Brain Freeze

The other day I was making a rather lengthy trek across Oakland with my wife when we stopped to get a little refreshment. Once inside, I began to make my selection, and I was suddenly confronted with this question: When did 7-11 lose their hold on the Icee Bear? According to Al Gore's Internet, it was way back in 1967 that 7-11 began selling their own version of the partially frozen soft drinks. I really want to believe this, but I have very vivid memories of seeing the red-sweatered polar bear sipping from the iconic striped cup at my local 7-11 store. Could it be that I was only five when this change occurred?

Or is it possible that the change from Icee to Slurpee happened over a period of years, giving me a chance to become attached, unnecessarily, to the mascot and logo of one, only to be replaced by the somewhat less consumer-friendly of the other. Maybe I am simply projecting my experiences with Icee from another venue on those I would have expected to have at 7-11. Which all leads to one inescapable question: How could it possibly matter?

Another nice thing about Al Gore's Internet is the opportunity to check your minute obsessions against those of others. There are plenty of folks out there who will gladly go on pontificating about their preference: Icee versus Slurpee. I might naively lumped them together as one in my mind if not for the words and images of those with much more free time on their hands. Perhaps the most important distinction for me is the fact that Slurpees are made with "real Coca-Cola". You can get a cola-flavored Icee, but it could be any cola.

7-11 has that kind of clout. That's why they licensed the frozen treat in the first place, way back whenever it was. Every July 11 you can get a free 7.11 ounce Slurpee for free to celebrate all that is 7-11. Then you can try driving all around town trying to find an Icee machine. See if you get that for free. Maybe I don't miss that polar bear so much after all.

Physical Education

Coach Straight had a twin brother. Together they were the Straight Brothers, Larry and Lou. As circumstances would have it, I got stuck with Lou. We heard stories about Larry. He had a moustache. He didn't play favorites like his brother did. His gym classes were fun. He was different from his brother. I was stuck with Lou.

In seventh grade, all the boys had Mister Clark. He was an old guy who was not much taller than most of us, but he was a lot tougher. Not in a mean way, mind you, he had a muscular-Harry Truman thing about him. He helped ease the transition from weekly P.E. to daily. He expected us to show up in our uniforms and do our best, then take a shower. I never felt threatened by Coach Clark. He also kept us relatively safe from the eighth and ninth graders. I say "relatively" because all that fear and hate has to go somewhere, and when you are being systematically broken down by a sadomasochist like Coach Lou, some of it is bound to spill over.

It was in eighth grade that I started to dread going to P.E. I was never a particularly gifted athlete, and being in Lou Straight's class only exacerbated this flaw in my character. The guys who could catch, throw and run without thinking about it got to pick the teams, and the ones who couldn't catch, throw or run didn't end up on their side. We were the dregs, and Coach was busy with the minutiae of his job: clipboards, whistles, and flirting with the eighth and ninth grade girls.

Lou Straight's main contribution to the curriculum of Centennial Junior High was "The Fifteen Minute Run." We would change into our gym togs, meander out to the track, Coach would blow his whistle and click his stopwatch. For the next quarter hour, we were expected to run laps around the quarter-mile track. Those of us who were less physically gifted lived in fear of missing the cutoff of six laps: one and a half miles. If anyone in the class ran less than six laps, the whole bunch of us had to do it all over again the next day. You might think, if you were in a coma during your junior high years or have conveniently forgotten such behavior, that this might instill a certain amount of support and encouragement among those who were more fit. There was a pretty clear understanding that, if you were faster and stronger, it was your job to torment those who were not so fast and not so strong. All of this would eventually be made right by the creation of the TV show "Freaks and Geeks", but while I was in eighth grade, there was no justice.

I have a lingering memory of Coach Lou, clipboard in hand and whistle in mouth, dressed head to toe in puffy green down. He needed to stay cozy and warm as he watched us trot around the track in the freezing rain and prevailing thirty mile an hour winds. This contrasts mightily with the image I have of his twin brother showing up during our band practice one morning. He was friends with our band director, Mister Whitehurst, taught at two schools - just coincidentally the other one was where Coach Larry worked. I don't remember Lou dropping by the band room once in the three years I went to Centennial. Larry came by several times, partly because he was there to see his brother, but also to see his friend. And those of us who just happened to be less coordinated and just happened to be in band took solace in this. He didn't mind coming over to "the other side." On the contrary, Larry seemed to genuinely enjoy his time there, and he put us all at ease. That is, until the bell rang and it was time to go across the building to see his brother.

Time has healed most of those wounds. I can run for more than fifteen minutes, and I suppose I owe that in part to Lou Straight. In my own teaching career I learned to never play favorites, and I suppose I owe that to Lou as well. Those were what we in the business call "teaching moments", and I learned my lesson.

Are We There Yet?

I'm about to hit the road in celebration of the brief period of time that I have between summer school and regular school. We do this even though all kinds of conventional wisdom tells us that it's not a great idea. The rest of the planet seems to be hanging close to home, giving rise to a silly new trend: Staycations.
I know that gas is hovering right around five dollars a gallon, but the idea that I would spend another two weeks hanging around my neighborhood seems more ridiculous than the newly fabricated word to describe a trend that has been generated by years of road trips and hitting the highway. At last, the highway is hitting back.
I could spend the next fortnight staying right where I am. I could wake up late, or as late as our dog and my son would allow. I could go out to a museum, or maybe take in a movie or two. We're paying for cable, after all. Why not stay home and catch up on all those TV shows and movies that I missed while I was so busy working? There is so much to do right around here, after all.
Well, I am not predisposed to such activity. If I did decide to hang around the house, I would almost certainly find myself immersed in some home improvement project before the first week was half over. What kind of vacation would that be? Truth is, it would be a lot like the weekends and vacations that I have had for the past eleven months.
I know what vacations mean to me: Vacate and Shun. My brothers and I spent months of our young lives in the back seat. Let those newspapers pile up on the front porch and get somebody to look after the house plants and the dog. Packing up and taking off is a leap of faith. Everything will be fine back at the ranch if we take a little ride in the country. Leave those cares behind and start worrying about who gets a window seat. Roadside diners and sleeping in different beds are all part of the allure. There's nothing like the confines of a car to bring about a little creative and enforced family togetherness.
So, in open defiance of Al Gore and fiscal sense, we're loading up the Family Truckster and vacating the premises. It is, after all, my family legacy.

Pluto's Not A Planet Anymore, Either

I sit here in my darkened room. My room for just a few more hours. I am finishing my stint as a fourth grade teacher today after five years. The good news is that I won't be going far. I will be heading upstairs to become the Computer Teacher. This won't be a huge stretch, since I have already done that job before. The computer lab has moved across the hall, but it's pretty much how I remember it.
Twelve years ago, when I interviewed for my first teaching job, I was asked if I knew anything about computers. Literally. The principal asked, "Do you know anything about computers?" Since I had just spent five years running a book warehouse with computerized inventory, and had been working with computers at some level in most of my adult life, I could answer "yes" without much hesitation. But that was the end of the questioning. I became the Computer Teacher back then because I knew "something about computers."
Over the next few years, with the help of generous benefactors and patient staff, I rebuilt the Apple II lab into a room full of PCs connected to the Internet, with an abundance of educational software. I also managed to get the rest of the school wired, and created a school web page. That's when the wheels started to come off.
Lots of things have changed since I got here. I can no longer simply name all the teachers that I have worked with, and it takes me a moment or two to recall the succession of principals during my tenure. Many of the folks that I have worked with have moved on, changing schools or jobs. One has even changed gender. Nothing is forever. That's what I told myself when I realized that the Computer Teacher position was being scaled back to a part-time position. I jumped headfirst into the opening in fourth grade, hoping that I could pick it up on the fly.
Now it's five years later, and I have been offered the newly recreated Computer Teacher position. I'm leaving Room Four and heading upstairs to Room Eight. No more desks. Instead of twenty-four kids, I'll be dealing with three hundred. I'll be handling software instead of books. There will be a lot more calls for help, since I know "something about computers." But whether it's Room Four or Room Eight, it will still be Mister Caven's Room.

DNR

"You have more chance of reanimating this scalpel than you have of mending a broken nervous system!" - Frederick "Fronkensteen" on why "Dead is dead."
In the case of Brett Favre, I would say Doctor Frankenstien, excuse me, Fronkensteen has hit the nail on the head. To aid in this discussion, I have brought with me two bits of evidence. First let us examine the various careers of the greatest basketball player ever, Michael Jordan. MJ had already cemented his position in NBA history before he decided to retire and try to do the same with Major League Baseball. His impact was not quite as substantial on the base paths as it was on the hardwood. So he came back. But he had lost some of his magic, as was apparent by the way the Bulls lost to the Magic in the semi-finals. Then he bounced right back and won three championships. Go figure. Then he left again, only to resurface in a Washington Wizards uniform, where he was barely recognizable as the man who once soared through the air, delivering MVP and championship trophies to the fans in Chicago. Now all that's left are his shoes.
My other example comes from the NFL: John Elway. Admittedly, I have a certain personal connection to this case, but there are few that would say that Elway didn't go out on top. He won a Super Bowl, got that monkey off his back, and then showed up next season to prove it was no fluke. He won the MVP award in the championship game, and he walked off the field a winner. He held his tearful press conference, and he was done. Sure he shows up now and again in some regrettable TV commercials, but he's not out there trying to recapture a time that has passed. I've got a ton of respect for Brett Favre's competitive fire, but it's time to pack it in, and let some young guys take over. Does the world really want to see "Favre" on a Minnesota Vikings jersey? I hope the next time we see Brett, he'll be selling some of those Wrangler jeans he likes so much.

Welcome To Potterville

I know that somewhere, George Bailey is smiling. You remember George, don't you? He's the richest guy in town, if your town happens to be Bedford Falls. If you're living in Southern California and you've got money in a savings and loan, you probably don't care if George and his Uncle Billy are in charge or not. You just want your money before it all disappears. Hundreds of people have crowded outside IndyMac Bank branches this week, many waiting hours in line to withdraw their funds from the failing bank that was seized by federal regulators.
While hundreds of frightened customers waited for days in the summer heat outside their local IndyMac bank to get as much of their money out as they could, employees of rival Comerica Bank arrived to hand out water bottles with their business cards taped to them. They said they hoped to scoop up some former IndyMac customers. Sounds like something Mister Potter would do.
Where did their money go? IndyMac was in an unusual situation because it had an "extremely risky" exposure to assets, says Stuart Plesser, a banking analyst for Standard and Poor's. "Their specialty was no document or low-document loans," he says, meaning borrowers didn't need much proof of income to get approved. Most banks hold a more diversified portfolio of loans. It's in your house, and your failing business, after all, cries George Bailey, standing on the counter.
Or maybe not, but these are desperate times, and one hopes that if there are angels who are up to it, this would be an excellent time to start earning those wings.

The Humor Of Fear

This is a little lesson on what it will be like: The cartoon drawn by Barry Blitt shows Barack Obama and his wife Michelle standing in the White House's Oval Office with an American flag burning in the fireplace under a portrait of Al-Qaeda leader Osama bin Laden. It's on the cover of this week's "New Yorker" magazine. Now we're paddling out into the waters of satire. What is funny, and what will be funny, over the next four years?
Maybe we've gotten a little too sensitive, since we have spent the past eight years with a President who somehow seemed impervious to satire. Not that he wasn't easy to lampoon, but he just never seemed to take any of it personally. He just kept doing what Pinheads do. For that matter, I know that this blog has walked a fine line for the past three years, running the risk of offending pinheads everywhere with the association.
Over the past few weeks, I have been reminded by watching the first season of "Saturday Night Live" about the nature of political comedy. There are hours of screen time devoted to Chevy Chase, as "Gerald Ford", bumping into and falling over things. While he will never be remembered as the most effective leader, it's interesting to see his presidency distilled into pratfalls. Near the end of that season, a new face emerged: Dan Aykroyd as "Jimmy Carter." The most memorable skit featuring "Jimmy wouldn't appear until the next season, with Bill Murray as "Walter Cronkite, in which Aykroyd/Carter takes calls on a phone-in show and eventually talks a kid down from a bad trip. Aykroyd was also a very scary "Dick Nixon" in his Final Days. Respectful? Hardly. Funny? You bet.
Now back to Barack: The "New Yorker" cover is certainly over the top. It is obviously intended to "Make Us Think." On that level, it succeeds. But is it funny? I just got my Obama shirt in the mail, so I am probably not best qualified to make this judgment. New Yorker editor David Remnick says, "Our cover 'The Politics of Fear' combines a number of fantastical images about the Obamas and shows them for the obvious distortions they are." Distortions yes. Obvious? Only time will tell. When somebody starts shouting "tasteless and offensive," I confess my first reaction is to take a second look.
A couple of weeks ago, Jon Stewart was in the middle of a bit about Obama, and he reacted to the hushed response he was getting: "You're allowed to laugh at him, you know," he reminded us. Even though I may flinch, I hope he's right.