This Is Why I'm Like This: Duck Lady, Boy Perspective 1972

Part two of my writing assignment for LA 11. This is second person, present tense with a horror genre. We'll see how it goes....thank you so much for indulging me.



  You don't know why you agree to stay over with Tim on Friday nights. His parents stay out late, which is awesome, you can do whatever you want, but they get up early on Saturday and start working on the lawn and it's stupid loud. You ave no idea how he sleeps through it, although you do have certain vampire-esque suspicions. You don't sleep through it, because you are not the undead, and you wake up and then sit down here in his room and stare at him until his creepy eyes open. They are always black when he first opens them, you swear they are. His mom always yells down asking if you want eggs, and you always say no even though you love eggs. Your mom never makes eggs. She makes cinnamon rolls, because her mom made her cinnamon rolls, so you guess she loved them, she thinks you love them, but you don't. You just eat them. She's a nice lady and you'll need her when Tim finally flips out and murders someone. You'll need a character witness. Also, there is a such thing as too much sugar. You get headaches when you eat too much. Which you heard from Brian meant you committed suicide in a past life, but he's probably making that up because he's diabetic and can't have sugar.

  You stayed up last night and watched Creature  Features which you love. This time there was a possessed bird that attacked, but it did a body snatchers thing where it took over the person, so they went crazy and acted like the bird and killed people.  It was like watching a zombie bird person, they moved like birds but they were people.There was that movie The Birds that was on a few weeks ago and your old man made you watch it, swearing it was his favorite when he was a kid. What was wrong with those birds?  That was terrifying, why would they all gang up on people like that?

Creature Features has stories about a lot of animals, birds and snakes a lot, too.  There are a lot of possessed animal movies, you swear you and Tim have seen them all. But something was up with this bird thing last night, and you had nightmares. People turning into pelicans, ducks, geese, ostriches!  OK, the movie had ostriches but that was dumb, where are there ostriches in Colorado? You live in the suburbs, there are birds everywhere. And ducks, you have a lot of ducks and geese, the ponds are right down the street and there are geese in the ditch when you walk home. You had one run after you one day, you didn't scream you tried to kick it, but Tim just laughed his head off like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen and chased the goose across the park. Sometimes you wonder about Tim. You wonder a lot. His parents are hardly ever home, and when they are they don't pay a lot of attention to him. In fact, there have been times you've been convinced the whole family could be vampires, as they're out all night, and there's a lot of noise in the morning with lawn stuff, but you never see  them.  You've never said yes to eggs partly because you're afraid to go up there and see the Munsters for yourself. But you smell cigarette smoke, so you know somebody's smoking, and you hate that smell, so you say no to eggs so you don't have to sit in a dark kitchen with cigarette smoking vampires. Although your mom is always saying "When in Rome..." and then she laughs. You  just figure she's having a stroke and she'll be dead soon. You have no idea what she's talking about most of the time, but nobody in your house smokes, or is a vampire, for that matter. Your little sister is a monkey sometimes, but that's it.

The thing with those movies is they don't show you how it happens. They show you the eyes of the animal, and the eyes of the person, and the eyes of the animal, and the eyes of the person, and then there's a scream. That's it. Eyes and scream and the next thing you know Marge from the diner is waddling and quacking and killing people.

So Tim came down with a plate of eggs and some toast. That's the other reason you say "No thank you" when his mom asks, you know he's gonna bring some down, anyway. She makes the eggs over medium, they're perfect. You don't look in his eyes, though, because they're black with a spot of red in them before he eats his eggs.

"What're we doing today?" he asks. He always asks you, and then he just tells you what you're doing. You don't care, but usually he has some good ideas. There's a swamp by the park at the end of Garrison  three blocks west, between the church and the ranch. Usually there's a dumped washing machine or car battery there he can mess around with. Nobody bothers with that side of the swamp, it's right next to this nice park with a sweet dock built by the pond, which is crazy. Whose idea was it to build such a nice park next to a barren, dirt patch next to a swamp? People just dump stuff on the dirt path between the two like they're supposed to, like it's an actual dump. You've seen the guy who owns the ranch on the north side of the park on Sundays cleaning it up. He loads whatever was dumped into his truck and hauls it off, you guess to a real dump. It's not even his property, it's not his problem, but you bet he can see that mess from the top floor of his house.

"Wanna go to Jewell park? See if any little kids need a lesson?" Since he's awake and eaten eggs his eyes aren't as black, they're more brown. Now they have a red rim around them.

You shrug. You don't like teaching little kids a lesson.The rumor about Smear Day keeps them pretty much in line, but occasionally Tim gets a hair up his butt and he needs to go stare them down on the monkey  bars. He never touches them, he doesn't even talk, he just stares. You wonder about Tim. Not just Tim, but why do these little kids all freeze or run home when he stares at them? Do they see something you don't? Like that poem, "The Raven", only it's not the bird that's staring at them, it's Tim.

"Nah. Too many birds, man," you shrug.

"That movie get to you?" He laughs, but you know him. You know it bothered him, too. Or gave him ideas, you aren't really sure which. Why are you friends with him, again? The birds in Tbe Birds were black crows, and nobody likes those things. But last night they were ducks. Ducks are not supposed to attack and possess.  Ducks are just ducks. That was just weird. Also, the duck stickers in his bathtub, the one downstairs in his room, are black. Where do you get black duck bath slippy stickers?

"It bothered you too," you shoot back. "Ducks who possess people and attack? What is that?"

"It was so fake, those people were not ducks, man. They ran like them, but weird people can run like that, anyway:Zombies. Retards. Second graders. Most of those actors were zombies on the show last week, I recognized them." He grins, and you feel your skin goose pimple. "I recognize some from my family, man." He throws his head back and laughs. You are frozen to your spot. Is he kidding?

You wonder about Tim. You wonder a lot.

"Whatever, let's just go outside."

You are on the sidewalk when you muster the nerve to ask, "You have family that are actors?"

"No, why would I?"

"Because you said on the show last night you recognized your family..."

Tim just laughs. He stares straight ahead. "Ghouls, man. Ghouls are my family."

You suppose Tim's your best friend. You've known each other since kindergarten, and you live two blocks away from each other. You have a trampoline in your backyard and he has a basketball net in his driveway, so you just sorta became friends. You went to elementary school at the cottages, right across from his house, until third grade. Now you're at the main building, in fifth grade. Next year is your last year there, and you'll probably get smeared by the 7th graders on the last day of 6th. Which is fair, 'cause you smeared the third graders when they went to the main building for fourth grade. You stole your mom's lipstick and chased them down the street. You could have caught one, but they're just so scared and you have a little sister. When she gets to that age, you'll punch anyone who comes near her. But in sixth, they say, the seventh graders carry razor blades. You have a whole year to worry about it, and you probably will. You worry a lot.

You take your time walking to the park, kicking a rock along the sidewalk and not paying attention. When you look up you're at Jewell park, not the swamp. "Dude...." you say, as he laughs.

"Immersion therapy," he laughs. "I read it in one of my dad's college text books. Throw you in the pond with the ducks, you won't be such a pussy about ducks any more."

You should just go home. You really don't know why you're even friends. You try to stay behind him, away from the pond. There are ducks all over the pond. Yellow ones, white ones, brown ones, black ones. And they're all looking at you. Silently. They're just staring at you. Trying to get into your head and infect your brain. You can feel them, their duck eyes burning through your skull.

Tim picks up a handful of rocks. "C'mon, see?" he chucks a rock at a duck, who flaps his wings and quacks. "Just a dumb duck."

You watch the animal closely, waiting for it to charge, like it did in the movie. You think it's looking right at you, it's just you and the duck: eye contact person, eye contact duck, eye contact person, eye contact duck- when you hear a scream coming from the monkey bars. You look at the duck, because you think he's screaming at you and looking right at you. Your eyes are locked with the bird and you are sure he's screaming inside of your head.

"That duck lady last night was crazy, huh?" he chucks another rock at the duck. "I wish they'd show how she killed those motorcycle gang guys, though. They always pussy out and they never show how they do it."

Tim has now turned toward the scream, like he's just now hearing it, and is laughing.  The scream is not coming from the duck, who is still staring at you. Tim chucks another rock at the duck and yells at the little girl who is charging toward you.

It's a little girl. You've seen her before walking to school. She's got a freckle face and looks like that Opey kid on Andy Griffith except blonde, and she's a girl. She walks to school every morning with her head looking at the ground, but now...she's charging right at you.

Charging.

Her head is forward and her arms are behind her, and her legs are short so she's kind of waddling/running and she looks like a duck.

And she's looking right into your eyes. Her eyes, your eyes, her eyes, your eyes-scream.

Tim looks at you. "Remember that Duck Lady in the movie? Muwahhhhhh!" Then he starts laughing.

"She killed three people, Tim. She was possessed." Your eyes are still locked with the little girl's.

 You hear her quack. In your head. Is she quacking or is it in your head? Or is she really quacking? You can't tell, your eyes are locked.

"Duck Lady!!" You scream  at her and start running back toward Tim's house. "Tim, she's gonna kill us. Move it."

Tim holds his spot for a moment, and waits until she gets a little closer. He's used to staring down little kids and having them run away. She keeps coming, so he spits words at her "I know you. I'll get you on smear day." But she keeps running. You grab his shirt and pull him. "I'll get you Duck Lady!" he screams over his shoulder as you run off.

You stop at the edge of the neighborhood, and look back. Your chest is heaving and Tim is either laughing or crying, and there's spit coming out of his mouth and tears from his black eyes. You turn to make sure the girl isn't right behind you.

The crazy little duck girl has stopped at the edge of the pond and is talking to the duck, who has swum over to her.

"See?" You shake your finger at the pond, "The duck is controlling her. He's telling her what to do. We gotta go."

"The hell she is, she's just a little girl," he says as he looks at her. His eyes are fully black again.Your skin goose pimples again and you swear you feel a cold breeze, but it's coming from Tim. He is rooted to the spot, like he does when he teaches little kids a lesson.

She looks up. She looks right at Tim, and her eyes are black,too, with a little dot of red in the center. She stares at Tim. But unlike when he teaches a lesson, she seems to be in charge. Tim looks like he's listening to something inside his head. She looks like she is reading his mind, and then the duck comes out of the pond and stands next to her.

Then the duck turns and  both of them look at us.

Tim screams and runs.

I was one step ahead of him.

This Is Why I'm Like This: The Duck Lady.1972

This is coming from a place that is new. I'm making my LA11 kids write a multi genre, multi voice memoir. As I always do, even with theatre, I join them so I can use my own garbage as an example. This is my attempt to tell the story, stream of consciousness, from my seven year old first person perspective.

YAY, Saturday! Immma go over to Jeffy’s house and see if he’s up yet. We can watch

The Bugaloos together at my  house, mom bought Super Sugar Smacks and chocolate milk.

Usually I don't need the chocolate milk, especially if it's Count Chockula because that turns

into chocolate milk, and if you put chocolate milk in that it's just chocolate soup. Super Sugar

Smacks and chocolate milk make sugar sludge. Which is the best, but I have to go outside

after cartoons or I just go back to sleep with an upset tummy.

Jeffy’s mom said he’s still sleeping, he had an upset tummy last night, so she’ll

send him up after cartoons if he’s better. I went home and watched The Bugaloos and

ate my cereal but Jeffy never came over. My sisters weren't up yet, or they were up and

being secret in their room which they do, I'm not invited. One time I broke my sister's

Barbie Camper by riding it around the house. I bet that's why I'm never invited into

their secret mornings. Mom and Dad weren't up, either, but that never matters, I just

go play after cartoons. I decided to walk down to the park. I’m not allowed to

cross Jewell, luckily the park is on my side of the street.

There’s nothing to do if Jeffy isn’t with me, we play on the monkey bars and skip stones

and feed the ducks, but we're always together. I hardly go alone at all, but sometimes I'll

see friends from school there and we'll play. It's fine, as long as the ducks are out. I love

the ducks. They’re so pretty and calm, and they only quack when they’re grumpy. Or

warning against predators, I learned that last year. Bunnies do that by flashing their

white tails, and ducks and geese quack. Humans yell I guess, though it’d be cooler

if we quacked. Ducks just glide along the water, like their legs aren’t paddling under the

water like wild. When I was little I didn't know ducks had legs, I thought they just floated,

like bath tub duckies. I saw one walk out of the water onto the shore and started screaming

and pointing, mom couldn't figure out what I was saying, because I was like two and

nobody uses their words when they're two. But I remember it, and I learned in

school that their feet paddle like crazy under the water where you can't see it, but their bodies

float all calm and pretty on the water. I like that, I think it’s how I’d like to be when I grow up.

Nobody knows how hard I’m working because I am pretty and gliding along the pond. I want

to be pretty when I grow up. I’m not pretty now, I have freckles everywhere and my hair is

cut short. My mom cuts my hair with the kitchen scissors, and it’s fine, just sometimes my

bangs are uneven or there’s a chunk missing. I use my safety scissors in my room to even

it out sometimes, if it bothers me. Mom says I’m a “Tomboy”, I’m not sure if that’s because

I like to ride bikes with Jeffy or because I’m not pretty. I think "Tomboy" is a way to say

you aren’t pretty without being mean.

I get to the park, and it’s one of those perfect Colorado days that you can’t explain to anyone

who doesn’t live here. That's what my Nana says, and I didn't understand until I was six

what she was talking about. How can you not explain something to someone? But now

that I'm older and I'm writing stories and learning about science, I understand. I can't

explain why I understand, which is frustrating, but I do. It’s September. I can see the

duck family on the pond, mom said I shouldn’t give them bread any more, so I went

to the library and looked up “ducks” and learned that they eat lettuce and corn. Also,

our backdoor kitty corner neighbors have a duck. Her name is “Quackline”. It was

“Quackers”, but then she laid eggs and they changed her name. They go to a special

store in Wheatridge to get duck food, but they also give her corn and lettuce from their

garden, so I think it’s OK. I wanted to give them carrots, because we have a lot of carrots

in our garden, but mom said they wouldn’t eat them, and Mrs. Eckley said it would make

them sick and if they weren’t shaved really thin they could choke. Last November Quackline

flew away and I thought she ran away, but she came back in April. Mrs. Eckley said she

guessed she wanted to migrate with the flock, but she doesn’t have a flock, she has a

backyard and the Eckleys. I learned about migration this year, and it’s confusing to me.

How do they know what pond to go to? How do they find their way back from Florida?

Dad says they go to Florida,which is also where Jeffy’s grandparents are. Mine are in

Genoa, on their farm. I don’t know why people go to Florida when they could stay in

Colorado. Unless you migrate there with the ducks, that’d be OK. I miss them in the winter. 

Sometimes they stay until the water freezes and I watch them float between the ice and it

makes me sad because their friends left them. Mrs. West says it’s because people feed

them and they don’t know when to leave. I don’t feed them after September because

I want them to go to Florida with their friends.

There are two bigger boys at the edge of the duck pond. I know them from my walk to

school, they live on my way and they go to the main building, they’re fifth graders. I go

to the cottages, we only go through third grade there. I’m in second grade. I love my teacher

Mr. Weisheit and my music teacher Mrs. West. These boys both live on the block across

the street from the cottages, I see them on my way to school and on my way home

sometimes.They never talk to me,which is fine with me because I think they’re scary.

I don't like older boys. I always walk home with friends because older boys scare me. When

you leave sixth grade to go to the junior high, the older kids from the junior high will

chase you on the last day of school, "Smear Day", and some kids get cut with razor blades.
I heard they even do it when you leave the cottages to go to the main building. I'm really
scared for next year.

I'm afraid of big kids.

At Halloween they put on their mom’s lipstick as clown makeup and go trick or treating

with pillow cases. Mom says I can’t do that, I have to use my pumpkin. She says it’s greedy

to use a pillow case. I don’t want to go anywhere near those boys or any big kids, they’ve

never done anything or said anything but I don’t like them. I don't have to do anything I don't

want to, and I don't have to talk to anyone I don't want to.

I stand on the playground at the park, my Super Sugar Smacks and chocolate

milk swishing around in my tummy, and wish Jeffy was here. I see the older boys are

throwing something in the pond. They’re throwing rocks. At the ducks! At the duck family. 

“Hey!” I yell, before I realize what I’m doing. They turn around. One has a rock in his hand.

I think he’s going to throw it at me.

“What?” he says, turning to throw his rock at the duck.

“Stop throwing rocks at the ducks,” I say. Without me realizing it, my feet have started

walking toward them. I don’t want to walk toward them, they’ll throw rocks at me! I’m still

walking, now I’m running and I’m yelling and I can’t hear anything,it sounds like when the

TV isn’t on a station in my ears. Static. It sounds like static. I can’t see very well, either,

my eyes have started to tear up.

“Stop it. Leave. The. Ducks. Alone.” I’m screaming at them, and as I charge towards them,

they drop their rocks and start to walk away.”Duck Lady!” they yell at me, but I keep
charging, head forward, arms back. I can’t hear myself over the static in my head, but I know
I’m not using words any more.

I’m quacking.

I am running full on at older boys, and I am quacking.

 I am almost at the pond’s edge, and the boys have run off toward the neighborhood.
I can hear them yelling “Duck Lady!” from a block away.

I stop at the edge of the pond and look at the duck family. The dad duck is swimming

toward me. He’s so pretty. All ducks are pretty, it doesn’t matter if they’re boys or girls,

they’re just pretty. I rub my eyes, which are itchy and filled with tears, which is weird,

‘cause I’m not sad, I’m mad. The sound of the static in my ears is going away, but I can

still hear “Duck Lady!” I can’t tell if I have supersonic hearing or if it’s just an echo in my brain.

I smile at the duck and tell him how pretty he is, and that it’s going to be OK. I have some

corn in my pocket, I always carry some to the park with me. I make this clicking noise with

my teeth and tongue, I do it to all animals, though it sounds a lot like a horsie “giddyup”

sound. The dad comes up on the shore, and there are babies behind him.I know he’s the

dad because he flapped at the mom and babies to warn them when the boys threw rocks,

and the mom swam away with them. They know I have corn, I bet they can smell it. I wish

Jeffy was here, he would have chased those boys away so I didn’t have to. Why would

anyone throw rocks at a pretty duck?

This Is Why I'm Like This: Teaching 9/11

      Ten years ago, I switched around two of my intro classes and took Steph's Comp World Lit classes. She missed theatre and Imma nice guy, and it was voluntary so I did not mind. Also, it was honors, all juniors and seniors who were college bound. Easy Peasy.
      Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer was on the curriculum. For those who do not know, this was the first 9/11 novel of note, published in 2005. These kids had been in elementary school at the time of the attacks, and all had clear memories they could share. It was living memory for all of us, and I just had to point out the time stamps on the voice mails from Oskar's dad and the images of a bombed-to-the-stone-age-Dresden. Easy Peasy.
     This year, the novel is on our curriculum list for LA 11. Not honors kids. Also, this is the first generation who were born after the attacks.
     Ummm.....
     Turns out, I have to teach all angles of 9/11 as well as Dresden, to get them to their final project, which is a Multi Voice Multi Genre memoir.
     Not Easy Peasy.
     In fact, kinda Hard...Phard....there is no matchy rhyme. Difficult Shmifficult. Rough Tough Enough?
     Yet, this is the most successful I've ever been able to structure a unit since embarking on lang arts. Everything in theatre was history lecture/analysis/acting exerises/rehearse the thing/ do the thing. I couldn't find a way to do that in lang arts, as "rehearse the thing" translates to "write in class" and that doesn't go so well. "Can we listen to music? Can I be on my phone? Do I have to write? Why can't I do this at home?" whilst busting them for being on facebook or snapchat or playing some rando computer game with Viking helmets and scantily clad women. OY. I'm too old to babysit and theatre kids ruined me for life cause they want to rehearse.
     This  novel is beautiful and I didn't want to rush it. I also needed to make sure they had the proper background info to fully understand the piece. Something as simple as an answering machine was foreign to them. They don't even set up their voicemail on their phones, they are truly a texting generation. No human contact. Voice mail counts as human contact, apparently.
     I wanted them to get the pain of the piece, the impact that day had on everyone, but particularly New Yorkers. I want them to care, but I know from my recent immersion into this whole "core" teaching thing that if you push too hard, they shut down. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. But...you can drown the son of a bitch,which is the approach I used last year with Night. I will make them care, and I will know they care when they cry.
      That didn't work last year, so I needed a new approach. Instead of addressing the whole thing the way Oprah would---a parade of widows and children---I'd skirt the edges and teach the facts.  Let the novel hook their heart strings while in class, we learned the history of the towers, read reflections of those who were impacted but not directly involved, like an F16 pilot who was scrambled to take down  American Airlines Flight 93, and Ray Romano, and the Atlantic article on "chance", opening discussions on divine intervention, focus, conspiracy theories and answered questions that I was not prepared to answer but did. We watched the slam poet Mike Rosen's "When God Happens", and his line "I ran my finger along the dust in the windowsill and thought bodies" had to be explained, because they didn't grasp that only 300 bodies were found, even though that information was in the facts we studied in class. The people became debris, shattered like the towers.No bodies to recover ties to the novel and the empty coffin, boom. Every choice I've made has been like that, I'm having an out of body experience. AHHHH I made a joke....that was unintentional but not unexpected, based on how this has been rolling along.
     I am not consciously aware of my planning. I just come in and dig around for stuff, set a page count for reading, create theme/symbol discussion questions and everything puts itself together. Jim found the F16 article. Someone on Facebook posted the Atlantic article. Click. Click.
     Which is why I was dreading yesterday. Reading a book on 9/11 on 9/11 is tricky at best, but when it's going well it makes a person jumpy for The Actual Day. So I set up the Atlantic article with writing responses around divine intervention and chance. Then the Rosen poem, suggesting they consider writing a poem as part of their MGMVM. Then the collection of 911 and answering machine calls from the towers for perspective--the first 911 operators had no idea what was going on, those in the building thought it was a bomb and the fire departments didn't answer until the sixth ring...I deliberately avoided calls from the planes, as those felt too Oprah. The 911 calls and the messages to relatives from the towers had more variety in perspective and heart without feeling too talk show-y.
     Which kinda made it worse.
      I had no interest in sharing my own "Where Was I" story. I was too buried under the realities of those who were directly impacted and the stunning symbolism in the novel. Every line is laden with the theme, it's like fish in a barrel, the kids don't have to look too far for examples and I'm sitting there feeling like the Biggest Failure As A Writer Ever.
     So instead of telling my own story, which pales in comparison, or making any sort of attempt at writing a meaningful blog about being a teacher today, I opted to just tell you what's going on.
     I also ate a lot of sugar and came home and drank a lot of beer. It's a weekend plan. It is my only plan, because frankly, the future is not guaranteed.
     That's how my day went.

   

This Is Why I'm LIke This: Why Eric Needs To Always Meet For Drinks On Thursdays

      Things I do when I'm not OK, made Funny

      Because I live 45 minutes from work, I've made a habit to stay "through" if there are conferences, rehearsales, etc. The last time I did this, for BTSN, I took myself to Wendy's and got a baconater. I have regretted it ever since. So today, since I have a S&D meeting and am staying, and Eric and I have been meeting to drink on Thursday, however, the Speech and Debate meeting interfered this week, I said "King Soopers is where I will go. It will be cheaper and healthier. Go me."
      Right out of the cannon we have a problem as the front doors are being blocked by some Do Gooders begging for donations. I don't make eye contact and duck into the store. Phew. I truly only have patinece for the Salvation Army Santa, and for Girl Scouts when none come to my house. Everyone else---register to vote (already registered) support this bill (already decided) marching band (came to my house)----pffft. I'm not rude, I try to avoid them if I can. If I cannot, I am firm but as nice as I can be, unless they cannot read social cues, and then I just keep walking. So, I made it past them on my way in and made the following healthy purchases for my lunch:
   a chicken salad croissant
   millet and  flax chips
   smart food popcorn
   wheat thins
   ICE, orange mango flavor
   cheese,  nut and grape snack pack
   an entire box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies
   a frappaccino
      All for $25!

   On the way out, I kept my head low and pretended I didn't hear the young woman speaking to me. But she stepped in front of me and I stopped, because I would have run over her.
    She looks at me and mumbles.
    "Sorry?"
    "Suicide prevention," she says, indicating her table with fliers and t- shirts. I shake my head. "I'm a teacher, we already do all of the things," and I kept talking as I walked away, trying to remember the name of the program we have in place at school. I realize something is not right, as I'm still talking when I get into the car "Sources of Strength!" I yell at the windshield as I open the Cream Pies and shove one into my mouth. If you eat your groceries in the car, the calories don't count. It's a fact, look it up. As I pull out, I continue to talk to myself "Those fliers aren't going to stop suicide, neither are the t- shirts, that's just silly."
    I start repeating "Park in the forum" to myself, as it's closer to my classroom and nobody's at school, so I'm allowed. We aren't allowed to park close to the school, those spots are for students and for the car salesmen from the dealership next door. I never get to park there.
    I realize my phone has no charge and the trip wasn't enough to give it a boost. I say to my steering wheel "Do I have a plug in my bag?" thinking I must have an edison plug to use for my car charger cord. I dig in my bag, removing the ziploc bag of dog food---there's a reason, hold on--and discover a plug. I shout gloriously to the inside of my car "YES, I DO, I have a plug!" and I grab my two bags of groceries and my bag, locate my badge and head for the door. Magically, my badge works and I am allowed entrance to the building. I enter my room  and unload the groceries. I pull out the plug, tell my classroom I have a plug, and retrieve my phone. I hold the phone in one hand and the plug in the other. The following words are spoken to my empty classroom:
     "Wait, shit, I don't have a desktop any more, I can't plug it into a hard drive....does my laptop have a plug in for the phone none of this works without a cord, where's the cord? I don't have a cord? How can I not---wait, it's in the car. I left it in the car."
      I walk back out to my car, saying "Keys, badge, keys, badge," and retrieve the cord for the charger. When I return to my room, the lights are all on. My favorite custodian is dumping the trash. He smiles at me and I say "Thank you," as I always do, and he apologizes for turning off my lamps. The flourescents are on, but he thought I was gone and turned off my lamps for me. Because he's nice.
     I now have a cord, an Edison plug and my phone. I stand with the plug in my left, the phone in my right, staring at the cord on my desk. "How does this work?" I ask the cord. It does not answer, it just lays there like a slug, like  Ralphie's brother, it's the cord's only defense.
    I manage to sort out how charging the phone works, despite my crippling disability. I eat my chicken salad croissant and am hit by a massive headache. I blame the salt in the sandwich, but more likely it's the creme pie, clearly I need to eat another one.I open my drawer and shake out a generic acetaminophen and try to remember if I had one already. I take only one as I cannot recall, and began to shove smart food popcorn into my face, chasing it with the mango ice. The creme pie requires that I unwrap it, my head is spinning and I'm not sure I can do that.
    I decide this is funny, I'm having a stroke or something, hilarious. I start to write about it.
   Then I sneeze so hard that I pee myself, triggering another sneeze that splatters popcorn onto my desk, triggering a cough and a panicked guzzling of orange mango.

   It's only 5 pm. The Speech and Debate meeting is at 6.
   I feel really good about this.
   Once my vision clears I think I'll open another creme pie.

ZIP LOCK BAG OF DOG FOOD. Because there are homeless people with dogs all outside of Coors Field. I never have cash, but I have bags of dog food for their puppies.

This Is Why I'm Like This: A Movie Review, IT 2 SPOILERS

  As a life long Stephen King fan, it was my duty to see the new IT movies.
  As a life long Tim Curry fan, it is my duty to snark about it.
  My first Stephen King novel was The Shining. My mom read it and loved it, and promptly gave it to me. I was in high school, however, and the language was upsetting to her, so she took a black sharpie and marked through the cuss words. That lasted about 50 pages, then she gave up. I guess she realized that I could infer the word based on the context, anyway, so what was the point? It was also a life lesson for me, as story is king and context is God, and the language is only as relevant as the reader chooses to make it.
   I read IT when I was hospitalized with a kidney infection. I read it in hardcover, and I finished it the week I was in. I know, right? How long ago was that? They would put you in the hospital for a kidney infection, they kept you for a week until you were better, and your insurance paid for it. Crazy times, man. I had insurance through B. Dalton, I remember the store manager bringing me flowers in the hospital and awkwardly hovering at the foot of my bed until I dismissed him.
  I was so disappointed in the ending that I never re read the book. Every once in a while, that happens. He knows how to tell a story, no argument. But sometimes he just gets all spun up with his own yarn and forgets that he needed a way back out, an exit strategy. A bread trail, something. I think that's what happened with IT. As terrified as I am of spiders, after all the great ghoulies that preceded the arachnid, it was just ...well, lame. The spider web of his story got away from him, tangled him up and immobilized him and he disappointed me. With a spider.
   Clearly, I had to watch the miniseries that emerged with Tim Curry, because it was Tim Curry. He was a delightful Pennywise, and the cast did their best to hold on against some heavy handed directing and poor screenwriting so I enjoyed myself. Yet there was still that ridiculous spider at the end, and even with a miniseries, there was no way all the story lines and characters were going to make it into the movie. Too much of King's writing relies on the internal narrative and thoughts of his characters. That doesn't translate to a screenplay.
   So when I heard they were making two movies and splitting the time periods, I thought there might be hope to explore the storytelling instead of the horror. Not that the horror wasn't awesome, but without the character development it was flat. That's what went wrong with the miniseries. What makes IT terrifying is that IT knows what scares you.
    IT 2017 came out and was just the kids. I worried about this, as in film it's a rough gig to try and bring back those kiddos in the next movie because, you know, they age. I assumed that meant the kids' side was on lock and part two would be all the adults. This vexed me, as the novel has the memories and the present so twisted up that something is going to have to give for the story to be told clearly in two movies. The first installment was a delight, no adults at all, only the kids' side of the story and missing that stupid awkward gang bang that never made any sense, anyway. And the death of Georgie was beautiful and horrifying in all the right ways.
   So it was with some trepidation that I embarked on viewing IT 2. The girls and Jim were all about it, so we planned to splurge and see it at the Alamo, where they were featuring "IT themed drinks" which amounted to floofie daiquiris with whipped cream cherry juice, and we could have lunch as well. I figured if it sucked at least I'd have beer and food.
   We arrived, full of hesitant anticipation. While waiting in the empty lobby---never a good sign--we looked over the Coming Soon ads flashing on the walls and chose our next adventures. It's like planning a vacation, you know you're gonna drop almost $200 at a movie, so pre planning is key. We entered the theatre to a lovely history of Pennywise and IT, and enjoyed our bloody alcoholic beverages as Genoa staved off a massive stomach ache and I downed two ambers. The movie began.
    Three hours later we were all buzzed, full and disappointed, but unable to pinpoint exactly why.
    The movie was "fine", it's a good movie,but..."it was long" was our collective comment.
    First, they mixed the kid memories in with the adults. I think this was for anyone who didn't see the first one, and it just added more time. They also added "flashbacks" not from the first movie or the novel to fill in a new agenda that makes Richie gay. I don't care if he's gay, if he was originally gay in the novel it was never explored and I dunno why it needed to be done now. I care that he's funny and he keeps the humor rolling, that's what I care about. It matters none to me that he carved he and Eddie's initials into the bridge railing as kids, or that Henry bullied him about being a "faggot" in a flashback. All you did was add more time to an already bloated film in what appears to be a contrived agenda. Stephen King has no agendas other than to scare the pants off of you, stick to his plan. He is King for a reason. He made any homophobic agendas clear in the opening with the death of Adrianin the novel, and it was present in the movie. Anything more is...overkill.
   Second, the story itself was changed. All King fans know the pain of Halloran taking an axe to the chest at the end of the movie version of The Shining. This time, instead of Henry putting Mike in the hospital, he just hurts Mike's hand. So now Mike is able to attend the final showdown...because, thirdly, he had to explain some native ritual that, again, was not in the original novel, and he needed to be present in the cave at the end for that to work. Awesome. Please add some more stuff to try and explain the inexplicable and fix a bad ending. If you're wondering, it did not work.
   I will take a moment to appreciate that the screenwriter, with the obvious support of King, took a jab at the horror master for his inability to end the book. I guess I wasn't the only one disappointed with the spider.
  I also do not take umbrage with the removal of Bev's husband and Ben's wife,whose presence, honestly, bloated the novel and just created more story lines that needed tying up.
  Fifth, Henry is so prevalent in the novel as an agent of IT, who is then quickly discarded once he serves his purpose, that he may have just as easily been eliminated from the movie altogether, since they chose to downplay his role even further. No need for him, cut him out--he just adds time, again, and it's already three hours long.
   I think the issue is what all Stephen King films suffer from: a deep identity crisis. His work is more than horror, and it relies heavily on in depth character analysis, much of which cannot be translated to a screenplay. The IT in 2017 worked because it stuck with the present, the kids dealing with the horror of "right now", unencumbered by their past. The film was clear, concise, contained jump scares and humor and that charm that King is so good at eliciting from us regarding our childhood friendships. IT 2 falls short because they were bound to film the kid flashbacks before they got too old, and then piece them together with the adults. Which is fine, I suppose, if it added to the story. But for the most part, it did not. There are six surviving adults (SPOILER ALERT STAN THE MAN DOESN'T MAKE IT)  each  of whom need their own "flashback" to remind themselves of the past. I don't think you need an entire scene  a piece to do that. As long as the moment happened in IT 1, which it did not, you need only reference it briefly. But those moments weren't in the first one, and so they bog down the second one with more kid memories. Poor planning, guys.
   I would watch James McAvoy read the phone book. He's a stellar actor, and it's a delight to see him play a regular Joe instead of a psycho. The rest of the cast are admirable, though I have no idea who they are, I always appreciate a director who does not rely on star power to sell a film. The acting is not the issue here. I think the writing was fine except for the weird additions that only added time, not character or story. The directing was done with an eye to the rose colored glasses of youth in a small town that King so loves. What they needed was an editor willing to cut scenes. Those additional flashbacks were not helpful, they only dragged and prevented the forward motion of the story. And as I posited in the first paragraph, story is king. (***addendum, I just looked up an interview with the director. The original cut was four hours long, and he still wants to film more. 'Nuff said.)
   Then there was the spider. I honestly didn't think anything could possibly be less satisfying than a giant black spider.
   I was wrong.
   That was not horror, that was silly. Making the clown the spider was an exercise in poor choices. Or laziness or just an acknowledgement that you just cannot satisfactorily end this beauty on film.The screenwriter clearly thought he could fix King's poor ending, and all he ended up proving was that if you're going to tell the story the way it's intended, the ending is going to be stupid on film. The end didn't justify the means, and the means didn't justify the end. The means were everything and it ended because it had to. In all cases: the novel, the Tim Curry miniseries and the newest additions,this is a fabulous horror story with a crappy ending. It is what it is. At least when you read about the spider and dead lights, it's left to your imagination and you can feel the fear of the characters.
   So he's got that going for him.

Seasons, A Story.

   I'm not sure when I stopped noting the changing of the seasons, but I can define the moment I began to notice them again. When the girls were small, I remember the first days of school seeming ludicrous to me. They were not going back to school, and I was a stay at home mom, so the whole shennanegin was lost on me. I would watch Back To School ads and laugh, wondering what sort of difference that made to me. It did not. But the seasons changing were pungent and present as we visited parks and museums and the zoo began to grow colder, after some scorching summer days. We would buy winter clothes because they'd grown out of last year's pants and coats, and I would look forward to Thanksgiving as it was  "my" holiday to have the family over.
   My mom says I was always "blue" in the fall. I have no real memory of that, only that my birthday is in October and I liked Halloween, so the "blue" thing vexes me. But if I look back on it, I can say that as I got older, I definitely became more depressed in the fall. Yet I loved it, I loved the colors and the leaves and the air and sweaters and corduroy pants...there is no bad here. When the girls were little, Halloween was two months of planning. We had to plan, yet be flexible, because they might change their minds the first of October. Several years I created or built the costumes. They were bugs from Bug's Life one year. For at least two years they were  dinosaurs which I loved.They evolved to wearing Halloween pieces to preschool and, eventually, kindergarten. Harp would go to the fabric store with me and touch all the pretty pieces, making her decisions on textures not colors.
  Once school started for them and I started teaching, the seasons were no longer seasons but breaks.
  I started noting the seasons again last year. Nothing was OK and I found myself clinging to moments, to clouds, to changing leaves, to breathing air, to anything and everything that was the ritual of change. Nature. Calm. I would think "What a beautiful day to visit a psych ward" and "It's gorgeous tonight" as I entered an ER. I turned my eyes skyward for strength, not realizing I was also searching for strength. Nothing like things spinning completely out of your control to force you back into focus.
  This year, as we move cautiously forward and I repeat my new mantra "I do not believe in hope, I have faith", I am forcing myself to note the orange glow of light, the dappled trees and smell the sweet air. I cannot hope, I refuse. I agree that hope crosses its fingers and walks through the fire. I did that already. I believe in faith, which leaps over the fire. Eyes upward, noting the air and nature's relentless disregard for my human anxiety, I am cautiously optimistic. I don't dare breathe a sigh of relief, or celebrate any sort of imagined success. There is only now, and I'm pretty sure that's a line from RENT, which I hate, so it must be time to go.

This Is Why I'm Like This: Buffalo, Wyoming

5 Lobben St
Buffalo, Wyoming
This is Mr. Todd's Barber Shop. Proudly owned and operated by my brother in law. I finally got up here to visit! Craig Johnson, who writes the Longmire book series, gets his hair cut by my brother in law. So technically, Todd is a Hairstylest To The Stars. Tracy says this town goes nuts every year for "Longmire Days". We tried to come out this year, but all the hotels were booked to the teeth. Maybe next year? Jim reads the books and watches the show, it'd be neat for him to be able to have that experience.

  My previous experiences with Wyoming boil down to a brief visit to a college friend, maybe outside of Laramie? And driving through Wyoming to get to Deadwood, South Dakota. It's always been there, just past Ft. Collins, but I never wanted or needed to go to there.

  My sister moved out here in 2016, and I'm finally making it out to visit. It isn't that I don't like my sister, I don't like the idea of being anywhere with the wind and cold. Or that has signs that say "I 25 Closed When Flashing".

  First off, I have to say the gas station/truck stops here are superior to all I've seen. If California is the worst (and they are the worst) and Wyoming is the best, Colorado is a solid middle child. The first Sinclair had a coffee shop, a "driver's lounge" with Barc-a-loungers, washer and dryer and showers. Dude. That's not the best part. The stunning superior rating came because they were clean. Like my kind of clean, kryssi clean, updated, kept up, beautiful. The second stop had no lounge or washer/dryers, but instead sold salt lamps, cowboy boots and local pottery and arty items. No Freaking Way. The closest competition for this I've seen in Colorado is the Sinclair outside of Fairplay, where we always stop en route to Durango. They're pretty impressive as well, but the cowboy boots and salt lamps out here put the Wyoming stops over the top for the win.

   Points Matter
   Hilton points count, dude. We had enough to stay here at the Hampton Inn for free. "Free" until the city tax passed in April, so we owed ten bucks. The hell, Buffalo, really? This is the nicest Hampton Inn we've ever stayed at, and the only property, ever, to have the pool and hot tub separate enough from the hotel proper to allow all day/night access. There is no "Pool Closes At 10 PM" crap here! It's awesome.

  No Homeless
  My beloved home state is being overrun. Zombies aren't going to bring  about the downfall of society, the homeless are. This is not a state that seems to have any issues.  Probably due to the aforementioned weather fluctuations and the fact that every where is at least two hours away from every where. Well done, Wyoming.

  Just Because Your Hotel Is Historic Doesn't Make It Worthy Of A Visit
  If you come to Buffalo, and are interested in visiting The Historic Occidental Hotel, don't make the effort. You've seen "historic" old hotels in Aspen,  Creede, Durango and Leadville. This one has nothing unique to offer, and has hideously missed the mark of customer service. Buffalo is a highway crossroads town, nothing more. You are either on your way to or from Yellowstone. The only reason to venture onto main street is if you've decided to stay a few extra hours or your family is sleeping and you'd like to go check out the local strip. The Occidental's food is frozen fare you can make at home, and the beer is a delight, from the Sheridan brewer Black Tooth. The family owned business has family seemingly angry that you are bothering them, water in paper cups and no interest in showing any sort of hospitality. In fact, if you go to the bar, you'll feel that they are instead hostile toward you. Skip it.

  I would think Black Tooth would love to have a small brew pub in Buffalo, some place the locals go and someone is friendly to them. Some place with better cuisine. Maybe even with brewery tanks that they can manage. Maybe expand to bottling. Maybe we could run it for them.


  And those are my postcards from Buffalo, Wyoming.