Somewhere in early October, kids start asking me, "Mister Caven, what are you going to be for Halloween?" Not a bad line of questioning since it puts off the what I want for Christmas discussion for a month or so. I have a pair of standard answers. One of them goes something like this: "Oh, I don't know. Something really scary. Like a teacher." That last bit is delivered with as much menace as I can manage, depending on the time of day. The second is much more off the cuff. When someone asks me what I am going to be for Halloween, I tell them "late."
Eventually I stumble home and start to consider my options. Twenty-two years of hanging around a playground on Halloween will give one a bit of a closet when it comes to potential costumes. All of which tosses me back into that bin of "you are what you wear." There was a time when I thought that I could be the cool teacher who wore Hawaiian shirts to school every day. And my Converse hi-tops. That notion was abruptly torn asunder by a principal who insisted on a "professional manner of dress" from her staff. That's when the shirts with collars and khakis started to fill my wardrobe, and became my "school clothes." The Hawaiian shirts made an annual appearance during Spirit Week on Wacky Tacky Day.
Later, when I got a gig teaching PE once a week, I was able to trot out a T shirt from my vast collection, giving special consideration to keeping the slogan and images kid-friendly. This year that role has been expanded to three days a week, so my polo shirt gets a rest and I can be more of what I truly am through my selection of concert, sports, and pop culture outerwear, careful not to slip and sneak that Texas Chainsaw Massacre shirt in there accidentally.
Which leaves me with the conundrum of how to dress on Halloween. I thought about the idea I have circled around several times over the years: Growing a goatee and go as "The Evil Mister Caven." In 2018, that Star Trek reference may be a stretch too far for most of the students and their twenty-something teachers. Then there's this: Because of the nature of the day, we wait until after lunch to put on our costumes for the parade we are going to make around the block. This year, that will take place around one o'clock and conclude somewhere around one thirty. It's a minimum day, so kids will be sent home somewhat abruptly after that. This means all of this speculation and consideration will be for the benefit of half an hour.
And the photos that will be posted on the bulletin boards and uploaded to our web site and Facebook. So I guess it had better be good.
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Hit Back
And now I find myself wondering: What is worse, a mass shooting with a clear motive or one without any at all? I understand this question is on a par with asking whether you want onion rings or fries with your plate of ground glass, and I am more and more certain that whenever we answer fear and anger with more fear and anger, we get (wait for it) more fear and anger.
In a week of pipe bombs and supermarket shootings, the new normal has fully emerged. And just before the mid-term elections. Our "President" reckoned this: “Republicans are doing so well in early voting, and at the polls, and now this ‘Bomb’ stuff happens and the momentum greatly slows – news not talking politics. Very unfortunate, what is going on. Republicans, go out and vote!” Of special note for me was the quotation marks around "Bomb," as if there was something figurative about them. Nope. These were the real deal. The exploding kind that needed to be disposed of by "bomb experts."
And then someone got it into their head to shoot up a synagogue. After the "President" suggested posting armed guards at this place of worship, he went on to bluster, "I think they should very much bring the death penalty into vogue. Anybody who does a thing like this to innocent people in temple, in church... they should really suffer the ultimate price." That would be killing someone for killing someone. An eye for an eye. Perhaps this was in keeping with his grasp of the Old Testament and Talmudic Law.
Or maybe he was, once again, using the opportunity to stoke the fires of hate when he should have been promoting peace. This came at the end of week that saw our "President" sending the Army to our southern border to fight off a stream of refugees from Honduras. This is the administration whose policy is "Halt or I'll shoot" without the halt.
Meanwhile, back on the elementary school playground, I hear daily from boys and girls who insist that their parents have taught them that if someone hits them, they should hit back. When I ask them what happens if they run into a kid whose parents have told them the same thing, they tend to shrug. That isn't their concern. These are fourth graders who are still in the process of learning empathy. I have hope for them.
I am not sure what we can do with the adults.
In a week of pipe bombs and supermarket shootings, the new normal has fully emerged. And just before the mid-term elections. Our "President" reckoned this: “Republicans are doing so well in early voting, and at the polls, and now this ‘Bomb’ stuff happens and the momentum greatly slows – news not talking politics. Very unfortunate, what is going on. Republicans, go out and vote!” Of special note for me was the quotation marks around "Bomb," as if there was something figurative about them. Nope. These were the real deal. The exploding kind that needed to be disposed of by "bomb experts."
And then someone got it into their head to shoot up a synagogue. After the "President" suggested posting armed guards at this place of worship, he went on to bluster, "I think they should very much bring the death penalty into vogue. Anybody who does a thing like this to innocent people in temple, in church... they should really suffer the ultimate price." That would be killing someone for killing someone. An eye for an eye. Perhaps this was in keeping with his grasp of the Old Testament and Talmudic Law.
Or maybe he was, once again, using the opportunity to stoke the fires of hate when he should have been promoting peace. This came at the end of week that saw our "President" sending the Army to our southern border to fight off a stream of refugees from Honduras. This is the administration whose policy is "Halt or I'll shoot" without the halt.
Meanwhile, back on the elementary school playground, I hear daily from boys and girls who insist that their parents have taught them that if someone hits them, they should hit back. When I ask them what happens if they run into a kid whose parents have told them the same thing, they tend to shrug. That isn't their concern. These are fourth graders who are still in the process of learning empathy. I have hope for them.
I am not sure what we can do with the adults.
Monday, October 29, 2018
Scary Movie
Keeping in the spirit of things Halloweenie, I would like to mention here that there is a remake of Pet Sematary coming to a theater near you in 2019. This will be thirty years since the original film, adapted from the novel by Stephen King, made its way to the screen. I confess that at the time the first one came out, I was creeped out, but not to the point where it gave me nightmares or caused me to change my opinion of cats.
I do remember my older brother's reaction. He and I had gone to enough scary movies together to appreciate all the things that go into making a horror show. On the way out, he was looking down, and I asked the obvious question: "Didn't you like it?"
To which he replied, "They had to mess with the kid." Having read the book before seeing the movie, I knew that the little boy and the cat were going to have to go to a bad place to make the story work. But my brother was a new father, and the idea that anyone would "mess with the kid" struck a dark chord with him.
Now I am a father too, and I understand exactly what he meant. Once I became a dad, I found it difficult to watch Steven Spielberg movies, since he more than just about any director I can name, tends to move his screen stories along by putting children in danger. Which is a device that works, certainly, but also cuts deepest for those of us who can imagine what it would be like to have a shark bite their little boy in half. Or why a grieving father would carry his dead son to a Native American burial ground to see if the "magic" that brought the family cat back might do the same for his little boy.
Even if it meant that little boy wasn't quite "right."
Looking back on Halloweens past, I remember the grief of losing a friend to a car crash. I remember the way it felt like I was living in a movie, or a pop song. At the time I could not comprehend what it would have been like to lose a son. So full of promise. Such a bright light. Such a tremendously funny person. Another generation. Gone.
And since then, I have come to the belief that no one should have to bury their own child. I have a twenty-one year old son, and I know his life has just begun. I cannot imagine what that loss would feel like. I don't want to.
Don't mess with the kid.
I do remember my older brother's reaction. He and I had gone to enough scary movies together to appreciate all the things that go into making a horror show. On the way out, he was looking down, and I asked the obvious question: "Didn't you like it?"
To which he replied, "They had to mess with the kid." Having read the book before seeing the movie, I knew that the little boy and the cat were going to have to go to a bad place to make the story work. But my brother was a new father, and the idea that anyone would "mess with the kid" struck a dark chord with him.
Now I am a father too, and I understand exactly what he meant. Once I became a dad, I found it difficult to watch Steven Spielberg movies, since he more than just about any director I can name, tends to move his screen stories along by putting children in danger. Which is a device that works, certainly, but also cuts deepest for those of us who can imagine what it would be like to have a shark bite their little boy in half. Or why a grieving father would carry his dead son to a Native American burial ground to see if the "magic" that brought the family cat back might do the same for his little boy.
Even if it meant that little boy wasn't quite "right."
Looking back on Halloweens past, I remember the grief of losing a friend to a car crash. I remember the way it felt like I was living in a movie, or a pop song. At the time I could not comprehend what it would have been like to lose a son. So full of promise. Such a bright light. Such a tremendously funny person. Another generation. Gone.
And since then, I have come to the belief that no one should have to bury their own child. I have a twenty-one year old son, and I know his life has just begun. I cannot imagine what that loss would feel like. I don't want to.
Don't mess with the kid.
Sunday, October 28, 2018
Survivors
Forty years ago, I sat in the Boulder High band room, transfixed. Lance, a junior, was recounting for two of us lowly sophomores a shot-by-shot retelling of Halloween. We sat, rapt, in the middle of the day as this gawky friend of ours gave us every spoiler, every grisly detail, and then proceeded to walk down to the piano and plunk out the infamous theme.
And yet, when we went to see the movie, we were even more terrified than we might have been without any preview. And when we walked out into the darkened streets behind the theater after our screening, we were certain that it would only be a matter of moments before the Bogeyman leaped out from the shadows and -
Now it's forty years later, and I have seen a lot of horror films since then. A lot. A few have had the same kind of creep factor that was inspired by John Carpenter's slasher classic, but not many. And yet I continue to seek out those experiences that take me to a place where I actually fear for my life. Like those insurance policies sold by producer William Castle for showings of his film Macabre that offered to pay off one thousand dollars for any viewer who died of fright. Or the night I came home from seeing The Blair Witch Project, and my dog kept going to the window and staring off into the darkness. Thanks, Maddie.
Even before that, I had made a study of horror movies. I continued this exploration through college, examining all the reasons we put ourselves through this. Why hop on the roller coaster in the first place? To survive, of course. Which is why you spend the entire time in line talking about all the near death experiences we have had and how likely it is that after a certain number of trips that car is ever more likely to jump the track.
We are after catharsis. Right up to the edge, peeking over the edge, and stopping. There's a wire keeping us from falling into the abyss. Which isn't really an abyss. It's a painted backdrop. And all of those monsters are infinitely easier to deal with than angry customers or politicians or telemarketers. Watching the bored detachment of the survivors in The Walking Dead as they dispatch yet another crop of zombies reminds me of the reason we watch horror movies. We watch them to remind ourselves that we are still alive. As awful as things may be, whether it is a plague of giant grasshoppers or a bloated Creamsicle becoming President of the United States, we can walk out of the theater. Into the light.
Until the inevitable sequel.
And yet, when we went to see the movie, we were even more terrified than we might have been without any preview. And when we walked out into the darkened streets behind the theater after our screening, we were certain that it would only be a matter of moments before the Bogeyman leaped out from the shadows and -
Now it's forty years later, and I have seen a lot of horror films since then. A lot. A few have had the same kind of creep factor that was inspired by John Carpenter's slasher classic, but not many. And yet I continue to seek out those experiences that take me to a place where I actually fear for my life. Like those insurance policies sold by producer William Castle for showings of his film Macabre that offered to pay off one thousand dollars for any viewer who died of fright. Or the night I came home from seeing The Blair Witch Project, and my dog kept going to the window and staring off into the darkness. Thanks, Maddie.
Even before that, I had made a study of horror movies. I continued this exploration through college, examining all the reasons we put ourselves through this. Why hop on the roller coaster in the first place? To survive, of course. Which is why you spend the entire time in line talking about all the near death experiences we have had and how likely it is that after a certain number of trips that car is ever more likely to jump the track.
We are after catharsis. Right up to the edge, peeking over the edge, and stopping. There's a wire keeping us from falling into the abyss. Which isn't really an abyss. It's a painted backdrop. And all of those monsters are infinitely easier to deal with than angry customers or politicians or telemarketers. Watching the bored detachment of the survivors in The Walking Dead as they dispatch yet another crop of zombies reminds me of the reason we watch horror movies. We watch them to remind ourselves that we are still alive. As awful as things may be, whether it is a plague of giant grasshoppers or a bloated Creamsicle becoming President of the United States, we can walk out of the theater. Into the light.
Until the inevitable sequel.
Saturday, October 27, 2018
What Price Glory?
Who do I believe won the one and a half billion dollar Mega Millions Jackpot?
Doctor Evil.
Austin Powers' arch-enemy is precisely the kind of math genius that I would expect to be the recipient of all that money. Then the discussion about just how to take it all in can begin. Would you rather have the whole one and a half billion (nine zeros) over time, or take a single cash payout of eight hundred seventy-eight million dollars? As a point of scale, you could pay the fine owed by Michael Avenati's law firm eighty-seven times and still have eight million dollars to pay down some of his back taxes.
Or maybe you could buy a few F-22 Raptors. You would still have a little left over to buy some fuel and a pilot. Or buy yourself flying lessons. And a few dozen air sickness bags.
I have a friend with whom I have joked with, over the years, about the ability to buy the world a Coke. Since I have given up that brown elixir for health reasons, I might instead choose to teach the world to sing. At around twenty dollars for a half hour lesson, I don't think I could get everyone in, but maybe if they came in groups of three or four, we could get it done. This might affect that perfect harmony, but we could give it a shot.
All that money is, reportedly, a chore to handle. We have all heard stories about the burden of being a brand new gazillionaire. Suddenly everyone is suddenly your friend or relative, and every one of those has a hand out. In this case, you could toss a thousand dollars at a million people and still have half a billion dollars to waste on yourself.
Over time.
If you were silly enough to choose that cash option, your choices would be limited by six hundred million dollars or so. Fewer singing lessons. Fewer cans of Coke. Only a couple of Raptors.
Or maybe do some serious damage to that Dollar Menu at Taco Bell.
Doctor Evil.
Austin Powers' arch-enemy is precisely the kind of math genius that I would expect to be the recipient of all that money. Then the discussion about just how to take it all in can begin. Would you rather have the whole one and a half billion (nine zeros) over time, or take a single cash payout of eight hundred seventy-eight million dollars? As a point of scale, you could pay the fine owed by Michael Avenati's law firm eighty-seven times and still have eight million dollars to pay down some of his back taxes.
Or maybe you could buy a few F-22 Raptors. You would still have a little left over to buy some fuel and a pilot. Or buy yourself flying lessons. And a few dozen air sickness bags.
I have a friend with whom I have joked with, over the years, about the ability to buy the world a Coke. Since I have given up that brown elixir for health reasons, I might instead choose to teach the world to sing. At around twenty dollars for a half hour lesson, I don't think I could get everyone in, but maybe if they came in groups of three or four, we could get it done. This might affect that perfect harmony, but we could give it a shot.
All that money is, reportedly, a chore to handle. We have all heard stories about the burden of being a brand new gazillionaire. Suddenly everyone is suddenly your friend or relative, and every one of those has a hand out. In this case, you could toss a thousand dollars at a million people and still have half a billion dollars to waste on yourself.
Over time.
If you were silly enough to choose that cash option, your choices would be limited by six hundred million dollars or so. Fewer singing lessons. Fewer cans of Coke. Only a couple of Raptors.
Or maybe do some serious damage to that Dollar Menu at Taco Bell.
Friday, October 26, 2018
Infinite Combinations? Thank You, No
Oreos.
Milk's favorite cookie.
The reason I don't mind sitting for fifteen minutes in the canteen after I donate blood.
The number one selling cookie in the United States.
Why mess with it?
I ask this because of Pumpkin Spice Oreos. Mini Oreos. Football shaped Oreos. Double Stuf Oreos. Big Stuf Oreos. Mega Stuf Oreos. Golden Mega Stuf Oreos. And the list goes on. Triple Double Oreo. Triple Double Neapolitan Oreos. Triple Double Chocolate Mint Oreos.
As you can see, we have begun to stray far afield from the traditional creme filled chocolate cookie sandwich. Orange Ice Cream? Blueberry Ice Cream? This is not Baskin Robbins, this is Nabisco. Or Mondelez International, if you're keeping corporate score. Before that, they were one of the Philip Morris Companies, but since milk doesn't have a favorite cigarette, things got shuffled.
It has only been in the past ten years or so that this need to generate permutations of a favorite. With the possible exception of the amount of "Stuf" inside, Oreos have been pretty much the same for more than one hundred years.
Why are we suddenly so challenged by our snack food attention?
I can remember when I went to work at Arby's, back in the mid-eighties. I was a happy and proud purveyor of America's Roast Beef, Yes Sir! I became proficient at making the basic menu of sandwiches: Junior, Regular and the Super. Each came on a bun regulated by its name and size, and the Beef 'n'Cheddar with it's onion bun and cheese goop required mild additional attention. For those who showed up at a roast beef restaurant craving something other than roast beef, we offered the Hamchy (microwaved ham and Swiss cheese) and the Turkey (a cold sandwich without a clever name). Somewhere in my third year of working in the brown polyester world of fast food, it became important to create more variety in the menu. That's when the Subs showed up. Not long after that, we brought in a fryer for boiling chicken planks in grease. Not long after that, I left that world for good. I could not abide by all of those non-beef items being sold under the guise of Arby's.
I have a similar feeling as I stand in the cookie aisle and look at all those "Oreos."
What hath we wrought?
Milk's favorite cookie.
The reason I don't mind sitting for fifteen minutes in the canteen after I donate blood.
The number one selling cookie in the United States.
Why mess with it?
I ask this because of Pumpkin Spice Oreos. Mini Oreos. Football shaped Oreos. Double Stuf Oreos. Big Stuf Oreos. Mega Stuf Oreos. Golden Mega Stuf Oreos. And the list goes on. Triple Double Oreo. Triple Double Neapolitan Oreos. Triple Double Chocolate Mint Oreos.
As you can see, we have begun to stray far afield from the traditional creme filled chocolate cookie sandwich. Orange Ice Cream? Blueberry Ice Cream? This is not Baskin Robbins, this is Nabisco. Or Mondelez International, if you're keeping corporate score. Before that, they were one of the Philip Morris Companies, but since milk doesn't have a favorite cigarette, things got shuffled.
It has only been in the past ten years or so that this need to generate permutations of a favorite. With the possible exception of the amount of "Stuf" inside, Oreos have been pretty much the same for more than one hundred years.
Why are we suddenly so challenged by our snack food attention?
I can remember when I went to work at Arby's, back in the mid-eighties. I was a happy and proud purveyor of America's Roast Beef, Yes Sir! I became proficient at making the basic menu of sandwiches: Junior, Regular and the Super. Each came on a bun regulated by its name and size, and the Beef 'n'Cheddar with it's onion bun and cheese goop required mild additional attention. For those who showed up at a roast beef restaurant craving something other than roast beef, we offered the Hamchy (microwaved ham and Swiss cheese) and the Turkey (a cold sandwich without a clever name). Somewhere in my third year of working in the brown polyester world of fast food, it became important to create more variety in the menu. That's when the Subs showed up. Not long after that, we brought in a fryer for boiling chicken planks in grease. Not long after that, I left that world for good. I could not abide by all of those non-beef items being sold under the guise of Arby's.
I have a similar feeling as I stand in the cookie aisle and look at all those "Oreos."
What hath we wrought?
Thursday, October 25, 2018
The Path
Okay, let me see if I follow the logic here:
Our "President" proposes that we cut off aid to countries in Central America because of a human caravan heading north toward our border with Mexico. "Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador were not able to do the job of stopping people from leaving their country and coming illegally to the U.S." These three countries received approximately five hundred million dollars last year in aid, and since the "President" tweeted his threat, it wasn't clear just how much of that aid would be cut.
If any.
Part of the problem stems from the way this "President" generates policy. One imagines early morning trips to the White House bathroom during commercial breaks on Fox & Friends. Or just after he has finished finger lickin' once he has devoured a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Ideas like withdrawing from a nuclear missile treaty with Russia ought not to be arrived at on a whim, but that seems to be standard operating procedure currently.
Did he consider that even with half a billion dollars in aid that there are thousands fleeing those countries because their living conditions have become so desperate? Did he consider that the United States is the place from whence that half a billion dollars of aid came from, and if you were of a mind to flee the desperate living conditions in your country that the source of that half a billion dollars might be a great place to head?
Maybe if we tried physics, which suggests that an object in motion tends to stay in motion until acted upon by an outside force. In this case, the outside force seems to be a mish-mosh of threats of military and law enforcement or legal action with a cry for Democrats to stop obstructing and start bending to the "President's" agenda which includes a wall being built and more severe penalties for those stupid enough to buy into that whole "bring me your tired, your poor" routine. You know that the Statue of Liberty was a gift, don't you? From the French. And we know how that turned out.
Don't we?
Sorry. I seemed to have strayed a little from the topic: We were trying to follow the logic of the "President's" decision to cut off aid to three countries in Central America. It's not really a linear exercise. More of a fractal, really.
I'll get back to you.
Our "President" proposes that we cut off aid to countries in Central America because of a human caravan heading north toward our border with Mexico. "Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador were not able to do the job of stopping people from leaving their country and coming illegally to the U.S." These three countries received approximately five hundred million dollars last year in aid, and since the "President" tweeted his threat, it wasn't clear just how much of that aid would be cut.
If any.
Part of the problem stems from the way this "President" generates policy. One imagines early morning trips to the White House bathroom during commercial breaks on Fox & Friends. Or just after he has finished finger lickin' once he has devoured a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Ideas like withdrawing from a nuclear missile treaty with Russia ought not to be arrived at on a whim, but that seems to be standard operating procedure currently.
Did he consider that even with half a billion dollars in aid that there are thousands fleeing those countries because their living conditions have become so desperate? Did he consider that the United States is the place from whence that half a billion dollars of aid came from, and if you were of a mind to flee the desperate living conditions in your country that the source of that half a billion dollars might be a great place to head?
Maybe if we tried physics, which suggests that an object in motion tends to stay in motion until acted upon by an outside force. In this case, the outside force seems to be a mish-mosh of threats of military and law enforcement or legal action with a cry for Democrats to stop obstructing and start bending to the "President's" agenda which includes a wall being built and more severe penalties for those stupid enough to buy into that whole "bring me your tired, your poor" routine. You know that the Statue of Liberty was a gift, don't you? From the French. And we know how that turned out.
Don't we?
Sorry. I seemed to have strayed a little from the topic: We were trying to follow the logic of the "President's" decision to cut off aid to three countries in Central America. It's not really a linear exercise. More of a fractal, really.
I'll get back to you.
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