Pumpkin and the Janitor: The Story of a Flightless Victim and a Forgotten One

This morning’s Lincoln Journal Star reported an incident of adolescent hi-jinx this morning in Gretna, NE.  Apparently, a trio of young men placed an emu in the commons of the local high school ten days ago. Understandably, this caused quite a ruckus when the janitor found it the next morning.

Now, I have never encountered a six-foot emu in a school commons area. As a matter of fact, I have only encountered an emu of any size when each of us was standing on opposite sides of a fence.  And, for all I know, that emu could have been an ostrich. So, I can only imagine what the unnamed janitor did when he opened the doors of the commons and saw a bird staring him down from across the feather-and-feces-strewn room. If he were smart, he gently closed the door, walked out to his car, drove to the nearest open bar, and had a shot or two. Then, were he still using his brains, he would have called Animal Control.  I am not advocating drinking as a way to steel one’s courage or cope with one’s situation; one has to suspect that, when Animal Control receives a call about an emu in Gretna High School, the operator’s first question will be, “Have you been drinking, sir?” Why not temper the news by being able to live up to someone’s expectations, especially since the janitor’s were surely not met that morning?

However it was performed, after a bit of a struggle in which our emu (real name: “Pumpkin”) was lacerated on his neck, the bird was apprehended and is now living at a company that puts on wildlife shows for schools and parties. Most likely, Pumpkin spends his days in the pasture wondering how his once-promising life came to this: a six-foot, flightless circus clown.

For Pumpkin once lived the life of the proverbial Riley, living in Iowa, killing chickens, and most likely scaring the hell out of the kids who foisted upon him the less-than-masculine, far-from-noble name of Pumpkin.  But, as the article informs us, the Iowegians put Pumpkin on Craigslist for thirty bucks, and some Gretna boys came a-calling.  When they told the emu’s owner that they were buying it for a friend who raised emu, he took a shine to the boys and let Pumpkin go for free, which was probably good for him to do, since the boys then proceeded to drive the emu over the state line with the intention of causing mischief.  This might be considered illegal animal trafficking, and the previous owner might have been implicated.  As it stands, he appears to be out of the woods.

The boys, however, are not. They have been charged with criminal trespassing and animal cruelty. Their fate hangs in the balance.

It is too bad that these young men, thinking at first to release Pumpkin onto the football field, found the door to their school unlocked.  Would it have been less cruel to leave the bird outside?  It is also too bad that this seemingly “harmless” prank is being punished with criminal charges.  After all, there was a time when these boys would simply have become part of small town lore, like the guy who carried a goat to the top of the water tower in Columbia, Missouri, and tied it up overnight thirty or so years ago.  Is it necessary to mar the record of these three youngsters for what they have done?  Some might say yes, the kids need to learn the lesson that no creature should be treated poorly.  After all, the experience of being carted over state lines, locked up in a school overnight, and apprehended by armed officers in the morning (I am assuming) most likely caused an amount of trauma on this creature that was entirely unnecessary.  This is true.  However, I think maybe having them volunteer at an animal shelter or some sort of experiential punishment might be better, without any need of the courts or legal authorities.

And, really, what about the janitor?  He’s been traumatized—perhaps worst of all.  Not a day will pass from here forward, when he doesn’t have at least a mild flashback as he unlocks a door.  What will be in room 123?  A boa constrictor? A velociraptor? A grizzly bear?  What will lurk in the gymnasium’s darkened corners?  Sasquatch?  A zombie?  The Loch Ness monster?  What restitution does he deserve? He is truly the forgotten victim.

Finally, what about all of the people in the Lincoln area, reading this tragic story and the effect this TRIO of boys has had on man and beast alike, who finish the story on the back of the A section, and then return to the headline, which they quizzically remember as: “Emu in school lands 6 in trouble”? Once again, it looks like the media is not telling the whole story: what about the other three kiddos?

Unexpected Visitors (Another in an Irregular Series of Very Long Stories), Part The Last: Fairly Treacherous Snow

As evening drew to a close the night before, the batteries died in the camera, so, while others were able to snap pics with their new-fangled iPhones, I was left with nothing to offer in the way of visual accoutrement.

We arose later than I anticipated from our tents along Fern Lake, but, after breakfast and discussion, Laura decided to stay at the campsite, while Mike, Monkey and I trekked the three-quarters of a mile or so up to Odessa Lake. More altitude gain on this hike, but, with a base camp, we were able to walk unencumbered. It was a nice change of pace.

As we made our way, we continued to look back for satisfying views of Fern Lake below. We neared Odessa Lake and passed an older gentleman on his way back down. We hailed him. His report: "There's some fairly treacherous snow up ahead."

Inside, we all laughed. It seemed that at every turn someone was warning us of snow. Not only did it seem ridiculous in late July, but each report turned out to sound worse than it actually was. And this case was no different.

Arriving at the lake, we did have to cross a wide stream on a snow bank under cut by rushing water. It was a large patch of snow, maybe a couple hundred yards, maybe less, but it was solid and only as slippery as any snow one might encounter. So, we conquered that little obstacle and came upon another poster-worthy alpine lake. And more trout (definitely fishing next year). And a couple of better behaved ground squirrel.

We walked around the lake for a little while, then turned and made our way back to camp. We packed up, not forgetting to fetch our food out of the woods, and slung our burdens back up. Of course, most of this hike would be down hill, so a little easier to haul. We made it back to the car in good time and drove back to the brown cabin, where we all had well-deserved showers and porch front cocktails.

And another unexpected visitor: an elderly woman, out for an evening stroll, who promptly invited herself up to the porch to converse with us. After Laura fetched her a chair, she stayed for a lengthy spell. Honestly, not my favorite part of the trip, but she was harmless, and she told a few interesting stories. After she left, we ate, then turned in, trying not to think that tomorrow was the end of our trip.

Of course, Monkey was kind of looking forward to a visit to Chic-fil-a in Loveland on the drive back, so, there was a slight silver lining, I guess.

Where The %^$# Did That Come From?

Weirdness here in the Plains, yesterday. About 9am or so, we started getting some snow. A few hours later, the snow shower was over, and we had about two inches or less on the ground. And then, the wind really kicked up, blowing in gusts of 40 mph or more. The Interstate was closed due to white out conditions, and multi-car wrecks of up to thirty cars occurred on highways all over the state. Last I heard, over the last twenty-four hours, a least a half dozen people were killed or seriously injured in accidents, or mishaps immediately following accidents. One poor soul was struck by a vehicle while walking away from his own rollover accident. Total mayhem.

It's really a bizarre occurrence, an unexpected pocket of blizzard-like weather after a small amount of snow fall. But it is a grim reminder to respect the weather. Not that we need any more reminders, after hurricanes, tsunamis, tornadoes, etc., but sometimes, we don't take this kind of weather seriously. Most of us probably think that being really affected by a blizzard (beside running out of milk and bread and toilet paper) is soooo 19th century. But it's not.

Reading Sign

Woke this morning to new snowfall. Nothing like recent big storms in other parts of our nation, but still another in a long stretch of frozen water torture. On the drive home this morning, the temperature was reported as seven degrees. Old Man Winter and Mother Nature have certainly teamed up to put the screws to a large portion of the land since December. Folks around these parts (as I have told you before) are desperately looking for a change in the weather.

Well, it's not coming any time soon. Those are the facts. The calendar says we have to make it through February and March (the whole thing, around here). That's a long row to hoe, yo. But, there is hope.

As I listened to the monotonous forecast of windchill advisory and chance of snow and ten below and all that Cold Miser-type crap, I looked up into the pale blue of the dimming Nebraska sky. There, in three separate squadrons, flew chevrons of Canada geese, heading in a roughly northwesterly direction. A first sign that a change is gonna come. It will just be a long time coming.

Tires, Fowl, and Taxidermy

As I am on Fall break, it was a better idea for me to take the Civic in for new tires than for Monkey to do it. After all, when I checked my calendar, today yawned with a galactic emptiness. When Monkey checked her calendar, she had an eye doctor's appointment (and some other stuff). Of course, that all changed when a co-worker invited me out to lunch with a crew. Mind you, this was no ordinary lunch, either, we were all bound for Unadilla (home of Unadilla Bill), for a chicken dinner at The Bar. I would meet my lunch mates at a local restaurant parking lot, from which we would make the not-too-long drive out to the east.

So, I drove up to the tire place to have four new tires (that Monkey had already ordered and paid for) put on the car. Lo and behold (I am still not completely clear on directions and locations around here) the tire place is right next to the restaurant where I was to meet up with everybody. I figured I could just roll the car from one little parking lot to the restaurant's big parking lot with little fanfare and be off when the time came. I dropped off the car and walked over to a coffee shop/bakery for a croissant, some coffee, and an hour of reading.

Two pages into my reading material, Monkey called me. The tire place had ordered the wrong tires. I'd have to come back some other time. I finished my coffee, marked my page, and picked up the car.

In hindsight, I could have stayed in the coffee shop for a half hour and then went to get the car. Then, I could have simply rolled over to the restaurant. But I didn't do that. I drove home, sat around for twenty minutes, and then drove back out to the restaurant. Stupid and wasteful, I know.

At the parking lot, I piled in with five other teachers and we rolled over to Unadilla (pop. 350ish). The Bar (the actual name of the bar where we had the chicken) was hopping for lunch. And we were by far the youngest patrons on this bright and breezy Tuesday. And the food was good and cheap. Where else are you going to get three pieces of chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, lemonade, lemon meringue pie (not awesome) and a cup of coffee for $8.50? That's right, some other small town in Nebraska. But, today, we got it in Unadilla.

And, in a touching (for me) extra to the day's journey, as I paid my tab at the cash register, I saw, above me on a shelf of honor, the preserved carcass of Unadilla Bill, the most famous groundhog in all of Nebraska. It was a beautiful moment, I must say.








Photo from The Omaha World Herald, accessed at http://www.flickr.com/photos/25702639@N02/2417277608

A Psychedelic Presence Shining in the Park

In the chill of an early October morning, dark except for the glow of streetlights and their reflections on the low-hanging clouds spitting rain above, a vehicle navigates its way through the desolate streets. Its headlights peel back the night before it, as it passes a hedgerow on one side and a burnt out lamp on the other. Suddenly (as is always the case) a small brown rabbit leaps from the hedge, looking to make it safely to the other side of the street. It swiftly penetrates the cone of light before the vehicle, and, in that moment, frightened and naturally skittish, it realizes that the large black tires of the vehicle are about to crush it. In a split second, it redirects its course just enough to avoid being pancaked, but its back leg has been caught. The momentum of the wheel spins the rabbit up and over, around at a blink-of-an-eye speed. It lands flat on its chest and rolls away from the car. It hops, at first, back toward the hedge, then, realizing that is not its intended destination, it again turns abruptly and zigzags across the street. Safely in the grass, it surveys the damage: a broken leg, broken ribs, probably some internal damage. The prognosis is not good.

Is the moral of this story that we should stay committed to our intentions, even if it means getting crushed under the balding treads of fate? After all, the rabbit’s end is the same—perhaps quicker under the tire than panting in the grass. Or is the moral that we should look both ways before we cross? Is it that speed kills, or that a five pound rabbit has little chance to survive an encounter with a 1000 pound vehicle?

Whatever the metaphor, Matt Bauer might not only see it for what it is, but he’d most likely turn it into an atmospheric song for voice and free time banjo.

Opening for Jolie Holland last night at the Waiting room, Bauer and banjo (or guitar) lulled the audience into attentiveness with an achingly earnest voice and minimalist fingering that sketched metaphor after metaphor involving buffalo, horse, fox, and mouse, alike. Joined for three numbers by Holland and her musical partner Grey Gerston, Bauer’s fleshed out compositions were no less starkly beautiful. And Holland got into the animal act by regaling the small crowd with an amusing joke about two whales sitting in a bar.

Bauer finished his set solo, then thanked the crowd for listening. Unlike many openers, he’d captured the attention of the crowd for his entire set (except for the sloppily drunk quartet in the corner who had lost the ability to modulate their voices at all); this may have been a function of his imposingly shaved head or his fiercely long beard, but, most likely, it was his heartfelt songs, his dancing cascades (or soporific drones) of notes , and his Bonnie Prince Billy-like ability to tell a story of rending from which we can not turn our ears.

After a brief pause for Gerston to tune a few instruments and stock the stage with water and wine, the headliner took the stage—just she and her musical mate—to play a languid and low-key set. The musicians had driven themselves from Denver, where they played the night before, and they looked a bit road weary, but the endearingly partisan crowd was full of encouragement. The set list, about an hour-long, included “Littlest Birds,” “Goodbye California,” “Old-fashioned Morphine,” “Alley Flowers,” and a few others, old and new. In addition, Holland played a cover of David Dondero’s “Real Tina Turner,” and a pair from Michael Hurley (one of which Gerston took the vocal lead on).

While Grey Gerston moved easily from solid-body to hollow-body to bass guitars, Holland was doing the same, as she occasionally laid her beautiful flat black Epiphone down to scratch beautifully on a uniquely-shaped fiddle. The instrumental variation aside, the key instrument to the evening was Holland’s voice, a slurry, sultry, trembling trademark that sounds less like it comes from her lungs than directly from her heart. And last night, despite the bone- and road-weariness, Holland’s voice sounded flawless. She has a sweet gift.

As well, she seems a sweet human being. In between songs, as she tuned her guitar, Holland mentioned that last time she was through town someone had given her a bracelet. “Kim?” she asked to the crowd. There, two rows back, Kim raised her hand. Holland was still wearing the bracelet. And, as can happen at some shows, this sweet exchange stayed a constant.

As Holland stumbled twice through the beginning bars of “The Future,” a song she clearly doesn’t play often live (and is played originally on piano—not guitar), but was, she said, “A request,” the crowd was at its most snuggly sweet. Holland apologized, only to be greeted from a shout from the crowd.

“That’s okay—just more show for us!”

Holland finished up her set and thanked the crowd for being “so freaking sweet.” After whale jokes, smoked-honey-dripping melodies, and earnest musical gaffes, the crowd had the same to say about her.

Where the Wild Things Are, Part One: Biscuits, Gravy, and Wet Wilderness

It's finally update time! Been working on getting ready for school (teachers report on the 12th), including a meeting with a fellow teacher on American Lit curriculum, setting up my room--yeah, I am finally getting my own room--and attending a workshop today. Really, it feels like I have already reported for duty, it's just a lot quieter in the hallways. But, let's talk about happier times, like last week, when Monkey and I were spending the week in Colorado with the Ambassadors.

Our drive from Oregon to Colorado was relatively uneventful, save for a nice view of Snake River Canyon near our overnight Motel 6 in Twin Falls, Idaho. Monkey and I stopped for a quick visit with friends in Fort Collins (a very cool town, it seems), before proceeding through falling temperatures and down-pouring skies to Estes Park, where we rendezvoused with the Ambassadors in the parking lot of the local Safeway. Apparently, our cabin was far off the beaten path, and it was easier for them to lead us to it than give us directions.

And, it was. After an additional 25 minutes of driving, through Estes, past Allenspark, and nearly halfway to Boulder, we hung a left past the yellow intersection sign (either an upside down Y or a K with its arm cut off...never did settle that one), and proceeded carefully up a packed (but wet) dirt road, a mile and a half up one ridge and down another, before reaching the secluded cabin that we would spend a week in.

Before we got out of the car, our companions told us to wait until the generator was turned on. Generator? Yup. Our cabin, while not rustic by any means, was powered by a generator that could only be run for three hours at a clip (with a two hour pause in between). While this did not interfere with the operation of the propane gas stove or the propane powered refrigerator, it did leave us without power for all but the darkest hours, and precluded us from showering and flushing toilets during non-generator hours. Minor hardships, of course, most obvious at bed time, when, after the nightly ceremony of shutting down the power, Monkey and I read by the light of our electric halogen headlamps, before turning in. Monkey especially found this humorous.

After a good night's sleep, we rose early to head in to Allenspark for a Meadow Mountain Cafe breakfast. A quaint spot, with good food, the Meadow Mountain has become a favorite of ours (and has been a favorite of some for many years). I enjoyed my biscuits and gravy.

Breakfast consumed, we headed into the Indian Peaks Wilderness Area, rather than Rocky Mountain National Park, itself, to enjoy a hike along Lake Isabella and up to Isabella Glacier. The skies were gray as we arrived at the parking lot, but we were up and off in good spirits. At a trail junction, where we crossed a small stream, I was pleased to get a close-up look at some ruby-crowned kinglets bathing in a small rivulet.

Unfortunately, along the trail, I became dizzily aware that I was still acclimating to the altitude. We started the hike at about 10000 feet and climbed to over 12, and I was pretty woozy for much of it, but, I was digging the trail so much, I simply walked on. After this first hike, I was good for the remainder of the trip.

Also unfortunately, we didn't quite make it to the glacier. As we climbed to the vicinity of our hike's terminus, scrambling over rocks and gingerly sloshing (can one gingerly slosh?) through snow melt streams, a bank of clouds came menacingly over the ridge before us. We were in pretty open territory, so we decided to call it a hike. On our return, the rain followed us down, falling on us intermittently, but never dampening our spirits.

For more photos (including adventures not yet revealed), click here.

Fanning the Embers of Love

I will apologize for the lack of photos. We've taken a few, but I left the USB connector at home, so they'll just have to wait.

Portland this past weekend was much fun. A great lunch at Ping on Friday (followed by a better dinner at Toro Bravo) was made even better by the company. The concert on Saturday was pretty good. I am not a huge Andrew Bird fan, and, after Saturday night, I am still not, but, well, the man can whistle and loop multiple tracks like nobody's business. The Decemberists, on the other hand, well...!

This was my third opportunity to see Portland's favorite lit-rock collective. My first chance was a dynamite Blue Note show with Okkervil River opening. I fell in love with both of those bands that night. My second visit with Colin Melloy and his cronies was, again, at the Blue Note, during the Picaresque tour, and, honestly, I was a little disappointed. Unfortunately, I can not put my finger on exactly why, but no matter. The outdoor venue in Troutdale, OR, where we saw the band this time was easily bigger than the Blue Note. Hell, it was as big as all outdoors! And we were not close. I really thought that, by night's end, I would have thrown over my years-long love affair with a band with the best vocabulary since REM (my bias might be showing on this one). Boy was I wrong. Joined by Becky Starr of Lavender Diamond and Shara Worden of My Brightest Diamond (two diamonds--go figure), the band came out and played their new recording, the song cycle (I don't know what to call it) The Hazards of Love in its entirety. That alone is impressive--an hour plus of rocking and cooing, of belting and crooning, with nary a break.

They left the stage afterward and soon returned to play another forty five minutes of older tunes, from "July! July!" and "Billy Liar" to "O Valencia!" The additional female vocalists returned for a spot-on cover of Heart's "Coming Straight On For You," before the band called it a set. Of course, they had an encore in them, The Crane Wife's "Sons and Daughters," through which the audience was challenged to keep a message in its heart: the song's ending refrain: "Hear all the bombs fade away...."

As Monkey and I navigated our way back to our friends' house in Portland, I was filled with the satisfaction of knowing my love for Colin and company was safe, and that I had found a new fascination in the powerful vocal work of Shara Worden. This women can belt out a tune. My Brightest Diamond is going to get a long hard look from me.

As if that weren't enough, I got to spend some of Sunday helping in the construction of a chicken coop. How's that for living vicariously?

Stay tuned for news of today's hike along the fog-bound coast around Heceta Head.

Tidbits

I've little to say except to divest myself of two bits that struck me as funny/curious yesterday.

First, while out running a few errands, I found myself at a light behind a Chrysler 300. A nice car, I guess. It looks luxury model-y. The curious thing, to me, was that the car had a license plate border that read "BMW of Lincoln." Really? That doesn't jibe, does it? I mean, if you are going to sport a "BMW of Lincoln" border on your plates, shouldn't you be driving something other than a Chrysler? You know, like, what, a BMW or something? I decided to take a cue from the dude in this vehicle and went right out and put a "Lamborghini of Ceresco" border on my Honda!

In the same span of ten minutes, I was listening to the sports radio talk shows. The comedian/actor/whatever Jay Mohr was sitting in for professional grumbler Jim Rome. In one of his rambly bits, Mohr was discussing the late M Jackson's memorial service. He pondered (I paraphrase): "Why did the casket look like a chafing dish?" I found this amusing and somewhat true. Did you see this monstrosity of gold and general opulence? Honestly, Jacko's casket outdid the sepulchre of many a Renaissance pope. And those dude's knew how to spend some church money on ornament. A chafing dish! And, a very expensive, ornate, gaudy chafing dish, at that. You are NOT going to keep a trough of instant potatoes warm in that chafing dish, let me tell you.

The Unofficial Start of Summer

Monkey and I are heading north momentarily to visit the Ambassadors. We expect good driving weather and two days chock full of food, wine, and fun. I am laying in a new supply of allergy medication so that Frank the Cat and I can co-habitate. Looking forward to a good time (but not looking forward to driving after a tough week corralling the kiddos).

A Not So Long Northern Plains Story (Part Three)

Ah, Sunday. More breakfast at local diner/franchise Keys (good sausage), a drive by the James J. Hill house, and a drop off at the dome for second round hi jinx.

The opener, between Dayton and Kansas was a snoozer. Dayton was shooting poorly and had no answer for Cole "Triple Double" Aldrich. Dayton's band leader was a sight, however, in his sequined jacket. Unfortunately, his outfit was not shiny enough to distract KU from putting the smack down on his (not so high) Flyers.

The second game of the afternoon was a treat, as USC and Michigan State squared off. It was a back and forth affair, with State slightly leading most of the way, but USC's cold outside shooting and its inability to dominate the boards gave this game to the Spartans. A five point game was a great way to send us off into the evening.

The Ambassadors picked us up and we drove off to visit some Ambassador family. A Mediterranean style meal in a Minnesota farm house was a wonderful way to spend an evening. And, in a "file this under it's a small world" moment, Ambassador Aunt buys some of her organic seeds from the Monkey's CSA. Go fig!

Monday left the Monkeys on their own in a very rainy metropolis. We visited (briefly) some historic houses on Summit Ave., patronized Garrison Keillor's book store, wandered the Como Park Conservatory, and chilled out at the Ambassadors' pad. That evening, we had some very tasty Italian at Broder's, and then rested up for the drive back home on Tuesday.

In all, a great trip.

Ice, Snow, Volleyball

After dodging weather bullets twice this week, with storm fronts that passed through too late or too early, or that didn't pass through so much as pass by, we here in Cornopolis got an early Winter Break, as a layer of dry snow atop a layer of sleet atop a layer of ice was enough to call school for the day. It was a pleasure to go back to bed at 5:15 this morning (after feeding the dog), since Monkey and I stayed up pretty late last night to watch the Women's Volleyball Final Four. The Husker women took the #1 seeded Penn State Nittany Lions to a fifth set before bowing out of the tourney. It was a pretty amazing match, since Nebraska fell behind two sets to none to a team that hadn't lost a set all year, let alone a match. The Huskers stormed back to take sets three and four, and took a 10-8 lead in the final set. The Penn State women were just too much, in the end, however, taking seven of the last eight points to win the last set 15-11.

Unfortunately, the match before, between Stanford and Texas also went to a fifth set, with Stanford coming back after being down 2-0 to advance to a Championship rematch with the defending champions of State College. So the Husker-PSU match didn't end until 11:30. And that is way past maximum bed time on a school night!

But, it all worked out in the end. And, so, winter break is upon us, not a moment too soon. We'll be heading back east next week (weather permitting), and then we'll spend a few days resting up and turning a year older, before school ramps back up again on January 5. Between now and then will be a lot of flying, driving, visiting, toasting, consuming, football, basketball, and Holiday cheer (or maybe that's what all that previous stuff adds up to).

Update One: The Weather

I walked out this morning to start the car knowing it was going to be in the below zeros, but, DAMN! It was painfully cold. It was burn your lungs cold. And the Civic gave me a scare, when it didn't quite fire up on the first turn of the key. Or the second. It was so cold that the steering wheel was squeaking all the way to school. That plastic composite does not like the cold.

Leaving school this evening, it was more of the same, without the hard starting. Tomorrow, a warm 14 degrees, but with snow! Woo Hoo!

I Don't Even Have Time to Be Doing This, Really

A good friend of mine, whom I have had more than a few mind-blowingly intense and mind-blowingly absurd dialogues, one of which, which took place around a back yard fire somewhere in Minnesota, made its way into a novel that could see the light of day any moment now, used to refer to those busy times at work as being "in the weeds." Well, last week's Devil-may-care attitude has left me in a state somewhat more drastic than that. I feel like referring to it as being "mangled near-roadkill, recently flung by the force of a brutal collision into the weeds growing in a cold, swampy culvert." It feels as pleasant as it sounds.

But, really, this state of work being that I find myself in is not the result of this weekend's road trip wedding festivities alone. It's been brewing for a few weeks. This is by far the hardest year I have had (to this point). Last year was tough, as regular readers will recall, but, I don't think I have worked harder at this job than I am working right now, and my Master's program required me to take 33 graduate credit hours over one academic year and two summers WHILE I was teaching full time. That was hard, but this feels harder. Maybe I am just misremembering how hard the past may have been, but, I don't think so.

I have several theories as to why things are as they are, but I shall not bother with them here. However, one of the factors may be the fact that the district puts so many outside requirements on us. I have a three hour class on Monday nights, I had a two hour workshop last Wednesday, department meeting today, Parent-Teacher meetings tomorrow night. When am I supposed to grade and such? Ah, sorry, I am trying not to complain too much, here.

No matter the density of the "weeds" I may find myself in, Monkey and I still plan on heading south this weekend to visit the old stomping grounds. After all, all work and no play....

Preaching to the Converted

If I held you up to fire I would see a reddish frame
Of rust around your soul's transparency
And you, you with your beauty
And I with my spleen
I'll hitchhike to your bonfire
In my suit of gasoline.
--Centro-Matic, "The Fugitives Have Won"

It's been a long time since the Monkey and I have ventured out on a school night to catch a show. It's been a longer time since we've trooped farther than fifteen minutes to see such a show. But, last night was an opportunity not to be missed. Unfortunately, only about fifty other people seemed to agree with me, and most of them had a far shorter distance to travel than Monkey or I.

The show, Centro-Matic with The Broken West, was a bargain. Eight-fifty. That was a pleasant surprise. We got to Slowdown at about a quarter after nine, and when we walked in, we were met with a pair of other surprises.

First, the floor of the hall was shut off by a large partition, just like it was when I'd been there for the Jens Lekman show a few months back. The difference this time was that no one was doing a sound check behind the panels. Tonight, as we passed through the doors, Centro-Matic's alter ego, South San Gabriel was in the midst of a laid back set of their own music. I knew they have toured this way, opening up with some SSG tunes before the opening act, but, I didn't expect them to be starting at 9pm. Judging by the length of their set, we probably only missed about half of a song. They played a pair of tunes from The Carlton Chronicles and several more that I did not recognize, all from the comfort of their chairs.

Second, there were about forty people in the bar. That was it. It was like being in somebody's basement. In that way, it was kind of cool, but, I was surprised at the low turn out, Wednesday night, or not.

After SSG, a trio, Mal Madrigal took the tiny corner stage for a half dozen classical/European influenced folk-y tunes (yawn). They were followed by The Broken West, a band that impressed me, and put me in mind of several other bands.

I have this bad habit, sometimes, of talking about bands through the medium of other bands. I always say a certain music sounds like this, or reminds me of that. It's a useful and legitimate manner of description, and it gives me a frame of reference, but, in the end, it is a thoroughly unoriginal way to describe a band. But, guess what? I kept at it last night.

The Broken West made me miss Lloyd Cole and the Commotions. They made me think of The Alarm. They have strong pop sensibilities, and I liked it. As a matter of fact, I like it much more live, as, like a wine connoisseur, I sniffed their riffs and melodies and scented strains of Arcade Fire with hints of White Rabbits, then I have ever liked any of their recordings. Go figure.

Lastly, just after Wednesday became Thursday, Will Johnson and the boys took the stage. I leaned over to Monkey in our booth (yes, it was that uncrowded (maybe 70 by the time it was headliner time) that Monkey and I got one of four booths) and remarked how each of the four bands had hardly any commonalities in style. SSG is low-key, pedal steel and electric acoustic, kind of atmospheric. Mal Madrigal, well, that was sort of a curious Joan Baez meets Django Rheinhardt kind of thing (maybe?), The Broken West we've covered. And Centro-Matic is different from, but in the finest tradition of anything ever to grace the pages of No Depression.

But, as is my wont, I digress. C-M played a solid hour set, spanning most of their recordings. Johnson's sometimes obscure, often realistic, and occasionally disgusted lyrics seemed to be well-received by the crowd. Of course, this is no surprise, since this is the band they came to see, I imagine. Highlights included "Infernoesque Grande," "Calling Thermatico," "Supercar," and "Argonne Limit Co." The band were on top of their game (they traded instruments back and forth a few times), polite (Will referred to all in attendance as "good friends"), and the sound was awesome in the shrunken space. I just wonder how the climate might have been improved by a greater turn out, some uninitiated, who may have been turned on to the stark images and melodious anger of one of the finest songwriters working today.

We stumbled out into the dawn, as the band unplugged amps and wound cables, and, after a few brushes with nodding off arrived home at about 2:30 am. Right about now, I am running on fumes after a hair over three hours of sleep last night, so...good night, all!

Miley Cyrus, You Put A Helmet On, Right Now!

Okay, people, I am no Tim Gunn. I have no real sense of what others should or should not be wearing, although I do really like what seems to be his mantra, "Make it work." These are truly words for all of us to live by. However, I don't know about his recent appraisal of Katie Holmes (sad, sad story) or Miley Cyrus.

One thing I do know: one should always try to be as safe as possible when riding a bike. Monkey will tell you that I don't always practice that "safety first" mantra when driving a car. I've been known to clock a few miles with no bandolier to keep my melon off the windshield--stupid me! But, with a few unavoidable exceptions, since I was old enough to know better, I've biked exclusively helmeted. Too many cars and drivers who think they are better drivers than they are make for the always present possibility of having your body thrown from your bike and your cabasa making high-speed contact with the asphalt. No thank you.

So, while I find it admirable that Miley and the Cyrus clan seem to enjoy a pedal around the sunny streets of whatever entertainment paradise they live in, I think she ought to set a better example by wearing a helmet.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "What the hell has happened to ol' ATR? What's with this obsession with Miley Cyrus?" Well, calm down. It's no obsession. It's just a coincidence that two unrelated news items made it into my Google reader on the same day. Or, at least, I read them on the same day.

But, enough with Hannah Montana. The NY Times says James and Kirk and Lars (and Robert) are coming back from the artistically dead to kick all of our asses...80s style.

I've Heard That Song Before

Well, friends and neighbors, it's that time of year, again. That time when I complain about having to go to so many mandated workshops and seminars that tell me things I already know. Today, I had to attend a workshop for second year teachers, since, in this district, I am entering my second year. So, we spent the day going over a great deal of very useful information...for SECOND YEAR TEACHERS. I am not a second year teacher. Hell, I have a Master's degree. I hope I know how to set objectives and use good questioning strategies.

Of course, as a silver lining searcher, I'll tell you that it is always good to be reminded of the best practices involved in doing your job, no matter how basic. After all, Ted Williams didn't hit .344 lifetime with 521 home runs by forgetting about the basics of hitting. I am sure he practiced the rudiments of his craft more than anyone, even after he hit .406 in 1941. Mastering the basics is the first step to becoming a master.

I just wish I didn't have to spend all day on the last Friday before we went back to work, twisting in my chair over boredom. On the plus side, I knew the presenters, they were engaging and entertaining, and we got out an hour early!

In other news, the Great Biking Experiment of 2008 has begun. I know that I have vowed to bike to work every year since I started this blog, but, this is the year that it sticks. I biked to basketball on Wednesday evening, I biked to school and the grocery store on Thursday, and I biked to my workshop today. I haven't driven my car for three days, and Paul Dorn has become my new guru! The mornings have been cool, making for a pleasant ride, and I have figured out that I can make it to work in about twenty minutes with a modicum of effort. I can arrive to work only ten minutes later than had I driven, and, if I don't pedal like a banshee, I am not a funked-up mess. So, I've always heard that after three days, something becomes a habit. Let's hope so.

Rocky Mountain High (A Not-Quite-As-Long-As-The-Italian-Story Story, In Its Entirety)

Two Sundays ago, Monkey and I loaded up The Penguin and headed for Estes Park, Colorado. The Ambassadors had invited us to spend a few days with them out there where they spend their summer vacation each year. It was mighty generous of them, but, that's just the kind of folks they are.

The drive out took us a bit longer than we expected, after stops in Ogallala and three other places, most likely because we hit the congested area of I-25 and US 34 at a busy time, but, after an uneventful drive through Nebraska and southeastern Wyoming, we arrived at our destination. We had a nice dinner at a local establishment, walked around the town of Estes Park a bit (nice river walk), and then discussed the next day's plan over some wine.

We planned on a breakfast at a little place in a town just down the way called Allenspark, and then a hike to Ouzell Lake from the Wild Basin Trail Head. Round trip was about 9.8 miles.

Breakfast was tasty, and we were on the trail by about 9 am. It was a great hike, with wonderful views of several waterfalls, glimpses of distant (and not-so-distant) peaks, some good gains in altitude, and a idyllic lake at our chosen terminus (we could have hiked for another five miles if we'd chosen to).

This was my first trip to Rocky Mountain National Park, and it was astounding. It was also my first visit to a place with any altitude since Monkey and I were in Oregon in 2005. It was strenuous at times, not being used to the rarefied air at 9000 feet and above (I think our highest point of the trip was just about 12000). However, even with short breath and a spot of dizziness here and there, this was one of the best hikes I had ever been on.

The only negative to the hike was the thunderclouds that rolled in just as we got to the lake. Our return route (after a short pause for lunch--you guessed it: PB and J!) left us exposed for about three-quarters of a mile along a ridge. It's not good to be exposed in a thunder storm. The rain is a pain, but the real worry is lightning strikes. If you are standing on a ridge with no trees around you, that makes you the tallest thing for miles. Lightning likes to strike tall things. So, we covered that stretch on the ridge pretty quickly. It didn't really start to rain seriously until we were almost back into the tree line, so we also stayed pretty dry as well as avoided the lightning. Beside the danger of being hit by a bolt of lightning and a little bit of rain, it was a great introduction to the Rockies. And, I saw a blue grouse on the trail (that's a bird), and, I'd never seen one of those before!

We made pasta at home and ate copious amounts that evening and then retired early. The next morning we planned to rise at 3 am to try and catch the sunrise at a place called Chasm Lake.

I know I said that the previous hike was one of the best I'd ever been on, but the in-the-dark-of-morning hike to Chasm Lake was head and shoulders above that one! We left the Longs Peak Trail Head at 4 am, and, with our headlamps lighting the way through the trees, ascended pretty quickly to the treeline. The sky was just beginning to lighten as we broke out of the trees and continued to ascend across a broad open area. At one point, as Monkey and I stopped to rest, I looked off to the northeast and saw, silhouetted against the just lightening sky, a female elk and a calf. I pointed them out to Monkey just as we noticed that we were standing not 100 feet from a herd of perhaps forty or more elk. It was amazing to watch them slowly move off to the southwest, but, we were trying to make it another couple of miles before the sun was up, and it didn't look like we were going to get there in time.

We reached the ridge top in full sun, took some pictures and enjoyed the alpenglow on the face of Longs Peak. However, we still had another three-quarters of a mile to go to the lake. We had gotten out pretty far ahead of our companions, but decided (on their assertion) to continue on. We were even higher than we'd been the day before, and I still wasn't completely acclimated, I guess (or maybe I was just hungry). I had to stop at one point and sit down for a few minutes, but, after some water and a Cliff bar, I was good to go.

After my "recovery," Monkey and I were treated to what I think was the most picturesque part of the whole trip. After crossing a thin trail along the side of a ridge, which included a snowbank, we found ourselves in a beautiful alpine meadow, with a creek running through it, columbines and other alpine flowers growing all around, the mountains looming all around us, and a spectacular view into a pond-studded gorge to the east. I wish I could have stayed there forever. It might be the most beautiful place I have ever seen with my own eyes.

We paused just outside a US Park Ranger patrol cabin, smelling coffee and bacon. The lake was close, but our companions were nowhere to be seen. We decided to walk back, hoping to run into them on the way. We might have to double back again, but, at least we would be all together. After getting only halfway across the meadow, we saw them coming across the snowbank. We signaled to each other, and Monkey and I waited for them to come on.

From the meadow, there was one more challenge before we reached the lake. We scrambled up about 100 yards of rocks, accompanied by several yellow-bellied marmots, and there, just below us, at the foot of the peaks, was our destination. It was very cold and windy at Chasm Lake, so, after a snack and a really quick nap (remember, we got up at 3am), we made our way back to the trail head. Today's hike was about 8.5 miles.

After breakfast, we napped for about an hour and then headed to Boulder (about 40 miles) for some wandering and a really expensive dinner. Both were good. We slept well that night.

The next day, we took it kind of easy, making breakfast at the cabin and taking a drive around the park. Old Fall River Road, a one-way gravel road ascends to an Alpine Visitors Center at about 12000 feet, with many unbelievable views along the way. Here we saw more falls, more elk, the Never Summer Mountains, and, on the way down Trail Ridge Road (the other park road), three moose! Monkey was especially excited to see the moose, since that and bears are the two animals she always says she wants to see (I was especially excited we did NOT see a bear). We then toured our way down to Grand Lake, had some ice cream, and then were on our way back to Estes. More pasta at the cabin (good pesto!), and more "what shall we do tomorrow" talk, and we were off to bed.

The next day, Monkey and I were set to depart, but, we rose a bit early (6 am) and headed out to Glacier Gorge Trail Head for a short (5.4 mile round trip) hike to Mills Lake. This was not a better hike than the night hike, but Mills Lake was probably the most beautiful lake I've ever seen (and the second most beautiful place, next to that alpine meadow). This was a pretty gentle hike, just the way to spend your last morning in the park. And, we left early enough that we mostly avoided the huge crowds out and about on our way back--very busy trail! On our hike back down, we saw lots of families hiking using child carrier backpacks to allow their tiny tots to accompany them into the wilderness, and hydration backpacks (Monkey is contemplating getting one of these) and BPA-free water bottles (I gotta get me one of those!) to combat high altitude thirst.

We had another good breakfast in Allenspark with The Ambassadors and The Ambassadors' Children (who had arrived in the wee hours and declined to accompany us on our hike). While we waited for our food, one of The Ambassadors and I walked down to a place called the Fawn Brook Inn, where they have about a million bird feeders out. I was surrounded by hummingbirds (rufous and broad-tailed). I had never seen so many birds in one place in my life. It was amazing!

After breakfast, we packed up and hit the road, departing at about 2 pm MDT. A shorter drive home than on the way out, and we were home by 11pm CDT, certainly tired, but mostly grateful that we had the opportunity to see the Rockies!

For more photos, click here.

Desperately Seeking Marcus Aurelius (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Fourteen)

The last leg of our Italian journey began as we settled our bill, loaded up the Punto, and headed east to the unknown streets of Chiusi, where we were contracted to return the rental. Our drive to Chiusi was uneventful, if not beautiful, but, as we arrived in town, we were in the midst of the most half-baked plan of any we had devised on the entire trip.

All we knew about the rental office was the address (82 Via Marcus Aurelius). Along with us, we had no map, no Garmin, no directions. Just the address and the assurance from the office in Firenze where we picked up the car that the location was “downtown.” So, as we approached Chiusi, we tried to figure out where “downtown” was. We stayed on the main road, thinking that would lead us into the bustling interior of the urban hive that is Chiusi. The main road took us into the centro storico, instead, the old town, with the tiny streets and the cobblestones.

We were on a sort of deadline, too, needing to return the car before 11, or we’d get charged for an extra day. We had already decided that the short drive to Chiusi had not used up enough gas to label the tank “not full,” so we didn’t fear any fuel charges, but we didn’t want to tack on any penalties, if we could avoid them, and being charged for a whole day when you only had the car an extra fifteen minutes because you were turning circles trying to find the place where you were supposed to drop the car off for an hour plus seemed to us like a height of stupidity to which we wished not to soar.

In the middle of our turning and turning and backtracking and neck craning and street sign reading, we were forced to turn into a parking lot, in order to turn around. I remembered that many of the parking lots we had visited in these smaller towns had large maps of the towns in them, and I spied one as we turned in. I hopped out as Monkey pulled the car out of the main traffic area. After a few moments looking at the map, I found our street, which wasn’t far away. I hopped back in the car, and we headed that way.

We found the road pretty easily, but, as we drove along, watching the numbers, we seemed to drive right by 82 (with no markings of it anywhere). There was 78. There was 81. There was 90. What happened to 82? We knew that in Italy, the residences and the business each had different colored numbering systems, and it was perfectly natural for a business 82 to come just before a residential 34, or after a 126, so we kept driving. Then, as streets often do, Marcus Aurelius took a quick turn, leaving us on a street we did not want to be on, so, we swung around and got back on. A few blocks later, Marcus Aurelius seemed to disappear altogether.

But, we were clearly in a downtown-like area. We did a few turns (and maybe broke a few of those phantom Italian “traffic laws”). We passed the train station, where we needed to ultimately be to get a train to Rome, and, then, as if on cue at the lowest ebb of hope and highest tide of despair, we turned inexplicably back onto Marcus Aurelius, only two store fronts from the Eurocar office.

As we pulled up, the Eurocar rep was getting into a car.

“One moment,” he said, and drove off.

We sat on our luggage. It was 10:45. At 10:55, he did return with a cup of coffee. We checked in with no problem and walked over to the train station to wait for the train to Roma.

Our tickets to Roma cost 16 Euro each. This was a great difference between our tickets to Firenze from Milano, which cost 36 Euro each. We wondered if we had the right tickets, but, as we waited for, boarded, and rode the two hours south, nobody accosted us.

We got off the train in a very hot Roma, walked the three blocks to our accommodations, where they held our luggage, because we couldn’t really occupy our room until 3pm. So, with map in hand, we wandered the streets of Rome, beginning a trend that would continue for the remainder of our trip of walking (nearly) everywhere, covering miles each day, and consuming gallons of aqueduct supplied public water.

We planned our tomorrow: Coliseum, Palatine Hill, Roman Forum, and then got previews of a few of those places. One side note on Rome: I may have mentioned in a previous post that I was nervous about Rome, since I have a sort of loathing of large urban areas (maybe loathing is too strong a word…), but, for the three days plus that we were there, I rarely, if ever, felt the same way as I have described feeling about Chicago, or San Francisco, or Baltimore. I don’t know why, but, my enjoyment of Rome was not in the least hampered by my own paranoid hang ups, so, hooray for me, I guess.

Tuscanyland! (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Twelve)

Our second day in Siena proved that one learns from experience, as our time spent maneuvering within the city limits and securing a parking space was much reduced from the previous day. Like mice in a maze, we clearly remembered where to go to get the cheese. The cheese in this case being, of course, a parking spot.

We visited some more museums, and were thrilled at the sights of Donatello’s tondo of Madonna and Child (not our contemporary Madonna and her adopted baby, but the Biblical Madonna and her baby, Jesus), as well as Duccio’s Maestra and Passion. The real treat was that we stumbled upon a museum guide/art historian giving a lecture on Duccio’s works. It was enlightening to say the least. I know a little bit about art history, but this was a tour de force of a lecture! And, it was in English—score! Really illuminating.

We also spent a little while in Il Crypta, the remnants of the eighth century church on which the Duomo is built. It was okay. Lots of frescoes and brick arches. Our next stop in Siena was Il Facciatone, the remnants of what was to be the façade of the actual cathedral.

Remember yesterday, I told you about the rivalry between Firenze and Siena? Well, in the 1300s Siena had planned to expand their cathedral, which was completed in the middle 1200s. The gargantuan expanded cathedral would have been many times larger than the relatively large structure that they have now (and waaaay bigger than Firenze's). However, after building the façade, the plague hit Siena, and work was halted, never to be resumed. So, now, they have a giant wall (with a good view), and some white marble pavers to show visitors where the columns would have gone in the Olympic-sized transept of the planned Uber-cathedral.

After some pretty tasty pizza, we headed over to the Oratorio di San Francesco, to visit one last Senesi museum. This one, also a diocesan museum, was loaded with church art, from the 12th century to the 19th. Not bad, though I can’t recall anything that I found particularly breath-taking, here. Then, it was back to the cheese (I mean parking space), to head over to Volterra, via San Gimignano.

We had planned on heading directly to Volterra, having heard that San Gimignano was kind of a tourist trap. At our pizza fiesta the night before, however, we were turned on to a supposedly world-class gelato shop in the town. So, intrigued, we went. As a side note, this area of Tuscany, the sort of northwestern area of Siena province, is well-known (apparently—I didn’t know it) for its alabaster. Thus, if you are looking for some quality artisanal alabaster, head on up to this area. As it turned out, the gelato at the recommended purveyor was four-star. We sampled peanut butter, rosemary-raspberry, pistachio, chocolate, and banana (I think that covers it). We had seconds, it was so good.

I dubbed San Gimignano, “Tuscanyland” (like Disneyland). It really did have a feeling of a this-is-what-Tuscany-is-like-so-we-hope-you-enjoy-it-would-you-like-to-buy-some-alabaster-or-a-T-shirt-that-looks-like-a-Renaissance-style-doublet? I sort of felt like I had strolled into a Renaissance festival, Italian-style. I would not have been surprised if someone in full Medici garb came wandering down the via with his entire retinue, including a juggling dwarf and a prancing minstrel with a lute.

The drive out to Volterra was a bit longer than we bargained for, but, it was a good side trip. We got to see the first Roman ruins of our adventure, a theatre. Unfortunately, as we arrived at about 5pm, the site was closed, but, fortunately, it is readily visible from the street, and the woman at the ticket booth did let us stand on the overlook inside the grounds (for free). We had a gander at a few other sites of Volterra (Etruscan walls, churches, you know), then headed back to Pienza where we hoped to dine at Latte di Luna again.

But, no such luck. As we approached the restaurant, there, on the sign outside, was a note: “Completo.” No room at the inn. We spun around in a circle a few times, not wanting to admit that we had only one other choice: the restaurant just up the street, Trattoria di Baccus (or some such). It was good enough fare, but Monkey was pretty disappointed. The moral of this story, when you go out to eat in a town with two restaurants, make reservations!