This Is Why I'm Like This: "Comic Con" and Cary Elwes

   2019, a year I had hoped would be about healing. Mending the broken and shattered previous years. Sometimes more has to be broken, I guess, for it to be put back together. I no longer hope. I have faith, as I heard Jim Carrey state "Hope crosses its fingers as it walks through the fire, Faith jumps over the fire." So. I have Faith. Like George Michael.
    I have  a list of Things I've Never Done, and it changes every time I think of something. I'm never retiring, so I've decided to instead have experiences and enjoy them now. Even menial. Even having to work second and third jobs.
     I've never worked in a warehouse---blogs ongoing on that topic, as I will likely be there at least four days a week this summer.
     I've never attended Comic Con. Even though yesterday I went to the convention center and had my first Comic Con experience, I was a year too late for Comic Con. It's now called Pop Culture Con. Which is stupid, but whatever, not my circus, not my lawsuit. The point is that technically, I still have not attended a Comic Con, but I attended Comic Con.
     Harp was supposed to go with her friend Will on Friday, but he had to work at the last minute, so I was her replacement date. I've never even wanted to attend Comic Con, it sounds like a big money suck.
     I wasn't wrong.
     Its entire purpose is to separate you from your money.
     But she paid for the tickets, so someone had to go and why not? I'd heard there were cool cosplay costumes and people watching.
     I hated it immediately, because I had put some cheese sticks and a water bottle in my bag so we would have snacks---I'm a mom and we're on a budget. They rudely made me throw it all out so I could pay $4 for a bottle of water inside and $8 for a salad.  Standing in line awaiting entry, I spotted the cutest little Freddy Mercury. He lifted my soul after the hefty Wolverine standing to my left. This was after my snacks were thrown out and before I knew the cost of water. So my spirits lifted.
     We arrived early to ensure we would find a sweet spot in line for Cary Elwes' autograph. These curtains are set up to shield the celebrity and those receiving autographs a handful at a time from the rest of the line. We were very near the front, maybe ten people ahead of us. But there is a separate line along the edge for "fast pass", those who paid extra to wait in a faster line. They really didn't move much faster, but we got there early. I could see this being a good expenditure if you were arriving an hour into the signing, you could avoid the great General Admission unwashed. Except you're standing right next to us, not avoiding us at all. One of the fast pass women was very chatty, she had met Tom Wilson at a previous Con and was delighted that he remembered her when she saw him again, and was of course going to see him again today.

       The signing was to begin at 10.15. At 10.27 Cary Elwes emerged from the curtained inner sanctum and waved at us. I tear up, my God, he looks great. I'm really going to meet the guy who is in one of my most favorite movies, ever? Harper's smile is bigger than her face leaving little room for her massive blue eyes. I look at the clock, "Why are they like that?"
       "He's fashionably late." Harper states matter of factly.

       The faces of those emerging after their moment with Cary Elwes were pure joy. All of my carping about paying for an autograph, which is ridiculous, he doesn't need the money, went away. People were having him sign products, like a Westley bobble head, that they could easily turn around and sell. So I suppose this is a way to discourage that? Or to make a profit cause they assume you're in it for profit? It sucks, autographs should be free and you shouldn't sell them on eBay for a quick buck. That's what I think of that.
       This is Harp's first celebrity encounter and she's beside herself with glee. She's glowing and nervous. She has to choose an autograph or photo, which will it be? We've only money for one of them, and I'm pushing for a photo because that's more proof.  But she decides, when the woman asks, on an autograph and she'd like him to write "As You Wish". She giggles uncontrollably  as she is handed the sticky note labeling her request, and others in line are heard whispering "I'm going to have him write that!" Like Harp invented the idea, NOBODY HAS EVER THOUGHT OF IT BEFORE THIS WILL BE THE FIRST TIME HE WRITES 'AS YOU WISH' WITH AN AUTOGRAPH.  Hilarious.
         The woman directly in front of us in line is in military garb, has short hair and I misidentified her as "sir" when she dropped her cash and I returned it. (That happened twice, I'm a very honest person). She has something in a bag, that looks like a frame, and something in a poster roller. I assume it's a poster from Princess Bride.  She is very focused and quiet, and when we get inside she unfurls original artwork she's created for Cary Elwes to sign. He is impressed and chats her up about how she created it, and suggests she talk to the vendors about selling her work. She is an example, I suppose, of someone doubling the value of their art by having it signed by the subject matter? Or not, it was one piece of  art, likely it's hers to keep. Either way, go you, Cary Elwes had a conversation with you!
         The gentlemen behind us, in full Star Trek NG garb, are discussing the ins and outs of the Fast Pass, asserting it's not a hardship to wait in a longer line and it's a waste of money. They trade stories of standing in one line with a friend in another, and managing to double the photo/autograph experience.They then begin a debate on Back to the Future, as Christopher Lloyd is also here and they may attend his panel. The shorter gentleman has a satchel with plastic covering to protect his autographs, he is getting them for two people, I am assuming a wife and friend. They are to be personalized to them, and he has opted for "As You Wish", but purchased the combo, so he's doing a photo as well. The design must match previous combos, however. This is not his first rodeo.
          Two people to go and then we're in, Harper looks like she's going to faint. We can see him through the thin fabric, and comment on how great he looks and how short he actually is and can you believe we're meeting Westley? I think it'd be more fun to have him sign my favorite line from the film, which is grandpa padding his pockets and saying "Okay....allllright.....Okay", but that's not his line. I laugh to myself at how truly and deeply funny I am, then I look at Harp and almost scream "My Westley will come for me!" I can't believe how stupid excited I am to meet this man for thirty seconds. This movie is deeply ingrained in my children, they've watched it since they were wee, small enough to be afraid of the ROUS', so for a few years we just skipped that part. Even though when were at the zoo, I'd point to the Cabybaras and say "See? They're real and not mean at all."
         OK, we're up. Holy shit. Entering the inner sanctum. The gentleman in charge of taking photos grins down at us, we must've looked excited, and says "I know, right?? I couldn't believe they put me in here today, I get to hang out with him all morning." Lucky bastard. Where do I sign up for that job?
        Cary Elwes is stunning. I think of Tina Fey talking about celebrities on SNL, and how they look like regular people except they have better teeth and nicer watches. Cary Elwes doesn't show his teeth much, he smiles like a duck for those ahead of us getting photos, but his hair and skin are flawless. Genetics and a team of highly trained professionals are keeping this man looking fantastic. The other thing I note is the energy. He's calm, and he's...kind? He's going through his blocking, the assistant takes our money and the book we've asked him to sign with the sticky on it with our request, and slides it to him. He shakes hands and asks names, and doesn't seem bored and is not rude. This is not Alan Rickman in Galaxy Quest at all, which is kinda what I expected. If you don't know my reference, watch that movie, it's perfection. Cary Elwes is  genuine and authentic and grounded. He has held up a bit with the military woman, asking about her art work and genuinely interested. It's our turn and he extends his hand to Harper. "What's your name?"
         She hesitates, and I wait for her to either pass out or throw up on the nice man.
         "Harper," she stutters as he shakes her hand.
         "Cary."
         Then his hand is at mine, "What's your name?"
         I took his smooth hand and I am unsure of what I said. He smiled and looked down at the book.
         "Is this an original printing?"
         "Not original but it's the one from before the 80's when you were on the cover meah blah smurrrr...." I just stop talking.
           Harper is standing, staring, eyes wide, enraptured. She can't process it all, she's truly Star Struck in the truest sense of the phrase. She can't move. I think she's going to cry.
           Cary Elwes takes her hand again and smiles, "Oh my, you're a cutie, come here." And he stepped around the counter and hugged her.
           She stopped breathing.
           He extended his hand to me again and I thanked him again, and we somehow stumbled out of the inner sanctum.
            We decide jokingly that her behavior made him think she was special needs, and so he hugged her. Or he's a smart man who sees Star Struck all of the time, and is kind enough to be appreciative. Either way, we stumbled out and the people in line saw our faces and asked "Is he nice?"
           "Ridiculously so, he hugged her!"
           "NO!"
           I laugh "I think if you cry he'll hug you." The women smile and say "That's gonna happen, anyway."
          Harper was taking photos of the signed book, and spamming her social media with "CARY ELWES HUGGED ME AND SAID I WAS A CUTIE" as we continued to hover near the entrance. We were told by a minion we must clear and we cannot take any photos of the sign, but too late, Harper already did. I looked at her after we were fussed at and she said flatly "Don't tell me what to do."

          As we digest our first encounter at my first "Con", we realize it's only 11 am.
          And we're done. We can go now. Nothing is going to top this.

         
                               The illegal shot, "Don't tell me what to do." --Harper Martin


   

This Is Why I'm Like This:Raising Millennials, First Verse

   I am going to open by saying this is not a trash post about millennials.

   I am a high school teacher, and parent, and I've seen all sides of the crisis.
 
   Last night, while drinking in the street with my neighbors (Thank you Allison), who also have kids the same age, I found sympathy in the reality of the struggle, but no answers. Just a lot of drinking. In the street. Which was actually awesome, it reminded me of block parties and backyard gatherings from my childhood. I have a neighbor who is relentlessly determined to keep us as a neighborhood, Old School.

    What I found was a common acceptance that our adult children are going to have to move home after college, and it's not entirely their fault. Nor is it ours.

     I worked my way through school working a few jobs because, as my neighbor pointed out, one class cost $500. We had no cell phones, which you cannot survive without these days, so the apartment landline was $20 bucks. You could grocery shop at a budget of $35 a week. If I continue along this line, I will sound very Jimmy Stewart reminiscing on how gas was a nickel a gallon and the movies were ten cents. I know when I was a kid, mom could send me up the street to Tastee Freeze with a dollar, and I'd get a burger, fries and coke and still have change to get fake candy cigarettes at 7-11.

   These kids are graduating with over $100,000 in student debt, with degrees and internships that sometimes don't yield jobs at all, let alone one that will pay $14000 a month in rent, plus phone, plus gas, plus groceries and insurance and student loan. Unless their parents were financially able to pay for their schooling, or pay off their loans, the bulk of them will end up living back at home.

   I have alumni that had to move back for several years. Several have been fortunate enough to buy a home by the time they are 28 or so, but I suspect some parental help on that end. Unless they are also fortunate enough to be in a relationship, and at least one of them has a good paying gig. But I've seen it, it exists, and it makes it all the more frustrating for everyone else because instead of celebrating their success, parents look at their own child and use it against them. How come you can't manage to even buy a car but he can get a house....blah blah blah. Because it's really, really hard and not everybody is wired the same. Some people are more motivated, some goal oriented, some do not struggle with mental illness or at least don't find it to be debilitating. Many simply have no idea what they want to do, and cannot afford college to "explore their options", and so give up. I am thrilled for those who make it out, and I celebrate, and I find my own children comparing themselves and I say "We are all on our own journey. Relax." I used to say "As long as you can pay your bills, you'll be fine." But of course now they can't pay their bills. Current example, Harp has changed massage therapy jobs four times now since October. She changes each time at the promise that this one will be the money maker. It never is, they don't book her as much as she needs, or the management structure causes issues, or the company itself is struggling. Dude. Genoa makes $12 an hour as a preschool teacher and with her salary plus Jose's as a cook, they can barely manage the $800 a month they're paying for their shit hole in Durango. I do mean Shit Hole. It's a "renovated" hotel, so their apartment has no kitchen.

    We keep fussing at them about a budget, but how do you budget what you don't have? This is why we, as her parents, have no retirement or way of helping either one of them out, except to let them move back home.

     I'm not whining, I am explaining. I feel like there are others out there in the same situation. You're not alone, my friends. Come hang out on my street one summer night and share a beer with us.

      Everyone's story is different. My experience paying my way through school is mine, and sure, I am frequently disappointed in my financial  life. I was unable to afford a masters degree, which keeps me from making more as a teacher. I'm married to a guy with a masters whose still underpaid, so it doesn't always universally transfer to  the money train.

    This generation doesn't need our judgment, they need our help. Real, tangible, help. College expenses spiraled out of control during our watch and I saw no one taking to the streets defending their child's right to the same quality of education that they had at a reasonable price.

   As parents, many who have also changed careers once or twice and who have no hope of a retirement, our version of helping is to let them live with us. We can't say "do it yourself" because when we left home or college, rent was $500/month. We can't just wave our arms and say they're lazy, because they aren't. They're mentally ill, they're full of anxiety, they're worried and deeply in debt by the age of 21. They're working as hard as they can at jobs that don't pay enough for them to live.

   As millennials, they have to stop blaming us as well. If a job doesn't work out, find another one but in God's name stop pulling no call no shows, you're giving you're entire generation a black eye by being irresponsible. Just call in. Find another job, but find one, and understand that days without pay add up when the bills come due.

    Again, this is not everyone. I see semesters abroad and internships and am truly happy for those families. But none of them live in my neighborhood, and precious few are my alumni.

    Just like the left and the right need to stop throwing rocks and find a solution, so do the generations. We're not helping each other at all by blaming.

This Is Why I'm Like This:Warehouse

       Okay, so I've already  been punished for my blogging, but  this is nuts.  I have to keep writing.

       When I was unceremoniously "fired", which was not the word used because lawyers, I had an  AMOUNT of money suddenly taken from me. Without due process. Also a  lawyer who wanted me to sue. And because I was laboring under the delusion of Not Poking the Bear,  and lawyers have an agenda,I did not sue or in any way fight back. After talking with Jim, we believed that it would just blow over if I stayed "under the radar." Or "taking the high road."
      It seemed to be the human response. And it was one we made, as a couple. I am not mad at anyone but myself.

      And it did not work, I lost everything, anyway.

     Due to that choice, I have been scrambling to make up the salary difference every year. And due to the depression and anxiety the choice has caused, I dropped the ball and cost myself a summer gig. You are now caught up.

     See "The Time Depression Cost Me A Gig" if you're interested.

     And here we are, a lost gig and a need to make up the money so our family can survive. 

     I am a 53 year old debenched  (dethroned?) theatre  (disgraced?)teacher  (disrespected)who relies on the kindness of theatre camps to survive. I blew one of those camps, because after three years, I finally couldn't hold on any more. Depression is real, and if my leg was broken you'd have sympathy, but it isn't so you don't.

    

     I am a 53 year old teacher on "ShittyJobsIndeed.Com" trying to make up the difference. 

    Nobody is interested.

   

    So my husband's company graciously agreed to let me come work bitch  in their warehouse.

    This is that story.

    9 am, I arrive with my husband at the warehouse. He is the Comptroller for a company that deals in soaps and shampoos for resorts. They have a warehouse where they create, manufacture and ship various smelly things for resorts.

    Many of these people are lovely people I have met at Christmas parties over the years. They think it's neat that I'm a teacher, weirdly. They think it's a viable career.  I get there and talk to R-----, "Quality Control". I've met him, he's awesome. He's 51, in a band and moves at the speed of global warming: nothing ruffles him. He is playing his guitar in his cubicle when I arrive.

    We traverse the warehouse as he looks for the sunscreen that is a mistake (I thought I was there to sort bad soap, but who cares), talks to young men wielding forklifts like I've never seen-- they turn corners--and other such interactions that don't seem to involve me. I get antsy, because I am product orientated, and I'm just standing there. He tells me stories of sunscreen, and reef safe, and mistakes, none of which I understand, but I receive because he's a guy who Actually Cares About His Job. Finally he is able to move around 34 boxes of sunscreen (24 individually wrapped bottles per box) that are wrong, somehow, and that I must empty into a vat, throwing out the plastic bottles because they are now contaminated, but I must save the sunscreen. OK. Immmma theatre kid, give me direction.

  

      He pulled a large barrel that had a plastic bag containing the last round of sunscreen. I thought there should be something to anchor the plastic, because the weight of the sunscreen would pull it down, but...not my circus, not my monkeys. I'm just there to do what I'm told. No judgment, no opinions, just a pay check. So, he walks me thorough my routine for the next eight hours: open the box of 24 individually packaged and wrapped sunscreen bottles, pop the caps, throw them in the trash. Empty the contents into the barrel, throw away the bottle. Easy peasy, right?

      Except that 53 year old kryssi has arthritis, and back trouble and and and and and....twisting off the caps became an issue after one box. So I adapted, R--- left his knife, so I used the knobby part to pop off the lids.Because my thumbs began to seize and freeze. No probs, thanks for the knife! 

 
     Then the plastic bag begins to sink, as gravity is the law. I cannot find R---, so I grab a forklift kid who looks spookily like one of my former students to ask if he has a clamp to set the plastic around the bin. This is not his department, but he knows who to send me to. I talk to B----, who is the guy who bought my motorcycle and is the boss. He has an assistant, Br---who is more than willing to come trouble shoot. After a brief conference at the bin to determine that in fact, the plastic is being pulled down by the sunscreen, Br---runs off to find a clamp. He returns without one, and instead looks at the barrel and summizes that the original metal clamp that adhered to the circumference of the bin to keep the lid on, might work to keep the plastic in place.
      I can't believe I didn't think of it. I tell him he's a genius. I swear he blushes.

     At 10.30 R---- comes to tell me it's break time. Cool. A break? Jim brought me what he calls my "Space Food Yogurt" and we chatted a bit in his office. He tried to talk me into the Roach Coach Croissant, but it's not that I'm racist against Roach Coach, but I'm Keto, so I am racist against croissants. But I appreciate both his an R's desire to encourage me. I'm fine, I go back to work.

      A lovely young man brings a mat for me to stand on, as I am ELDERLY, and while I "stand" all day at school, I don't stand in ONE PLACE for eight hours. That's a lot, but I found myself being grateful for yoga last night.

    The first hour and half were rough, still tired, finding my groove , etc. After the break I found myself splooging sunscreen into the barrel double fisted, in patterns. and tapping the sides to a beat in my head- "He Had It Coming" from Chicago, I dunno why. It morphed into "Nowadays" and my mind wandering to Fosse/Verdon. And how much Fosse (the real Fosse and Sam Rockwell) resemble my beloved high school theatre teacher, who had the sense to not insult the principal and lose his job, and how did I get here? David Byrne asked in his big suit. So at  12.30 is lunch, but Harper was late arriving to "take" us, so I worked until 1. The warehouse cleared out by 12.35, lunch means, lunch, and these people take it seriously.

     I went to lunch with Jim,and Harp who came out to join us. She's going to start a program to become a pharmacy tech, as she's concluded massage is not a full time gig for her. G texts about progress toward moving out of Durango and her dead end preschool job  and back to Denver to pursue her bliss.

      After lunch I returned. Machines, light chatting, the beep of the forklifts. I am unnerved by how nice everyone here is. The young man who seems to be an assistant manger of some kind in the warehouse reminds me of several students I have had over the years. He is kind, he cares that I am comfortable and is also carrying some newfound authority that he relishes but shows no ego, he just takes pride. The actual manager is the guy who bought Shoniqua from me after I wrecked her and has given her a great and loving new home. Everyone's just doing their job. This place is shockingly free of agendas

  

      I am aware that I clearly do not belong here. I am the wrong age, gender and color in the first place. In fact, I was the only white woman in the warehouse. The others all work up front.

      I wasn't feeling particularly bored or anything. I was becoming a bit concerned about my hands seizing up, they left me a knife. I have proven I can't even be trusted with a paper cutter, let alone a Swiss Army Knife. Not only am I using the blade to cut the box, I'm using the side tool to pop the caps. My joints are seizing up every few minutes, but it's not painful, it just is. So it was weird that I wasn't bored, or grumpy, or even uncomfortable, but I was counting the minutes, as school is out at 3.31pm and my body is acclimated to function from 6.45 am- 3.31 pm, and be engaged from 8.30am-3.31pm , so I'm  done with my day by 3, intellectually,but at the warehouse I have two hours left. That was quite a run on wasn't it?

     Bathroom break. I run across the owner's daughter, a lovely young woman about Harper's age who is working in the front office, I suspect she will take over the family business. Her sister has recently graduated from college and is traversing Europe. They are fortunate. I wonder if they are aware of that?

     I schlep back to my station and count the empty boxes and do some math. I've managed to get through 13 boxes of 24 units each out of 34 boxes. Nobody to compare myself with as I'm the only one on this task, so Immmma take that as a win: I'm The Best.

    Likely that is slow, but slooshing the sunscreen OUT of the bottle is time consuming, even if it's double fisted. Just saying. It's not my age, or the mileage. It's that warehouse work functions on a different timeline than teaching. Nobody's in a hurry here, and they just do what needs to be done until it's done.

     All in all to sum up: This is just a skeleton. Nobody here is grumpy. Nobody is bitching about the boss or their job and they all appear to be happy.

     Scene.

This Is Why I'm Like This: The Last Week Of School

    5.15 alarm.
    Snooze.
    5.20 alarm.
    Snooze.
    5.30 alarm.
    Snooze plus vulgarity.
    5.45 alarm.
    "Allright allright allright, sheesh."
    Go back to sleep.
    6 am alarm.
    Vulgarity. Ugh.
    Dump my body unceremoniously out of bed, almost fall. Knees are swollen. Old. Stumble down hall.
     Dog Food.
     Dogs out.
     Upstairs cat food.
     Start coffee.
     Shower...or not. Did I go to the gym last night? Nope? Score! No shower needed.
     Gel hair, brush teeth, spray delightful mango scent generously around circumference of body.
     Dogs in.
     Clothes? Oh man, renovation has everything in baskets...find a maxi skirt and mismatched top.
     Yogurt, Diet Coke, Atkins bar= lunch. Check.
     It's not even real yogurt, it's carb balance. Jim won't go anywhere near it.
     Mumble words like "Sorry I didn't walk you, I'll do it when I get home (this is likely a lie), I just need to sleep more, immmma go change lives, stay up here boys, I love you." If daughter is up, additional words "Take it easy today, have a good day at work, I love you..." to which she will snark "Stop talking to me right now."
     Go downstairs. Forward. Dick Van Dyke said so.
     Downstairs cat food. Scan floor for any dog poop, because it rained last night and they won't go out because they suck and I hate them. I hate everybody.
     Get in car.
     Where is my phone?
     Go back in house. Retrieve phone from bed. Kiss husband.
     "Have a good day, you look nice," he says.
     "You look nice too."
      Trip over dog who thinks I'm home after a long day.
      Back downstairs, cats think I'm feeding them again. They're dumb.
      Back in car.
      Where's my coffee....
      Back in house. Coffee is next to cat food on the hearth. I hate everybody.
      If I leave later than 6.30 I hit traffic. My 30 minute commute fifteen years ago is now 45 minutes. I did not move and I did not change jobs, EVERYBODY FREAKING MOVED HERE AND I HATE THEM.
      Switch from KOOL 105 to  SIRIUS XM 1st Wave, I have it programmed four times because every time I touch a button it programs the station on that button, so I have four SIRIUS XM buttons and three KOOL 105 buttons. I don't really understand my car radio, and there's a recall out on it, but after a month of trying to get Groove Subaru to care about my recall I gave up. But I doubt the recall has anything to do with my inability to program the stations.
     There was a shooting last week at a STEM school, but we're done talking about that I guess cause the conversation isn't easy any more now that they know the guns were obtained legally by the parents and were locked up, and the kid broke the lock. Also one of the kids was transgender. The conversation isn't so easy any more, in fact it needs to be a CONVERSATION not everyone throwing rocks on social media, which is what we prefer, but now it's hard so we just stopped talking about it.
     Depeche Mode tell me they just can't get enough.
     Not me, Depeche. I've had enough.
     I can't hear their name without thinking of the Dead Milkmen calling them "Depeche Commode".
     I laugh too loudly and say "Depeche COMMODE" while at the light. Then I start laughing again because it's a black commode that I visualize, clearly, not a white one. Why would I imagine any other color? And by the way, what happened to Depeche Mode, he looked like AJ. What happened to AJ? The sun is really gorgeous coming up, it's always a Bronco sunrise whether they suck or not. It's never a Nuggets sunrise, and why is the Nugget mascot a yellow panther?
      I was in class when the secure perimeter was called. 25 freshmen, all unfazed, taking a quiz on Romeo and Juliet. I looked at them and thought "and the band played on..."
      I need to call NelNet and switch the loan. I keep forgetting. Also go to Target and get a shelf, put up the hooks in the bathroom, get fake plants...the post renovation redecorating is slow since I didn't do a full purge before the ren. It causes me pain to use a landfill, but you can't give  half empty bottles of shampoo and towels the dog ate to the ARC. There's been a bathtub next to my trashcans since December.
     The principal came on to inform us about the secure perimeter, and said if anyone needed to go home, admin would let them out of the building even though it's locked. One kid laughed and said "Ya, I wanna go home."
     U2 is now on, Bono is yelling at the Red Rocks crowd "I'm so sick of it all."
     A kid laughed.
     What if I just didn't park where I am supposed to? What then? What if I flagrantly parked in front of the building and walked right through the front door instead of coming through the servants entrance? What then? I'm  here earlier than anyone else, nobody would know. Well the cameras would, I suppose.
      It's Monday, the shooting was last Wednesday. Nobody's talking about it any more.
      Park next to the counselor's truck, and leave a space next to me for Social Studies/Union Rep, as is our self assignment. Counselors aren't even counselors any more, they're admin. They couldn't help kids the day after the shooting because they had to administer the AP exams. Sit in my car. Let U2 finish. I wish I was back in Ireland. Wish I was Bono. Wish I wasn't here.
      DJ Bueller has mixed Love and Rockets next. Irony, coincidence or divine direction? "Ball of Confusion" is now on...recorded originally in 1971 by the Temptations, remade in 1985 by Love and Rockets because...well, because generationally the issues remain. And the band played on.
      Breathe.
      The band plays on.
      Gather my hippie bag, my Steppenwolf Theatre hoodie, phone and put keys with badge around my neck.
      As I get out of the car, I note a tag at the bottom of my skirt.
      I have it on inside out.
      One more week. Just one more week.


              Scene.
     
     

This Is Why I'm Like This: Technology

      I am world famous in Littleton Public Schools for having computer issues that nobody else has, and that require a professional. That professional always enters, believing it to be something silly and operator error, and always exists, befuddled and somewhat amused.
      For years I thought it was me, everything was operator error. But once I exhausted the help of my colleagues, and then tech savvy students, and then administrators, I developed a relationship with our in building tech expert, LaDonna. I would send an email "Help", or if my computer had crashed completely, I would send a smoke signal. She knew who it was. When she moved to the district level and the person replacing her in the building was not ...well, they were not...so I had to call the district to get help. That meant other people up there began to learn about me. I had a guy who had to come down to disentangle some sort of debacle on my desk top, who had been working in the district for two years and had never entered our building.
      Until me.
      Now, they want us to do this assessment stuff on RANDA, which is not going well for me in any capacity. In the first place, I cannot remember the password. In the second place, the administrator asking me to do The Thing is not using the same wording as the Button For The Thing, and that took up an hour of my life, and it's been a shit week and I started crying in frustration because we don't have anybody who can help me, any more. I spent an hour a month ago trying to figure out how to upload a document to stupid RANDA, and ended up having to print it, fill it out, take a picture with my phone, send the picture to my email, download it to my desk top and then upload it to the site. And now they think I'm going to get on the website and get into some shennanegin to sign my contract this year?
      This is where I exit teaching.
      Not the school shooting this week, not the entitlement. Not the school shootings, plural, or the crappy pay. Not being vilified for the failure of students while simultaneously expected to protect them from bullets. Not parents, not administrators functioning in fear.
      Technology.
      I almost quit two years ago when I had to renew my license, which is now done entirely online. And I mean ENTIRELY, they won't let you mail ANYTHING. I know. I called. It took me two weeks to upload all the bullshit, and right before it was finished I said out loud "This is it. This is why I will leave teaching."
     I'll keep you posted regarding the contract signing.

This Is Why I'm Like This: School Shootings.

7 May 2019, 2.10 PM


...What? Look at my freshmen as the announcement for a secure perimeter is made...


                                                         ... check your phones, do you know anyone at that school? ...
...you can call your parents to come get you if you want, admin will let you out...


...(sigh)
                                                                 ...


                                                                                                          ...



 ...buses are delayed...
                                    ...OK I'm home...



                                                                                                                         

                                                                          ...       








                                                                              (sigh)....




                                                                                                   ... turn off the TV turn it off






8 May 2019, 6.30 am

                                                                      drive to school...
                                business as usual, welcome to the new normal.







                                   ...

This Is Why I'm Like This: Tim Minchin and Jim Carrey

   Australian musician and comedian Tim Minchin gave a graduation speech in Australia in 2013 that I recently discovered. I played it for my poetry class in January, and have used his words to guide this semester. I recommend everyone take time to watch it. I'm just relating his words to my life here.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yoEezZD71sc

   "Be a teacher. Please, please be a teacher. Even if you're not a teacher, be a teacher. Celebrate your knowledge and spray it." The most impactful people are those willing to teach, and they don't have to work in a school. Edward Albee taught me volumes, and he wasn't a 'teacher', but he was a teacher. I've learned from directors, from bartenders, head waitresses, fellow playwrights and actors. They were generous and allowed me to "go to school on them", sharing with me their training, their understanding of humanity, their education and experiences. I believe I have managed to teach others both in and outside of school, simply by being a cautionary tale. You can also teach others by sharing your mistakes. Of course, it's helpful if you learn from them as well and stop repeating the same errors over and over....but that's for another time.

    "Be grateful. Send thank you notes, be gracious in your praise of those you admire."  My poetry classes begin each day by writing a brief but authentic note to a teacher in the building. I said "It doesn't matter if you've never sat in their class, or if you have and you didn't get along with them. That's irrelevant, they still earned gratitude for giving up their time planning and teaching."So it's forced gratitude, but it has made a difference to most of the teachers who have received the notes with equal gratitude, and frequently on a day they say they needed it. Which, as a teacher, I'm telling you is every day. I have to believe that even though they groaned the first day of class when they heard we were doing this, that now, eighteen weeks later, they have come to understand how important it is to say "Thank You" on a regular basis. I have taken my own advice as well, and started sending cards again. I believe people like to get mail that is not a bill or junk, and only yearly they get grad announcements. I was also very sugary and verbose in a letter I wrote to Mr. Albee, praising his impact on my stupid little life, and thanking him yet again for meeting with my students. I will never understand why he impacted me the way he did, but I am beginning to at least be able to identify it. Ultimately, I'm a grouchy homosexual eighty year old man.

    "Define yourself by what you love, not in opposition to things." This one needs to be heard by most of the country. He posits that, instead of hating or being in opposition to everything and using that as your guide to who you are, be enthusiastically dedicated to what you love. I couldn't agree more, and I have tried my damndest to do this in an environment that I frequently hate. To be clear, I don't HATE language arts, it's just not what I love. Joseph Campbell said "follow your bliss", but he gives us no road maps as to how. What if you haven't found your bliss? Then, I argue, you celebrate what you do enjoy, pay the bills doing something adjacent and catch yourself when you are negative. I believe your bliss is there in your heart, you just need to be quiet and listen to it. In my case, of course, this causes the bipolar to flare. I'm celebrating the poets I do love and teaching them to people who don't care. BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME.  This statement is a great way to remind everyone to get their hate off of Facebook, stop tweeting and retweeting hatred and defining yourself by it. I have Facebook friends who are defining themselves by their hate. They don't even know they're doing it, they think they're just expressing their opinion...over and over and over...but I had to silence them, and in some cases just unfriend them, because stop. Stop it. I get it. I get that you hate Trump. You're letting that consume you  and define you instead of stepping back into what it is that you LOVE and celebrating that. I, personally, love sloths. I post sloth videos, specifically of them getting baths. I also love Ireland. And for a bit I was flying pithy affirmations to get through rougher patches. Thank you, Facebook friends, who consistently post photos of chickens, the Botanic gardens, affirmations, shows you are attending, past shows you've attended, gymnastics...OK, most of that is Eric. Be Eric, everyone.

  "A passionate commitment to short term goals." This was rough as a core teacher in a building pushing long term goals. Go To College! But dude, maybe you just need to go to class tomorrow. Maybe you need to stop passing out, to get over a break up, fight the green eyed monster (thank you Shakespeare for that term) or find a reason to get out of bed. Be passionate about those goals. I like doing this. I was passionate about getting us to Ireland, passionate about being in Ireland, passionate (until I couldn't any more) about the renovation, which was supposed to be a short term goal five months ago...:P But I like it, it relieves the anxiety and pressure of "What the hell am I going to do with my life?" I worried about it for 52 years, and it got me...here. So now, I commit myself fully to short term goals, and I mean short. Like "clean the floors on Sunday".

  Jim Carrey gave a commencement address to the Maharishi University, which has gone around more popularly than Tim Minchin, for obvious reasons. I love that he has embraced this spiritual approach and one of my short term goals is to learn more about various religions. But when he talks of his father, who, out of fear, made a safe choice instead of doing what he loved, I stop breathing every time I watch it. His father lost his "safe" job, throwing the family into disarray. "You can fail at something you don't like, so why not take a chance on what you love?" It hurts on many levels, as first of course, I was doing what I loved and still lost it. But I know people who made safe choices and are unhappy, and now feel trapped. This idea feeds "Let go and let God", don't you think?  As a theatre teacher, I preached "NO FEAR", constantly, but in lang arts that's not really a thing. We have to test the crap out of them, meet standards, blah blah blah all based in fear. It's sick and psychological warfare and the kids are suffering. Their anxiety level is the highest its been in generations. And I am now getting off track....

  Don't make decisions because you panicked, because you're afraid. Make decisions because you want to do The Thing That You Love. Make short term goals as stepping stones to get there, commit yourself fully to what you love. Share what you have learned. Be grateful. The sad truth is that nobody from my age on down is going to have any type of retirement, we're all working until we die. So fill your life with gratitude, with experiences, with travel and love for whatever it is you love.
 
  Scene.