A new academic year

This week means back to school for most educators around the nation. It's not, however, back to school for the students of those educators. No, they will arrive next week, after their teachers have spent an entire week getting ready for them. Theoretically, this week is supposed to be a time whereby we in the profession re-acclimate to the pedagogical halls that have laid dormant all summer, learn the latest and greatest educational acronym emerging from the vapid halls of academia, and most importantly, meet and greet all the new incoming teachers to the campus. In practice, only the last one comes close to being a reality.

If you ask anyone in the education profession about required in-service, you're likely to get a grotesque look accompanied by a sound not unlike a dying man being forced to eat rotten meat while lying on a bed of nails in a dust storm while John Tesh plays in the background on an out of tune piano in 100 degree heat. It has been said, or at least written, that the only difference between death and in-service is the act of breathing, which means there is some dead guy some where still exchanging oxygen. In fact, there is so much pseudo-sensational, platitudinous inertia surrounding the start (and end) to any given school year that I would be willing to teach year-round just to circumvent the red-tape cutting, hoop-jumping histrionics.

It is times like this that I realize that public education is run as a business, albeit one with reactionary qualities, rather than a vocation, much less a profession. I know that the administrators on the local level are merely acting upon the trickle-down mandates of the highest, out-of-the-loop legislators in the land. We are required to teach x number of days, are required to get y hours of professional development each year, and must sit on our rears listening to highly-paid preachers of common sense and endure absurd team-building activities for z hours each year. I imagine there is a real sense of panic among administrators in the days and/or hours leading up to the return of the teachers as to how to spend the required time in such a way as to minimize any damage and depletion to the energy and enthusiasm we teachers regenerate over the summer break.

As a professional, I realize that meaningless, valueless in-service is just the price we pay for having time off during the summer, and it's one I'm willing to pay. Also, as a professional, I try as hard as my impatient mind will allow to squeeze as much juice from the presented pulp without giving the impression of being disinterested, much less disruptive (although I am in the minority on this.) For instance, when stumped on a nine-letter hyphenated word for drudgery in the crossword I am covertly working, I try not to make a scene when asking my neighbor for advice, opting instead to gently and quietly wake him, then whispering the clue to him. Nor do I shout out loud in acknowledgment when he whispers the words "in-service" to me. In other words, I refrain from the obstreperous, impatient, disrespectful behavior I disdain in my own students, but then again, I know that as their teacher, I thwart that disruptive, deviant behavior by delivering invigorating, enthusiastic, meaningful presentations laced with humor, wit, and cunning.

I know that if I can survive this week, I can survive another academic year with 250 adolescents . . and their parents.

What's in a drink?

OK, so it was my first day back at school after the most exhilarating summer break since my children have been in the picture. Although the first day of mandatory in-service was anything but mentally taxing (perhaps "patience taxing"), I couldn't block the thoughts that pervaded my mind as I drove home this afternoon: alcohol.

Sure, I also thought about yielding and stopping and staying in my own lane, but I felt like I needed some sort of "cleansing" from the synthetic hullabaloo that the day had brought on. When I got home, I didn't deny myself the enjoyment of a good can of suds. As I savored the taste of the malt, barley, and hops upon my palette, I thought about WHY I had so desired to pop the top to begin with, and why I was unable to shake the thought from my consciousness.

Was it because of the taste? Was it because of the ceremony of it all? I put it down in verse.

We all love to sip a mojito
With the taste and rush so sublime.
Yes we all love to taste the mojito.
We willingly lay down our dimes
Yes we all love to drink a mojito
How they effortlessly help us go numb.
For that savory taste
Not a moment we waste
To purchase that savory Rum.

Yes we all love to take Jello shots
That gelatinous jiggle we crave
Yes we all love to slurp Jello shots
‘Cause we know that we’ll always behave.
Oh, we all love to gulp Jello shots
How they help us interpret Franz Kafka
As they go down they jiggle
They cause us to giggle
I think it’s because of the Vodka

We all love Long Island Iced Tea
With its soothing, thirst quenching taste
When drinking Long Island Iced Tea
Not an ounce if it must go to waste
Yes we all love Long Island Iced Tea
Though it has no tea, what a sin
The drink is our friend
‘cause of its delicious blend
Of Vodka, Tequila, and Gin.

There’s nothing like a good Margarita
To go with a meal or without.
It’s hard to beat great Margaritas.
A favorite among us, no doubt
So blend me up one Margarita
And please do it quickly, sir will ya’?
‘cause now is the time
For the salt and the lime
And please don’t skimp on the tequila.

And then there’s the straight sippin’ whiskey
You don’t need no blender or ice
Just a mouth to enjoy straight sippin’ whiskey
Just a bottle and you will suffice
But there’s all kinds of great sippin’ whiskey
Call it bourbon, white lightning, or booze.
Like an old west cowboy
You’re sure to enjoy
Feeling so tall and so bulletproof.

Rockie Mountain "Hi!"

Wow! Eleven days without a post. That a record of Olympic proportions that might stand for some time. So why all the time off? Laziness? Internet problems? Lack of ideas? Typographical amnesia? Xbox 360? None of the above?

The last one says it all (without saying anything, really.)

Call it wanderlust or call it active relaxation, but this summer has been one filled with great experiences traveling and being away from home and the computer. For someone who considers "traveling abroad" to be commensurate with leaving the city limits, I have logged almost 5000 miles driving and 2000 miles flying this summer to other states. With my Kansas City and Disney trips behind me, there was still one more bit of recreational business to deal with: my 2nd annual backpacking trip to the Colorado Wilderness, from which I have recently returned.

Now if tossing aside all the amenities and conveniences of our modern world, donning 60 pound backpacks, and trekking out among the cougars and black bears is not your idea of rest and relaxation, you're not alone. I, myself, wouldn't go so far as to say I had much R and R on this 6 day trip, but it was paradoxically backbreaking yet revitalizing, arduous yet rejuvenating. To be out in the middle of nowhere, having only the things with you that you decide to carry, free from the noise pollution of the civilized scene, among the majestic mountains, serene valleys, the towering pines, and the playful wildlife, inspires an awesome appreciation of mother nature and enables one's soul to reconnect with the spirit, leaving the ego far behind. This year, it also allowed me to appreciate dry weather and afforded me the opportunity to deal with constant cold, wet conditions.

Atop the mountain pass around 12000 feet in between the raindrops

With my trip planned well in advance of any reliable weather forecast, Mr. W, by backpacking bro, and I set out expecting the same magnificent weather we experienced last year on our inaugural trip: mild, dry weather. Instead, we were "treated" to a bit more variety than we expected. It rained every single day we were there, which not only brought down wet precipitate which quickly permeated our boots and socks as we trampled through the briers, but it also brought down the temperatures, usually into the low 40s. Despite our high quality "Gore-Tex" boots, the moisture still managed to saturate every aspect of our footwear the morning of our first day out, and there it stayed until we ultimately fled.

Attempting to dry out the boots and socks, even under the warming blanket of the temporary pockets of sunshine, were about as successful as trying to sweep the floors in a dirt-floor cabin. Slipping on a warm pair of "back up" socks the next morning only guaranteed that I'd have my choice of cold, wet socks to put on the following morning. Nonetheless, it didn't take but a few hours each morning to get used to the feeling of squishy wet feet and cold numb toes, at which point we could focus on other things, like psyching ourselves up for the 1500 foot ascents in the thin air with our heavy packs.

My wet clothes eagerly awaiting more rain

We each considered ourselves to be in pretty good shape, having run a marathon last February and staying active since, but the topography can be very misleading and unforgiving, which is exactly why we were out their to begin with, and even, perhaps, why we ran the marathon. The pain and the efforts that take us to the top of the mountain or get us across the finish line make us stronger physically and mentally, and in doing something that is deemed undesirable or even "crazy" by others who prefer other types of personal challenges, we share an invigorating sense of confidence and purpose. Luckily on this trip, this newly acquired sanguinity was not put to the test by an encounter with a bear.

Who knew they had Pi-ne cones up in the Rockies?

The experience this year, although very different than expected, was fully embraced, and we both enjoyed the unexpected demands the prevailing climate demanded of us. Emerging from the mountains on the last day, we knew we had a special spice to add to the stories we would share with our families and friends, and we felt we had earned the right to "cheerfully" extol about how "miserable" we were, when in fact, we thankful for the opportunity to adapt, adjust, and acclimate to the ceaselessly beautiful environment.

It was a great consolation, though, to walk through the front door of my home after the long, stinky, 18-hour drive back and smell the sweet fragrance of home . . . the home with a thermostat, clothes dryer, and big, soft, fluffy bath towels.

The sweet smell of home!

Singing A New Song

Here in the last few weeks of my summer break, I've been spending a lot of creative time, the time usually spent blogging, reading, or writing poetry, on a new passion: Songwriting. I used to think that all the songs that could be written HAD been written. I held this shallow belief back in high school, in 1991. At this time, most of the big hit songs were sampled, and in some cases STOLEN, from other hit songs, specifically "U Can't Touch This" and "Ice, Ice, Baby," respectively. I figured that all the catchy tunes had been taken, and that any new song would be nothing more than a slight respinning of a previous tune, something that previously had only been seen in the kids' nursery rhyme market (see: "The ABC song," "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," and "Baa Baa Black Sheep.")

But Lo and Behold, new songs DID come out, some with original melodies and lyrics to boot. Some were even so big at the time, they launched a future generation of original progeny rock, as was the case with Billy Ray Cyrus' huge hit "Achey Breaky Heart," and his daughter's current success as Hannah Montana. Even flipping through the digital dial on any radio these days, you'll hear all kinds of music, and most of it sounds different, which is good for those wanted to carve a niche for themselves in an otherwise flooded industry, but bad for copyright infringement lawyers.

Granted, some songs out there seem to draw melodic inspiration from other successful songs, but still manage to maintain a flair of originality. Songs that come to mind are the Offspring's "Why don't you get a job" and the Beatles "Ob-la-di Ob-la-da" (not a bad group to mimick) and Toby Keith's "A Little Less Talk and A Lot More Action" and the Georgia Satellite's "Keep Your Hands to YOurself." Then their are bands like Nickelback, "3-chord" George Thorogood, and the Ramones who have several songs that sound sound similar to many of their OWN songs. Then there are entire genres than sound the same, such as Emo Music, classical music (can you tell it from Renaissance, True Classical, Romantic, or Baroque?) and old-time classic country (which typically had three chords and were all recorded in "mono" which meant that Hank Williams Sr. sounded pretty much like Bob Wills.)

But just because something sounds like something else, doesn't mean it's bad. If fact, I love classical music, and I could listen to classic country all day. Which brings me back to writing my songs. I am no accomplished musician. I can strum chords on a guitar, and I can play chords on the piano, I know a bit about music theory, key and time signatures, chord progressions, and I can play the trumpet by ear. Since I'm not interested in writing solo pieces for the trumpet (who IS besides Chuck Mangione? and he already wrote the only good one!) I've been trying my had I writing simple country songs.

So far I have managed to get two complete songs under my belt, and another with lyrics only. I've played them for some friends who enjoyed them, and also to my wife, who didn't run out holding her ears. Whether or not they'll ever make it as a "filler" track on some aspiring artists album I'm destined only to sing them in the shower the rest of my life, the songs are something that I will always have (even if one of them sounds a teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy bit like Gary Stewart's "She's actin' Single, I'm drinkin' double.)

So how are most songs written? Does the songwriter first have an idea of a topic, then write the words around it, ultimately fitting a tune around the structure of the lyrics? OR does a song start with a catchy tune than one finds himself humming, that grows into something more, a chorus, a bridge, etc only to have the lyrics "dropped in" at the end? I think most songwriters will tell you there is no wrong way, only different ways to be inspired.

Surprisingly, each of the two complete songs were pretty easy to write. I completed each within one hour of sitting down to write them, starting with a key and some easy chords. I had an idea of the topic, but I definitely got the tune first. My first effort was one I have yet to complete: it's just a page of lyrics, a poem for now. I have found it difficult to fit a tune around the lyrics. I once read that it took Elton John only 7 minutes to write a song, 53 minutes faster than each of my two complete inaugural efforts. I guess he's one of the few that can do both lyrics and melody simultaneously, with little revision. That's why he rich and knighted and I'm not, but, at least for now, I'm going to keep writing, because the reward is in the process AND the product for me. Perhaps as I continue this pursuit, I get faster. Perhaps I'll get better. Or Perhaps I'll start wearing giant sunglasses.