Between The Lines

I have suffered the indignities of Spirit Week: "Mister Caven, are those really your pajamas?" on Pajama Day. "Why is your hair all different colors?" on Crazy Hair Day. "You like the Broncos?" on Sports Day. I even endured the chafing of the back of my collar under my chin on Backwards Day, only to be asked "Why aren't your pants on backwards too?" Yes, I understand that Spirit, true Spirit, comes at a price.
But all those aggravations fall away at one point during that week. When the teachers finally take the field against the fifth graders in a friendly game of kickball. It is a relatively new tradition, but a tradition nonetheless. For the past seven years, when things in the classroom have run down to the very limited, life-support activities such as taking roll and checking in books, we all start looking out to the corner of the playground where we know destiny awaits.
It should be noted that the rest of the year goes by with teachers taking a quiet, passive role on the yard. We are generally out there to settle minor disputes, or find lost balls. Once a year, we get to line up and try to kick the ball over the fence. We want the kids to spend some time looking for the ball.
That happened this year. One of our first grade teachers connected with a soft roll from the pitcher and buried it in the limbs of a distant patch of ivy at the top of the fence. That was a foul ball. The rest of us teachers were more successful keeping the ball in play, and we kept our team of eight busy both in the field and in the dugout. The fifth graders put nearly fifty bodies between the baselines, and that meant many of our best attempts at blasting one over their heads was caught. The teacher's more traditional alignment relied on concentration and hustle. When it was all over, including giving the kids one last turn behind the plate, the grown-ups prevailed eighteen runs to eleven.
We did not rub it in. We gave all the kids high fives and congratulated them on a game well played. We breathed a sigh of relief, keeping our record intact of seven wins and no losses, but we never mentioned this. Until we got to the staff meeting where, for just a few moments, we allowed ourselves a little trash talk. We've got spirit. Yes we do.

Trepidation

I have been hit by a car. Twice. I still flinch a little when I walk into a busy intersection, but I don't stand on the curb waiting endlessly. I have a certain amount of faith that the drivers of the cars to my left and to my right will follow the agreed upon norms that keep us all safe. I do not fear crossing the street. On the other hand, I do not like walking over grates. You know the kind: narrow little gaps or slots that threaten to eat me up as soon as I set foot upon them. Never mind that I have long since passed the size that would easily slip through those openings. What if I should suddenly shrink or twist or turn to make such a calamity a reality?
I'm not alone in irrational fears. I happen to know that a number of other adults continue to harbor secret worries that would sound ridiculous to others. I have a friend who harbors an all-consuming terror when it comes to bungee cords. The ones with those unforgiving metal hooks at the end, waiting to spring from their secure station and lash out viciously at unsuspecting passersby.
I understand that one. I have experienced the full-on contact of one of those wicked straps and their sinister curve of hardened steel. Right in the upper lip, and yet I come back just about every day to the back of my bike, pull the elastic tight over my backpack and for a split second, I think about how that hook is situated. Then I go about the rest of my day.
But you won't find me riding over any storm drains.

Inbox

I have a friend, and constant reader, who is just a little put off by the state of Alaska. She feels that releasing Sarah Palin's e-mails constitute infringement on her hobby: printing out the Internet. I should mention that she is planning on using a very small font, and going double-sided on this project, but it will take some time and use considerable resources. This was never more apparent than when the dollies were rolled out with case after case of paper containing the Wit and Wisdom of Sarah Palin, the Juneau Years. Twenty-four thousand, one hundred and ninety-nine pages. Two hundred and sixty pounds. Perhaps the time and cost it took for such an undertaking is what took Alaska such a long time to get to work on this process, at three cents a page.
But it was totally worth it. Now you can catch up with all those years when Sarah's light was a faint beacon shining in the tundra. You can even be a cub reporter for the Washington Post, who is enlisting your help reading all these earth-shaking missives. Included are such hits as, "What areas can be looked at to veto out of operating budget? Were there big adds by loggies in it?" Or how about this one that came to her: "You rock. That's why Blockbuster's offering you one month of Blockbuster Total Access - No Charge." Yes, you even get to read Sarah's spam.
And so, days later, what have we learned? Well, there's no naked pictures of Anthony Weiner here, and no stunning revelations about her plans for world domination. And with that mountain of what we can only hope was recycled paper, I can only come up with one thought: Thank God she quit when she did.

Greetings From The Other Side

A door opened last weekend, and my son walked through. He went to his eighth grade dinner dance, and he came home with a smile on his face. The girl that he had hoped would be his date for the evening gave him the limited cold shoulder. She agreed to meet him at the dance. He spent the week leading up to the event fretting about what this might mean. His mother and I assured him that he would have a good time no matter what the outcome of that single interaction turned out to be, but we both knew that his heart and soul was riding on the outcome.
As it happens, she stopped just short of the "just-good-friends" speech. As it turns out, she was just as nervous as he was about the evening, and they were both relieved to find out that their expectations were not all that different. She was pleased and happy to have his attention, but didn't want to "rush into anything." Well, those are my words. I may never know exactly what was said, since now is the time when teenagers turn inside for answers. Or to each other. My clever son made a connection with this girl's best friend and enlisted her as his ally in this pursuit. At home, we ask questions and get polite, straightforward answers, but we know that mom and dad are currently on a need-to-know basis.
In the meantime, all those years of video games have paid off, as his extremely durable thumbs have become the articulators of his innermost thoughts. I know that he has spent more time texting this young lady than he has ever spent in face-to-face conversation. That's why he has limits on the number of hours he can spend with his face in a screen. I made it clear to him early on that I would periodically be peeking over his shoulder to check on the content of his messages. I needn't have worried. The bulk of them are descriptions of the preceding moment: "Sitting on the couch now, watching 'Top Gear.'" Hers are every bit as revealing: "In the car now. Going to my cousin's house." The happy news is that nobody seems to care that I might be snooping. He's happy to be able to share his life with another person. A peer. A friend. A girl.

Lost In The Shuffle

Is this any way to run an airline? To be more precise, is this any way to run an IT department? Last week, the folks downtown at the concrete bunker known as the district office decided to send out a network command to delete student accounts. The intent was to eliminate student accounts on administrator's machines. It was a nice notion for housekeeping purposes, as it is the end of the year and all those saved links for Cartoon Network and forgotten attempts at essays describing the Industrial Revolution probably should go away to be re-imagined next year. But here's the rub: School is still in session, and they didn't isolate the computers that the wanted to affect. They just made a great big network command that made all everything go all wonky.
That's a technical term. I don't expect everyone to understand, but it's sort of like gishy, or gontflondernootz. Those of us who had business with computers, which is just about everybody at some point in the day, ran into some version of this aggressive bit of housecleaning. I live in a computer lab, and while I was able to keep things up and running for the most part, I had a number of perplexed kindergarteners who were unsure how to proceed when they were suddenly confronted with error messages and interrupted their progress making pictures of underwater scenes. "What's this, Mister Caven?"
I didn't have an answer, and like any good system administrator, I immediately assumed the problem was on my end and set about attempting to make sense of things on my end. Once I got the kids settled back into their comfort zone, headphones on, mice swirling and clicking. None of them were aware of the potential tragedy that awaited them at the end of the class: There would be no printing. Somehow the network zap had eliminated our ability to send our pictures to the printer. "I'll save them and try to print them later," I promised.
Alas, at the end of the day, there was no solution to the problem, and I had to go on with my routine. I don't know what will become of all those pictures of starfish and sharks and squids and crabs. They will probably be lost in the memory wipe that never should have touched them. At least they won't ever underestimate the magic of crayons again.

Don't Forget To Dance

As I sat there, second row center, I was reminded of an old ploy foisted on me when I was a bachelor. My friends and relatives who were starting their own families took great amusement in tossing a baby in my lap. "Let's see how the single guy handles a baby" was the name of the game. I understood it as a time-honored tradition and a test, of sorts. I accepted each bundle of squirming, gurgling joy even when they were not so joyous. The anticipated reaction was supposed to be one of fear and confusion: "What should I do with this?" Instead, I chose to connect with the newly formed being in front of me in the only way I knew how. I talked to the baby. I made friends. When something came out of the baby that wasn't happy babble, I smiled and waited for some relief, or at least a towel. I never surrendered or ran away in fear.
That's pretty much how I handled the ballet recital. My nieces' year-end performance was optional for me. I was told that I did not "have to come." I regarded this non-invitation for some time and initially, I confess, I did decline. But at the eleventh hour a ticket became available, and it seemed to me that it was the right thing to do. I am a big fan of the right thing to do. The fact that we went out for cheeseburgers before the show was a bit of an enticement as well.
Second row. In the center. There would be no nodding off or looking elsewhere. I was face to feet with group after group of prancing youth, showing the range and limitations of their training. After each dance, I could feel the eyes of the girls' parents and grandparents, waiting to see if I was "having fun." I show up in their world as a sports fan. A Bruce Springsteen fan. What would I know about ballet?
Happily, as a kid, I was introduced to ballet by my mother. As with many things cultural, there were no strict requirements other than I watch it and decide for myself. I kept an open mind, and I have a very fond memory of watching "Coppelia," a very nice entry-level ballet that didn't tax my patience and had its amusing moments. I was made familiar with "Swan Lake" and "The Nutcracker" primarily for their cultural significance. And then, of course, there was "Dance of the Hours" in Walt Disney's "Fantasia." All of these memories floated back to me as I watched little girl after little girl leap and bow and skip across the stage. They were all very impressive, but one little girl, who had her left leg in a cast and still managed to make her way through her piece, was the one I chose to remember. Her determination and concentration was apparent and incredible. She was When it was all over, and the bouquets were handed out, I stood in the lobby of the theater and watched as families filed out. My left leg hurt just a little, perhaps from the surgery I endured so many years ago, or maybe from the coming rain, but I think it was a sympathetic twinge for my prima ballerina.

He's Too Sexy For His Job

If there is a bright spot for New York's Representative Anthony Weiner, it could be that his first name is not Richard. Other than that, things look awfully bleak for this guy. I confess that it's been difficult to choose words that wouldn't be simply adding to the fourteen-year-old boy's field day that this entire escapade has generated. Conspiracy theories will no doubt center on the fact that pictures of some virile stud's barely concealed genitals who just happens to have the surname that was already a burden was just too easy. To quote former CIA director George Tenet, this would be a "slam dunk."
Now the clock ticks on Mister Weiner's career. It doesn't matter if he is a Democrat or Republican. It doesn't even matter that much that he got caught, quite literally, with his pants down. It matters that he lied about it. Was it embarrassing? Sure it was. Of course it was. But the instant that he bent the truth, he bought himself a ticket on the express train out of D.C. Did he apologize profusely for treating women shabbily over the course of the past several years? Sure he did. He even apologized to his wife, who was noticeably absent from the news conference. Missing from his mea culpa was an apology for lying, or the words, "I resign."
Admittedly, this guy had an uphill battle for most of his life, given that name. His impassioned rants from the floor of the House had to be all the more inspired just to get people to take him seriously. Benefits for first responders to Ground Zero? Support for Israel? We'll get to that in a moment Representative Weiner, but first let's talk about sexting. Get in line behind the Governator, Chris Lee and John Edwards. The bus is waiting. Get on it or get under it. You decide.