Memory 2 Axl Assembly

 In what I now believe was about 2009-2011 ish, the assemblies at our school were run by a language arts teacher with a definite flair for the dramatic. He came up with themes and found ways to incorporate the staff, which weirdly made me actually enjoy assemblies. He didn't include us like "Teachers Vs. JV Soccer Tug Of War"  or some other idea that involves a tug of war, or competition, those are events that make me hate assemblies. He did stuff like... homecoming skit was "Homecoming Through the Ages" and enlisted teachers to play the roles in each era, beginning with cavemen. Which involved Steph hitting Farrell (the choir teacher) over the head and dragging him off. I think. Maybe he hit her. I'm not sure as I was on spot light for that one. It was cute.

  I wish I could remember which assembly this one was, I dunno if it was the final senior assembly or a dance assembly or what, but Alex decided we needed to bring back air bands. That's right. Only people over 40 remember air bands. We actually had air band competitions in high school. As a theatre kid, my group thought we were cute and did "Leader of the Pack" in poodle skirts, with one of our friends entering on a Big Wheel. The following year, since we'd lost the year before, we decided to take it seriously, and did "Destination Unknown" by Missing Persons. By some fluke of nature I ended up on drums, and even worse, one of the other band's drummer was using real drum sticks, so it was decided I must use some. I was handed the sticks, and knew something was wrong but the music started and if you know the song, the percussion starts the song. Why are these sticks so heavy? Turns out they were for marching band, and they weighed 20 pounds a piece by the end of the song. Anyway...Alex's concept was that the teachers were the band. He asked if I'd be Axl Rose, as he wanted to do "Welcome to the Jungle". I did not have to think twice. I was in.

  I watched Axl Rose videos to get his moves down pat, and the morning of the assembly, my theatre  kids helped me concoct a costume. My arty kid drew Axl's tats on my arms. I looked like Axl Rose's squirrel cousin with a glandular issue. Uncanny, don't you think?

  There are photos in the yearbook as well, a favorite is of Jim Farrell wearing a Viking helmet and playing guitar. Let's take a moment to appreciate how this moment defined our personalities. Kryssi, an actor, immediately went to realism. Jim, a musician, went to opera. All the other teachers played guitar, there was not a drummer---probably because I was Axl and unavailable. God it was fun. About halfway through the song I started having trouble breathing. The gym was stifling and I'm not someone who generally wears jeans, as I am a prolific crotch sweater and they don't breathe. All I knew is that I suddenly could not breathe, and I had to dial back Axl a bit. I took the moment to turn around and look at the silliness happening behind me. Matt Marshall had an inflatable guitar he was crushing--literally, the neck was bent. Mike McShea looked like he was truly living his dream, deeply committed and focused, and Kathy Prestel physically turned me around to face the underclassmen, as we'd set up to face the seniors and I didn't realize we were playing in the round.

   The kids seemed to enjoy it, the teachers had a good time. What more is there?

   There was the breathing thing, which now that I look at the date, I realize this is when it was discovered I have asthma and severe allergies.

   This may be the Second Time I Was Cool, but I don't think so, as the kids mostly thought we were silly. And we thought we were silly. But I nailed my impression, I had the snake like moves and fake cigarette fingers picture perfect.

   And this concludes our second installment of Assembly Memories. Thank you for joining me.

MEMORY (new post 1): Beastie Boys

         At "My Previous Building", the Thespian troupe threw "Cabarets". These were installed by the previous theatre teacher as a place for the students to work out more "edgy" pieces-so I was told when encouraged to perform as the new teacher 17 years ago. At my first cabaret I performed an original monologue that personified addiction as a woman, and therefore a seduction.

       The teacher's idea of "edgy" differed greatly from mine, and I never performed anything dramatic at a cabaret again.

       Instead, the five of us, or the three of us, or the two of us, or however many were around that year, would do parodies. The first time there were five of us, including our TD, and we did "Cell Block Tango", but I changed the location to detention --OK, it was Breakfast Club meets Chicago---and we each told our story as the person we were in high school. It was fun. There were a few other performances, but today's memory is about the three of us--theatre, instrumental music and vocal music---doing "No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn" at a cabaret.

      We were fairly inconsistent about performing, but it was generally at the senior cabaret at the end of the year when our brains and bodies were fried and we could see the end. We did not do anything with heavy choreography or harmonies, mostly because of the three of us, I was not the musical one. I always rehearsed alone for hours so I wouldn't make a fool of myself. When Jim (vocal music) and I did "The Song That Goes Like This" for the grand reopening in 2016, I had spent hours alone with the Broadway sound track. Jim spent his career entertaining parents and kids as the choral director, he was always at ease on stage. I directed kids to perform and then hid backstage because it's egotistical for a theatre director to be too visible, put their bio in the program, etc etc. So I was the opposite of comfortable. Also, if you read the opening paragraph, I may have scarred children at my first performance.

      So I wrote new words to "No Sleep til Brooklyn" and it was changed to "No Sleep in Littleton". The verses were about how the performing arts teachers never slept or saw their families. A good line I wrote "E----- only sees his daughter 'cause she's in his band". At rehearsal, I gave Jim the lyrics and declared that he was now the lead singer. He said "That's fine, but I can't read on stage, I have no idea what I'll actually say." D was on drums and I was on guitar, to the extent that my thin knowledge of the instrument could be summoned. I took a guitar lesson from Harper's teacher the week before I proposed doing this number, just to make sure I could pull off the four chords. Even ten years ago the arthritis in my fingers was impressive, and the last thing I needed to do was choke in front of my students.

     One or two kids got wind of the plan, and would smile or clap when I ducked into the band room with Harper's guitar. I am not a musician, but I think the Beastie Boys songs may be pretty easy from that standpoint, since I have a memory of two rehearsals total. As per his habit, D was more interested in what our costuming would be, and took it upon himself to name us. As we are all within a few years of the same age, our pop culture references are similar, so it was no surprise that our constant jokes about "being a band" ( I know four chords) led to him naming us "Twysted Rayn" in an homage to Bill and Ted's "Wyld Stallyns". I remind you that our brains were fried, it was the end of the year and we thought we were hilarious.

      Senior Cabarets historically run long, and this was no different. By the time the final scene was complete, we were ready to go home. We'd been in the band room making Jim memorize the lyrics and sending Thespians to the costume shop for leather jackets and baggy pants that we could borrow for almost two hours. By then, word was out that we were up to something, and as high school students are wont to do, they had built it up to epic proportions. When the curtain opened, they started screaming and applauding, and I realized they wouldn't have heard us, anyway. I could have not plugged in the guitar at all. 

     We had blocked a bit at the beginning with a student, making it appear at first that we were there as roadies to get their band set up. I even did my beloved Tom Hanks "Sibilance, sibilance" from a Wayne's World skit as the mike check. It was all for naught, the kids knew what was up, but we stuck to the script. Then Jim turned his baseball cap backwards, D struck the drumsticks and we were off.

     Jim took the lead vocals, struggling to read his large typeset but doing an excellent job as front man. D held the drumline so casually it was like he did something similar as a day job, with a massive smile on his face. I staved off panic by focusing on the six chords I had to play (there are only four different chords, but they're played in sixes, I don't speak music). At the first rehearsal, I had only played the progression twice until the lyrics started, then I mimicked the Beastie Boys and played only the opening two and the last two. D shot me a look that I can imagine every band student fears, so instead of explaining my artistic choices, I just played the six.

      I had to backup the lyrics occasionally, so in addition to not playing dead chords I had to watch Jim and know when to shout "in his band", and "NO! SLEEP! IN LITTLETON!" Then my favorite part arrived. The Beasties split the lyrical narrative between them, but I gave everything to Jim because he's the vocal music teacher, D was on drums and I didn't wanna. Even so, a passable parody must have certain elements of the original, so when the moment arrived, even though he'd been singing the entire time, I said "Ain't seen the light since I started this job Farrell J, get on the mike my man." I was SO PROUD of that line, and nobody cared that was illogical: Farrell, J had been on the mike, man, the whole song.

     We got to the end of the song, and the inevitable happened. Jim either could no longer read the words, or his jazz improv took over, and he started chanting "Pants on the ground, pants on the ground, looking like a fool with your pants on the ground." And scene---song over.

     Based on the screaming kids, nobody cared what he was saying. Completely unprompted by anyone else on stage, all in with enthusiasm as was his habit, D stood up and declared "ENCORE!" Jim and I looked at each other and laughed as D launched back into the song. I shrugged and played, and Jim gave another round of "pants on the ground, pants on the ground, looking like a fool with your pants on the ground." 

      It was glorious. Writing these memories, I am having a true Stephen King moment. At the end of Stand By Me he writes "I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?" 

     Nobody thought to videotape. This was a few years before everyone had a camera phone, so the memory is lost except to those of us who were there to witness the majestic premiere of  Twysted Rayn.

     Scene

Two Magpies, A Blue Jay and An Owl...

 

    Day 3 of Blogging With One Eye. I did drive to the store yesterday, it is much better. I can now type with one eye partially closed and one open, the glare is not nearly as bad.

    We have discovered a mama robin who has built her nest inside of a plant placed directly outside of our garage. It hangs between the two doors, and is one of the nosier, more active locations in our yard. We thought we would help her out and move it a few feet to the left, away from the doors, yet where she could still clearly find it, only to discover that there were three tiny blue eggs already nestled inside. Moving it would have given the cats a better shot at reaching, so we moved it back . We now open the garage door only once a day and park the cars in the driveway to avoid disturbing her.

    Yesterday, I came out to hear a raucous argument in the tree about twenty feet from her nest. The magpies are a favorite of mine, I've always loved their call, it's like a small children's whistle. But what I heard instead was a full throated squawk, and a screech I've never encountered. I knew it was the magpies, because that whistle was still present between the shrieks. When I looked up, I looked into the eyes of the first owl I've ever seen up close. I see them on roofs and light posts, but never this close. He looked like Robert De Niro in every movie he's in; unflinching, solid, not taking any of your crap. He was wedged between two massive branches, staring straight ahead, completely ignoring the hysterics that surrounded him. At first I only saw his feet, as his orange and brown feathers blended into the bark. They were huge talons with what appeared to be dungeon death spikes of yellow on his legs. Once I saw his face, he looked right at me and I thought "Well damn, that's an owl," like some sort of elementary birder. I grabbed my phone and began to record the melee, finding the frame with one eye and hitting the red button. Two magpies were above him to his left and right, screaming their heads off at him like Joe Pesci whaling on everyone in Casino.A little behind them in another branch was a massive blue jay, who was lending his own voice to the fray, but was not beating his wings about like the other two. As long as we're in mob world, he would be like Steven Van Zandt in Sopranos. De Niro sat, unscathed. I stared at him again and realized he had feathers in his beak.

     I immediately panicked and looked at the tiny robin's nest, a useless gesture as she would clearly have vacated with all of this hubub surrounding her. I returned my attention to the ousting and the owl had not budged or blinked, but the other three were still determined to scream him out of their tree and off of their property. After what felt like a few minutes, the owl simply spread his feathers and slowly drifted down to the next tree, like that's what he intended all along, these hysterical ninnies had nothing to do with his choice to move. His swoop emboldened the others, who immediately took wing to scream louder and escort him from his perch.

   I pushed the red button on my phone to stop recording, looked up at the birds as they left, and back down at my phone. I pushed the red button again, realizing that I had only recorded five seconds of me turning the recording on and off. I would love to blame my ONE EYE on the mistake, but alas, I do it pretty consistently. I am not the best at tech even when both eyes are working.

   A half hour later when I came to check the robin's next, mom had returned. She is a teeny tiny thing, hiding in the green and red plant, looking through the leaves at me with one cautious eye. I smiled at her.

   

Doing The Things:Check.

 

           As I continue my one eyed blogging ( I just finished "Lying", part of a serious series this week), and listen to whatever deck or front yard construction has begun up the street, I tick off the Things I Did Today That I Said I Would Do.

        It's only 9.23 am and I've fed all of the animals, cleaned the cat boxes, walked the dogs, wrote a blog (see above), stood in my dining room trying to either remember what else I need to do, or the ending of Loverboy. Did she really forgive him for all of that? WTF was the 80's feeding us? 

       My right eye is sobbing all over me, I couldn't find my sunglasses for the dog walk (THAT'S what I was looking for when I got sidetracked by the evil Patrick Dempsey) so my eye is not so much worse but it isn't better. I suspect it'd be much better if there was not a cat seated right here, slamming her head into my hand as I try to type. I have no direct proof, but I believe she contributed to the scratched cornea.

       In an effort to stave off the Fart in a Mitten state that is threatening to run my day, I am searching for things to do. I get many people will say "You had 14 months on lock down to do things, like lose weight or write, loser", to which I reply kindly "Fuck off". I openly admitted to succumbing to depression, and to be fair, I spent last summer in Google Suite classes, faculty and department meetings, scrambling to create at least three different plans for what was completely unpredictable.  I then spent the entire school year until March completely online, shifting everything to the fourth scenario nobody had warned me about, and I made up on the spot. I'm tired.

       I deeply admire so many people, and the way they went through this. I got off Facebook recently, but I spent a year tracking my  beloved retired teacher, whose awe inspiring marriage and relentless love for one another kept them going. My friends who updated their houses, refurnished and started new businesses. Some threw themselves into remote learning with their children with such passion that I learned things by watching them. Some started grad school, some started new careers. Some blew apart toxic relationships and emerged confused  and friendless, but healthier. Some are still struggling to break that one last bad habit. Some cut off Facebook entirely and I like to believe they're frabjously joyful now, singing and skipping in the real world.

      I survived. I shifted into survival mode very early on and stayed the course. I created deadlines where there were none, pretended I had a schedule when there was only an empty calendar, hoped to God I could get a full remote tech class out of Hamilton on Disney Plus and flew Jazz Hands when someone turned their camera on. I felt no joy, no despair, for a year. I was in neutral in every way.  I've now watched Schitt's Creek in its entirety eleven times. That's how I know I hit rock bottom with depression; I've never been here before.

    Now that I'm coming out, I'm all over the place. Do not rely on anything that resembles a healthy emotional reaction to anything said or done. I like neutral, it's safe here. When I venture out, I lose control. So I'll stay here for the time being.

    I have never in my life considered telling another human being that I am "Emotionally Unavailable" to them. I'm saying it now.

    Doing the things does not require emotional engagement. They're just things.

    Fed animals, check.

    Cleaned litter boxes, check.

    Picked up groceries, check.

    Walked dogs, check.

     Now to call a  plumber, my next check.

     I'm good, check. 

     Thanks for checking.

      

Lying

    Do not lie to me.

    It's that simple.

    I am a teacher and parent, I spend time with every generation. I usually don't differentiate generations, but at their core, everybody's a mess. I only use the term if I am at a loss for another identifier that does not identify, which makes no sense but....I  get me.

    Recently I was accused by a possible Millennial of being too "wound up about lies". As in "What's the big deal, I lie all the time, people lie to me all the time." I was Gobsmacked. they may not have been a millennial, maybe a sublilleeal or subterranean, I give no craps about any of that. Do Not Lie To Me. This is a person who watched an entire administration lie and screamed constantly about it, so I'm struggling to understand whey it's OK for them to lie, but not Trump. So it warranted deeper investigation.

    I also do not believe that this has become a cultural norm, just a person trying to justify either their own untruthfulness, or explain away the many  falsehoods they have been subjected to. There's also the mental health aspect, none of us are firing on all cylinders, maybe this is an aspect of a cracking up. This is evident when you serve Heather a cup of Drano, and then lie about it. This will cause you to crack up and burn your journal.

    This became such a huge issue during the last administration, which was unfortunately our reality and not a fun movie, when lies were truths and truths were fake news and there was no longer any moral compass to help any one along. Now, we have the residual waves that pounded through the last semester of public education, where people without masks lied about being vaccinated, or about a negative Covid test; parents lied about their students who were clearly symptomatic and sent them to school, anyway, and exposed other people. That's not OK. If I find out you've done that, I will yell at you and call you a liar, and never speak to you again.

     Lying to your parents is par for the course for many, but when it comes to health and your future, you are truly an ass to lie about anything bigger than getting your tires rotated. What was that (every) silly college movie where the kid pretended to go to college but didn't? OR the one where he spent all summer as a Giglio to earn money to go back to college, but lied to his girlfriend and parents---his mom was Kate Jackson, he lied to one of Charlie's Angels! Your health and your future are tied to your parents, no matter what you choose to believe, just like anyone working in a school's health is tied to others. Don't Lie. This is beyond Jim Carrey screaming "The goddamn pen is blue!" I don't care how old you are, have the decency to tell the truth to the people who raised you and love you unconditionally. Did you people learn nothing from the song "Spooky Mormon Hell Dream" in Book of Mormon?  ** Can we take a moment to acknowledge how many generations I hit in one paragraph? You're welcome.**

    Being shocked when someone blows their stack all over you when you lie is also a response that confuses me. They trusted you. They believed you. They get to yell, and you need to listen because how dare you? You are married to them and then you pulled this ? (Example from Every Date Movie Ever). You lied. I get to be mad. He's Just Not That Into You is a phrase that contains a passive lie: he didn't call because he didn't have the nuts to tell you the truth. Just Say It.  Of course, that's a pretty small lie compared to a gazillion other examples that are jamming up my brain right now.

    You know when lying is OK? When you're Harriet Tubman and you are escaping slavery and get stuck in a small town that will murder you if they find out who you are. That's it. That's the one time you get to lie. And I just made that up, there's a possibility that woman never lied, ever, even to save her own life. But if she did, it would have been OK.  I suppose, on a technicality, me making up that little piece of fiction about a real person can be seen as a lie...

     And thus, I  can be yelled at for lying.

     Arguably, fiction is a lie. It is just another word for "not true". Maybe part of the issue is that fiction in film and television has blended the lines so completely that people believe it be be truth. This is exacerbated by "Based On A True Story": being a single parenting is easy(clearly you did not watch Pursuit of Happyness), parenting in general is a lot of work but rewarding and fun and comes with a handy dandy narrative to begin and end each twenty minute episode; dealing with death always ends on a positive note with a new relationship and maybe a zoo; angels behave as time machines and enable you to see how your life would have been if you were never born and you end up not committing suicide because you now see your worth; time machines exist and can be used to reverse any stupid stuff you did in the past.

      Lies or fiction. 

      I've lost the thread at this point. Just don't lie to me.

     Scene.

          

31 May 2021 I Am Mike Wazowski

 

     In September, I scratched my cornea.

    It took me a day or two to see the doctor, as I can be ornery about things like that, but it finally got to be too much and I went in. He gave me some antibacterial drops and put a contact lens on my eye as a 'bandage' to keep it from getting irritated. It was a pretty frustrating week, but at least my eye wasn't constantly weeping. I was so miserable I swore I would use eye drops daily, not rub my eyes and never do this again.

    Last night, the same symptoms appeared and today I am typing with one eye, like Mike Wazowski, tears streaming down my face from my ONE EYE. I felt my eyes drying out while on our anniversary weekend and knew staying hydrated was key. So I chose to drink more alcohol. Because monkeys learn faster than I do. Last night my eye was very bothersome, and instead of using eye drops I grabbed a paper towel and rubbed it. Remembering my own stupidity caused the pain to escalate and I am now typing completely blind. Thank you Mrs. Horn, Dunstan Jr. High typing teacher who painted over the keys on the typewriters so we would look UP whilst typing, in preparation for a career of typing notes for our Taskmasters. Whenever I think of that class, I'm shocked at how very 1950's the whole experience was. Mathematically, it should have been about 1979. 

    So. I have the antibacterial eye drops from September still, but it's a holiday, so no luck getting in to get a nice contact bandage put on my eyeball. Just a day of complete misery ahead. I can't drive, I can't watch TV, I am literally typing with both eyes closed because the glow is too much. I'll go back to bed because this will prove to be too exhausting, and it's 6.51 am on Memorial day, why am I up, anyway?

    Well, I had to get up to scratch through the vanity like a raccoon on the scent of a marshmallow to locate the antibacterial drops. At least I knew I had them and I wanted them and my drawer is not very well organized, to say the least. I was throwing stuff into the slink at 5 am making quite a racket that Jim pretended he didn't hear. Pro Tip: If you hear kryssi unloading a drawer at 5 am, Do Not Engage. It's unlikely you have any idea where whatever it is she is trying to locate can be found, anyway. She's the one who knows where everything is, not you. Just go back to sleep, you've done quite enough.  Just accept that at some random point in the future, she will bring up the fact that nobody helps her do anything, and how come she is the only one who knows where things are, yet nobody will let her run their life  you people are exhausting! That will End Scene, and she will take a moment to change costumes and verbs, all before you're even awake.

    Scene.

Living Below the Dignity Line

 

    The summer of 2019, due to a drought of directing jobs, I decided to try other gigs. I drove for Lyft. I worked on the assembly line in a warehouse. I worked at King Soopers.

     The King Soopers was in my area. The manager told me that they struggle with theft, people steal single eggs from the cartons. So weird. But also,she said the homeless- a population that had recently traveled west to our suburb and was rapidly increasing- were becoming problematic within the store bathrooms. Nobody minded that they were using them, but they were not cleaning up after themselves, which was why they doubled their bathroom checks. The issue that struck me, though, was that a homeless person would lock themselves in the bathroom with a bottle they'd stolen from the liquor store. They would not answer when the door was knocked on, and some 16 year old clerk would have to break the door down and call 911.

    I have a friend who is a retired teacher, who worked last summer at the ACE Hardware in our neighborhood. She said the managers were constantly battling the homeless who were openly stealing from the store. She said there is a group of them that live in the ditch along Alameda Parkway.

   A Group of homeless, living in a ditch. Stealing single eggs.Leaving public bathrooms unusable for hours.

   All of these examples suggest human beings that are living below the dignity line. Not just poverty,not only financial. They've given up on any chance of feeling like they are human.

   I said this phrase outloud today for the first time, and I wanted to write it down. 

   That's all.

   Scene.