Your group get together over there"
"Don't worry you can hook up with another group later"
"Well, if you are going to have a birthday cake, somebody needs to blow out the candle"
"I know it is hot in this room"
"Characters have to have passion or the audience will never care about them"
"I just saw it around the bend over there"

In October these things are not funny.
In April, its like an evening at the improv.

I then release the students to work on their scenes. What follows faintly resembles herding cats in heat.
One girl is in the bathroom crying. One of the boys walks into a wall (this happens more than you would think. Two girls have found the paper towel dispenser and are wrapping themselves in the paper towels and performing fashion shows for themselves. Two girls are arguing about the merits of their respective make-up.
and a boy and a girl are mysteriously absent.

No child left behind.

The long and the sort of it is that when we remember middle school I doubt we are remembering things from the spring because I am pretty sure that your brain is so addled by hormones that you can think of little else besides...Well...you know.

Normal people stay away from these situations but given my capacity for self destruction, I just jump right into the mess and don't stop 'till June. Huh huh...I said jump into...

The gnashing of teeth, the rending of garments

2006-03-20T17:11:00.000-08:00

You remember it.
That thing when you were 14 from which you were positive you would never recover. You remember it don't you? It was in March of your eighth grade year.
You see Billy, who you have been dating for, well, almost three weeks, didn't call you for two days.
sure he had two broken arms and tonsillitis but, hell, he didn't call. This is a tragedy.
If he had called you could have told him about how sally said that she was tired of your whining during passing time between health and social studies. You could have told him how that bastard Mr. R called your parents because you didn't turn your paper in on time. I mean who cares about the holocaust...it happened like a hundred years ago, right?
But no, the bastard didn't call. So you thought to yourself...'I am going to dump that guy. That's right. We won't talk on the phone anymore, I won't invite him to the party at my house (which ends at 11:00pm). That'll show the insensitive hound. That's right, he can't use me like...like a...like a, Kid.
Sound familiar?
No, no it doesn't, wanna know why? Because you are no longer 14 years old.
Neither am I.
However, this sounds very familiar to me because I hear this story (with some minor variation, to pronoun, and occasionally verb) on a nearly daily basis.
This is what I do.
I sit, listen, say exactly the same things your teachers said to you ('do you think that is what he really meant?', 'no, you are definitely somebody who people want to hang out with', 'well, we all make mistakes' and (my personal favorite) 'well, he'll never forgive himself for that one (my comments too vary by pronoun and verb)) and I know they mean nothing.
But what do I do?
Do I do the thing that I want to do?
I don't think so. I really feel like: 'wow, your trivial problem will embarrass the hell out of you once you realize that the center of the universe is not yourself. Christ, I mean, If the world did revolve around you, as you must think it does, we would fly off our axis and spin into a world full of meaningless crap. I mean we would be a living, breathing reality T.V. show called 'Hey, hey...Look at me'.
Or do I do the thing that all teachers do?
'Oh, I know. Hey, we all make our own choices. No. No, who would that help? You don't mean that. No, I don't think you do. Well, we all make our own choices. No, I didn't think you meant it. No, its OK. So, don't worry about it right now. Yes, I understand. No, you can't get a pass. No, its still due on tuesday. What? No, I can't give you a pass. Is it important? Ok, just dial 9 first. No, you can't get a pass. Well, we all make our own choices. I am glad I could help. No, I can't give you a pass. OK, I'll see you tomorrow in class.'
I always choose the latter. Why? Because My Capacity of Self-Destruction allows for co-dependency no matter how trivial.
But, hey, at least I don't have to go back to middle school. Until 8:00 tomorrow morning.

Multi-tasking

2006-03-09T07:28:00.000-08:00

Like 95% of people my age I am ADHD.
This means that at any given moment I am thinking of three things instead of one.
For example while I am writing this (and listening to music to stay focused) I am running through my next hour,what I am supposed to be doing, what I need to have prepared, etc.

This isn't much of a liability most of the time.
Actually, it is pretty handy when I need to get a lot of stuff done.
For instance, at the grocery store, when buying ingredients for something. It is often when I am buying the basil that I will remember my car payment is due. Or when looking for the right tomato I will come up with a new lesson plan.
I have no idea why that happens, but hey, it sure is nice that it does.

My condition (which you probably have too) is only a liability when it comes to interpersonal discourse with people for whom I have little to no tender feelings.

At that point I become three people with three distinct conversations happening.
They are as follows.
1. Myself: This is the only one of the personalities that speaks out loud (god willing).
2. Dennis Miller: What I wish I were saying often drippingly sarcastic and embarrassingly self aggrandizing. This is all in my head.
3. Jimminy Cricket: My conscience chastising me for thinking of such awful things and having the temerity to assume I am any better than the person to whom I am talking. This is also all in my head.

Here is a for instance that is thoroughly abstracted from a social interaction I had with someone I hold in contempt for no reason at all.

Awful Person: Hey, Mycapacity, what's up?
Me (spoken): Oh, nothing much.
Dennis (thought): I would like to set your hair on fire.
Jimminy (thought): Jesus man, she's being nice to you, grow up.

Awful Person: Brr. It's cold today.
Me (spoken): I know, good thing we have heaters,huh?
Dennis (thought): That's the best you could do? Cold? For christ's sake its cold like eight months of the year, at least you have small talk covered for 3/4 of your life you insipid little moth.
Jimminy (thought): Dude, you were just thinking about how damn cold it was.

Awful Person: Hey do you remember that time when we were at that audition and that really annoying person kept clearing his throat.
Me (spoken): Yeah, that was really distracting.
Dennis (thought): I would much rather be listening to a phlegmmy death rattle than your ignorant prattle you miserable shrew. Why don't you go somewhere and marinate in your own mediocrity.
Jimminy: As I recall, you are keeping this conversation going Mycapacity. If you don't want to talk to her, just say good bye and stop being an ass.

Awful Person: Well, we should get some coffee and catch up sometime.
Me (spoken): Yeah that would be great.
Dennis (thought): But first I have to floss with barbed wire and gargle broken class.
Jimminy (thought): You could have said no. You could just forgive her for being slightly annoying.

Awful Person: Well, I gotta run. It was great seeing you, give me your email address.
Me (spoken): Oh, sure, here it is.
Dennis (thought): No go you miserable little wretch, find some other host to suck the life force out of.
Jimminy (thought): you are a bad person, mycapacity.

Awful Person: Bye bye.
me (spoken): Bye bye
Dennis (thought): ass.
Jimminy (thought): ooh, there's a bunny.

The same thing happens in all situations. However, I am not always full of violent tendencies. Sometimes the second voice in my head is flirty, or begs for recognition. But it always happens.

Its fortunate that I have such a strongly developed capacity for self-destruction. Anybody with a lesser one might get the many voices confused and let their subtext speak the truth. The horror. The horror.

Is that guy having a seizure?

2006-03-04T10:56:00.000-08:00

When not falling down flights of stairs or eating my third seven layer burrito my favorite activity is running.
As far as I can tell there are two reasons for this.

One: The chemical reaction that happens when the body works to fatigue and makes me feel simultaneously happy, confident and superior.

Two: I get to listen to music un-interupted for an hour or more.

I listen to music all the time throughout my day, however there is something about keeping your body totally engaged in one activity to make the music no longer a background stimulus...but a full on internal experience.

There is a hidden cost.
When rocking out while running I have been known to turn into either Jimmy Page or the Pips.

Today I ran for seventy minutes. In that time I had to stop myself no less than ten times from playing air-guitar.

Lets paint a picture. You are in a crowded gym. Perhaps you are one of the fifty freakishly fit people taking the Step class in the little aerobics center that abuts the track.
As you are being yelled at by little tiny be-spandexed drill sergeant with a predilection for phrases like 'come on ladies, get those butts in the air', 'Woo!' and 'you guys look awesome, just 10 more' then you start seeing out of the corner of your eye a 6'3" 230 pound red faced guy in a sleevless shirt and an iPod strapped to his arm in such a way as to create a second set of love handles above and below the strap He appears to be having some kind of fit.

You think to yourself (as you get that butt up a little higher) 'gee I hope he's OK' and put the incident out of your mind for about a minute until he appears again, flush faced, sweat drenched and now you are quite sure doing some sort of interpretive dance.

All I have to say, my dear Step-Aerobicizer is that I was not having a fit, I was playing lead guitar, and I was kicking ass. That is of course until I realized I was doing it. This is a hard feeling to describe. It is a feeling like you have when you realize that not only is your fly open but you have roughly 17 ounces of coffee down your shirt and spinach in your teeth. So I stop and look both right and left and think 'whoo, I got away with that one'.

But that is not the worst of it.

Back to our little picture.
You've just been told you have 8 more reps of something that involves your head to be below your feet while holding a flexible cable in your left hand that it attached to your right heel and holding an eight pound hand weight in the other hand when you hear what can only be 'one of the special people' coming around on your left. You think, 'how brave of him to work out in public' but then you see him.

It is just the enormous spazzy guy, but this time he appears to be muttering to himself.
He must be in great pain. After all it can't be easy for a guy his size to be running around the track for so long.
You put him out of your mind and go back to 'blasting those abs'

But the next time around he sounds as though he is at his own Bar Mitzvah chanting his way into manhood.

But no,actually, I am singing back up vocals, and kicking ass once again.

Often when I hear myself and notice that I must look something like Dustin Hoffman in rain man crossed with Philip Seymour Hoffman in...anything I begin to cough as though to say...whoo...glad I passed that throat obstruction.

Can I be stopped? Nope. And truth be told I don't mind too much because I can all but guarantee that I am in somebody's gym identity short hand book.

I think we all have this. A phrase for a person whose name you don't know (and probably don't want to know). For example, I saw the following three people at the Gym this morning.

Creepy grim reaper guy (because of his many many tattoos)

Scarily fit girl (who is literally always there)

Standy McTalksalot (the hugely overweight guy who stands in the free-weight area and talks while drinking a protein shake. I have never seen him lift anything but that bottle)

So I hope that somebody goes home and says "oh, honey you have to hear what Seizure-Man was doing today".

All the Chips are Down

2006-03-01T06:53:00.000-08:00

So, what did you have for dinner last night? Oh, really? That sounds great. Me?
Oh, you know, Potato Chips.
That's right folks, Potato Chips. More specifically Sour Cream and Dill Kettle Chips.

I was all ready to make dinner (this is a complete lie, I barely walked into the door before collapsing) and my lovely wife (she of the stolen bike)sang me a beautiful siren song that went a little something like this:

"Hey, husband, why don't we sit have a drink, some chips and start a movie?"

And like Odyseus I sailed blithly to the couch, family size potato chips and drink in hand for a brief respite before cooking our cabbage curry.

Fifty three minutes into the movie (we'll get to that later) we had eaten 7/8ths of the bag of chips and were both clutching our guts bemoaning our folly. Had we ashes to rub in our hair and garments to rend, we would have.

I suggested that I could make dinner now, but with 32 pounds of potato, salt and oil in our systems the ass-groove in the couch took on a nearly magnetic quality and there we sat for another hour and a half.

If that was not evidence enough of my capacity for self destruction the movie we watched (with a brief intermission to watch the gilmore girls (!))was of the most embarrassing kind.

Here is a run-down of the various qualities the movie had to offer.

Straight to video (should be a deal breaker right there)
From the Makers of American Pie (see above)
A sequel (really?)
involving camp, hidden cameras and dick jokes (I am no longer 17...or Adam Sandler)
and it is called: Band Camp

To say this was a bad movie is unfitting. It was misogynistic, sophomoric and racist. But, hell, I couldn't tell. I was in a Kettle Chip and burbon fugue state, my own Million Little Pieces.

I woke up this morning, my hands still smelling of the nights excesses, my gut still growning under the weight of the starchy, salty, crunchy-ness and like a frat boy waking up with puke in his hair holding a half empty can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew and lying on a pile of dead Blatz cans, I vowed never to do that again.

After all the people at American Pie must be done by now.

I will never become a teacher

2006-02-28T08:08:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-20T15:54:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-20T06:24:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-17T16:57:00.001-08:00

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

2006-02-17T16:57:00.000-08:00

Why can't Johnny Pee?

2006-02-17T06:16:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-14T17:11:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-13T11:58:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-13T11:53:00.000-08:00

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."