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The Student Has Become the Teacher

This past week I spent some time in an elementary school, training teachers in the use of my company’s reading software. The training went well, although nagging childhood nostalgia constantly threatened to decimate my attention. Elementary school: that magical time when the classroom teacher is beloved and her favor is curried, when it’s cool to be a good student, and when you don’t have to take a shower after gym class. Recess is taken for granted, doodling is a legitimate academic pursuit, and the social scene is fueled by cupcakes and pool parties, not by a fraught tincture of hormones and peer pressure.

When I entered the school, a taut line of children filed past me, silent and purposeful, conjuring instant memories of that weird time in life when you and your classmates could not transition from place to place without forming a line. (Sort of like living in Japan, I guess.)

The training was held in the school’s computer lab, which provoked wonder instead of nostalgia. Why, when I was in elementary school, the school had exactly one computer, and it sat in the library as if on exhibition. I have no idea if it served any practical purpose. We learned exactly three things about computers in elementary school: “This, children, is a computer,” said the librarian, pointing at the behemoth hot mess of plastic and fans. “This is a floppy disk,” she explains further, holding one up for our inspection. And, “You must never, ever touch the shiny parts of the floppy disk.”

This modern computer lab was well-furnished with 20+ compact personal computers and various audio-visual equipment. A color-laden bulletin board displayed grade-by-grade benchmarks for computer skills, such as “Kindergarten: learn to use mouse, logon, logout, start programs.” I felt vaguely threatened by these cyber-savvy kids, getting a 10-year head start on me. I remember my big challenge in kindergarten was using scissors.

It was a little surreal dealing with the teachers and school administrators as an equal; I felt residually cowed by their authority. The shoe was on the other foot — I was teaching them — and it wasn’t a shoe that I’d like to wear every day. Things went well, although…. teachers. Once they get to chatting, they are incorrigible.

When the training was over, the magnificent principal accompanied us out of the building. We passed lines of students as they snaked their way through the corridors. The kids looked at the principal with God-like respect, and — how pathetic am I?– I felt kinda cool for walking with the principal: that’s right, kids. I’m important. Then I felt truly cool because I realized that I’m playing some, tiny part in teaching these kids how to read. And I haven’t been that cool in school since the second grade, when my mom made ice cream cone cupcakes to celebrate my birthday with the class.

Posted in Nostalgia, The 9 to 5.

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You Down With OPP?

Other People’s Poetry!

Five Haiku

The wind
Undecided
Rolls a cigarette of air
The mute girl talks:
It is art’s imperfection.
This impenetrable speech.
The motor car is truly launched:
Four martyrs’ heads
Roll under the wheels.
Ah! a thousand flames, a fire,
The light, a shadow!
The sun is following me.
A feather gives to a hat
A touch of lightness:
The chimney smokes.

–Paul Eluard

Beautiful Women
WOMEN sit, or move to and fro—some old, some young;
The young are beautiful—but the old are more beautiful than the young.

–Walt Whitman

Restless
It is that perennial immateriality dwelling between living and dying
crouched in the corners and grappling by the hinges
only to remain unseen;
We weave our web of what we believe we understand
of the relationship of our acts and events
only to remain misunderstood;
From that odd wisp of steam of heated discussions
to the urgent hiss of a new page calling;
I teeter on that thin ice —
That single space of uncertainty —
And I ask
“What am I doing here?”.
–Cecilia Borromeo

The World is Filled With Unattended Packages

Wind is all we know these days. Ignore the snow, the cold,
but not the wind. In the fallow of pre-spring wood, we strolled
vulnerable, exposed, the wind catenating our quest
with the disquieting exaction of an uninvited guest.

And when my face shakes, it is the wind. When
I drift from your mouth and the words within,
it is not betrayal that the rebuff imparts.
It is the wind, chilling souls and racking hearts.

–Me

Posted in Culture.

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Watchtowers

Time is a universal construct by which we all abide. I know people who freely flout societal conventions regarding food, dress, language, education, employment, family, religion, sexuality, and amusement. But I’ve never met anyone who did not bow, somehow, to the clock.

I get a cozy feeling when a stranger asks me for the time and I give it to them. This fleeting pleasure of random human connectivity has become rare with the increasing ubiquity of cell phones and other personal electronic devices. We are all constantly, even painfully aware of what time it is.

The center of my town has three public clocks. All three are malfunctioning. This, too, is a sign of the times.

Clock #1 – Jewelry Store – defunct

The jewelry store’s heyday is decades past; it survives on repairs and loyal customers buying presents for their granddaughters. The display in the window features birthstone earrings, heart-shaped pendants, and other dull ornaments that can be easily afforded on two week’s allowance. Peek inside further, and you will see sparse jewelry cases with a token inventory of rings, watches, and pendants; you may see the elderly owners in conversation with an elderly gent from the neighborhood who stopped by on his daily constitutional to say howdy.

Given the store’s location in the heart of a traditionally Catholic middle-class town, it has probably always been an utilitarian jewelry store, for practical baubles. A confirmation cross for the son, pearl studs for the daughter’s Sweet Sixteen, maybe a costume jewelry stickpin for the wife’s birthday. The bare-bones analog clock on the store’s marquee, with stark ticks in lieu of numbers, serves as a reminder of how nice it is to know the time, and speaking of which, would you like to buy a watch?

But the clock has been stuck at ten til six since last fall. There is a tragic irony, that this ma-and-pa jewelry store that subsists on watch repairs has yet to repair its own.

Clock #2 – Unitarian Church – impaired

The town’s most prominent clock is on the bell tower of the Unitarian church, which sits on a corner of a major intersection. I like that the Unitarian church displays a clock, for it is a fitting emblem for a pseudo-religious sect who always keeps one hand firmly planted in hard scientific reality.

We went to this Unitarian church for services once. We couldn’t see ourselves going regularly; the small tight-knit congregation seemed emotionally needy, with nearly half of the service devoted to public confessions, soapboxing, and pleas for spiritually-sanitized prayer.  I really wanted to like this church because I have a history with Unitarianism, but also because of the clock. How many times have I passed this clock on my way to the bike path and relied on it for the time? So simple, yet so comforting in its reliable constantness.

Now, the Unitarian church’s clock is broken. It displays a different time every time that I look at it, but it’s never the right time, and there is no pattern to its aberrance. But I still look at it whenever I pass it, just to see if it has been fixed.

Clock #3 – Citizen’s Bank – spazzy

And further down the town’s main thoroughfare, a Citizen’s Bank displays a digital clock that alternates showing the time and temperature. We’ve all seen these outside of banks. They’re meant to convey the sense that this bank is knowledgeable, helpful, and ready to serve the community at-large. They can give you a checking account, a mortgage, and tell you if you need a hat.

As the ma-and-pa stores are being siphoned out of existence by the big-box supercenters, the physical shells that they leave behind are usually always replaced by a restaurant or a bank. In this age of 1-800 numbers and online checking accounts, the increasing prevalence of banking locations has always puzzled me. Perhaps these are relics of the financial bubble that so spectacularly exploded; each institution wanted to strategically tap into every community in the country to offer it risky credit.

The clock’s lighting devices are in desperate need of maintenance, as each number is missing a telltale part that would distinguish, say, a 6 from a 9,  or a 2 from a 3. Although this can make the temperature display pretty vague, a thinking person can usually piece together the correct time.

Still, there is something unseemly about this clock in the front of the bank, as it flashes its cyrptic runes to the town which it purports to serve with equal parts helplessness and disdain.

Posted in Massachusetts.

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Playing Music Badly

Yesterday I made my concert debut as an alleged violist with the community philharmonic orchestra that I starting rehearsing with last month. Although I still haven’t shaken off all of my dust and rust, I managed to keep up with the other violas while avoiding any major auditory dissonance. (And in moments of doubt, I mimed the bowing.)

The afternoon concert was held in the town hall, and I was surprised that the hall was absolutely packed with an audience of about 150. Unfortunately, it was packed mostly with young children, as the concert was advertised heavily by the local library as a “family concert.” Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great to expose young children to classical music, but the selection of music was a bit highbrow for 5 year olds, half of whom were either talking or crying for the entire hour, even during the Gershwin (our “catchy” number).

And the Moldau. Geez, if I knew I’d be playing for toddlers, I wouldn’t have driven myself to near mania trying to master the intricacies of this technically-difficult piece just to be distracted by a temper tantrum in the balcony. Forget the pre-concert cellphone reminder; we needed an announcement about ensuring that your children have been properly snacked and napped.

Of course, having any audience was a joy. Playing music was a joy. Chatting with my fellow musicians before and after the concert was a joy. Watching the children gather around the trombones and tubas after the concert in wonder was a definite joy. It made me remember just how magical, really, it is to make music.

At last week’s “dress” rehearsal, an elderly man who plays the cello asked me how I was enjoying the orchestra. “Oh, I love it,” I said. “It’s so nice to be playing music again. Even if I’m not very good.”

He smiled and leaned close to me, as if telling me a secret. “I play the cello very badly,” he said. “But some things are still worth doing very badly.”

Amen to that, brother.

Posted in Existence.

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Wachusett Night Skiing

We were persuaded to go night skiing at Wachusett Mountain, which is the only noteworthy ski area within an hour’s drive of Boston. I had never been to Wachusett nor gone night skiing, and I expected the worst on both fronts. Hey, the good thing about being a pessimist is you’re never disappointed, and when things turn out to be pretty good, then you’re pleasantly delighted.

Even non-skiers in Boston metro are familiar with Wachusett Mountain due to their incessant television and radio advertising that employs a catchy-to-the-point-of-grating jingle “Oh, wa-Wachusett.” The ads always feature the adult members of the family that owns Wachusett, sitting on the ski lifts and talking about how great the snow is on Wachusett, and then skiing down a mountain of cash… I mean, snow with gleeful looks on their faces.

Night skiing goes from 4-10pm ($44 lift tickets during “prime season”) and we arrived right at 4pm. Because it’s school vacation week in Massachusetts, the ski area was mobbed with groups of kids of all ages, but especially teenagers. The amount of money on display was almost shocking: designer snowboard, designer boots, designer jackets and pants, and $6 cups of french fries. I mean, wow. Each one of these kids represented a minimum of $1000 worth of gear, and they strut around the base area, fully aware of how freaking cool they looked.

I feared that Wachusett’s relatively low altitude as well as its notorious weekend crowds would guarantee icy patches and an absence of powder by 4pm, but, wow: the snow was excellent, especially considering temperatures hit 50 degrees that day. So while the lift tickets are a wee bit expensive considering the lack of terrain, obviously they’ve invested a lot into snow-making as well as their speedy quad lifts that have been engineered to minimize mounting/dismounting foibles.

Since Mr. P was on his telemark skis, we decided to warm-up his thigh muscles on the mid-level trails, which turned out to be the most popular part of the mountain due to the halfpipe and snowboard park located under this ski lift. We watched the teenaged boys do tricks on various apparatus, risking limb if not life to impress each other (and us captive spectators). The sun was still out, the weather was still warm, and we were pleasantly surprised by the quality of the snow. After Mr. P got his telemark style down, we moved on to the more “challenging” Black trails.

As the sun went down, the lights came on and my night vision kicked in. It did get chilly, and the lift lines were long, but we had no urge to go into the lodge for a break. (Not that we could have found a table, anyway, because the place was packed. It always amazes me how many people “go skiing” and spend most of their time in the lodge.) We skied for four hours straight until 8pm, basically on the same two Black trails, until we grew increasingly cold and ready for dinner. Mr. P’s thighs were burning from the telemark turns. And so we headed to the parking lot to go home, tired but satisfied with our trip to wa-Wachusett (although wa-once a year there is probably enough for me).

Posted in Massachusetts.

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Fire and Ice

Complaints about NBC’s broadcast of the 2010 Winter Olympics are legion. My household’s main beef: if they are broadcasting the performance of a non-American, it is either because the athlete won a medal, or because the athlete exploded spectacularly into a cloud of snow and/or ice.

Posted in Americana.

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Book Review: The Vegetarian Myth by Lierre Keith

The Vegetarian Myth, written by a radical feminist/anti-porn activist from Western Massachusetts, is currently the unlikely darling of the macho Paleo/Primal/Caveman/Very Low Carb/Carnivore circles that I have frequented ever since I found out that my USDA-approved high-carb, low-fat diet was making me metabolically deranged. And as celebrated as Lierre Keith’s part dietary memoir, part political manifesto is among unabashed meat eaters, it has became a source of outrage in the vegan community, probably touching a particularly sore spot because Keith is writing from the perspective of a former hard-core vegan for 20 years – one who obviously regrets every single day of it.

I could somewhat relate to Keith’s sheepishness, for I was a vegetarian for nearly 12 years. I honestly, deeply believed that going meatless was the most morally, politically, and nutritionally correct diet in this modern world of readily-available soy protein. I didn’t want to directly contribute to any animal’s death; I looked at the dead meat in the grocery store, at restaurants, on other people’s plates, and I empathized with it. I was outraged that people should eat grain-fattened beef in a world of starving people. And I was thrilled by my wholesome meals of beans and grains, which tasted so healthy and pure.

But looking back on my years as a vegetarian, I admit that I didn’t eat healthy; I relied on carbs and sugars for sustenance. Most of my dietary fat came from vegetable oils, and I was not mindful of balancing amino acids or ensuring adequate intake of all the nutrients that a meat-free diet typically lacks (zinc, calcium, iron, Vitamin D and the notorious B12). Compared to Keith, though, I got off easy, only having developed mild insulin resistance from my exorbitant intake of carbs and sugars. Keith spent much of her 20 years as a vegan depressed and angry, nauseated and bloated, with a crippling spine disorder that is now permanent from lack of proper nutrition.

Not only was I not doing my body any favors, but I wasn’t doing the Earth or its Third World inhabitants any favors, as well. Because just as evil as the practice of factory farming is agriculture — any agriculture. Agriculture destroys biodiversity, rivers, topsoil, and self-sufficient human communities; it creates dead zones and robs animals of habitats. As Keith so eloquently puts it:

And agriculture isn’t quite a war because the forests and wetlands and prairies, the rain, the soil, the air, can’t fight back.  Agriculture is really more like ethnic cleansing, wiping out the indigenous dwellers so the invaders can take the land.  It’s biotic cleansing, biocide. … It is not non-violent.  It is not sustainable.  And every bite of food is laden with death. There is no place left for the buffalo to roam.  There’s only corn, wheat, and soy.  About the only animals that escaped the biotic cleansing of the agriculturalists are small animals like mice and rabbits, and billions of them are killed by the harvesting equipment every year.  Unless you’re out there with a scythe, don’t forget to add them to the death toll of your vegetarian meal.  They count, and they died for your dinner

The toll on the Earth is profound, but equally disturbing is how agriculture indentures farmers to the land. Says Keith, “Agricultural foods — the grains, beans, and vegetables we are all urged to eat in the service of the world community — are foods of displacement and destruction, not justice or peace. They have been the foods of slavery, and when this short moment of oil engorgement fades into memory and then into myth, we will be left with sweat… Grain requires sweat. Agricultural food is soaked cleans through in oil and blood.”

There is no doubt about the repugnance of the factory farming that supplies most of our meat and dairy. Grain-fed meat lacks both the conscience and the nutrition of  eating pastured, grass-fed meat. Animals weren’t meant to eat grain, any more than humans were. We did not evolve to be farmers; cows did not evolve eating grain; chickens did not evolve eating corn. Is clearing off land to create monocultures of grains morally superior to eating a chicken — when thousands of animals and plants have been displaced or destroyed for the farming and harvesting of the land? Not to mention the water. Rice, wheat, and corn are crops that drink entire rivers, and the irrigation destroys wetlands, trees, rivers, and all the animals that need that water to survive. Framed from this perspective, eating pastured beef becomes less environmentally problematic than eating industrial tomatoes and lettuce. As Keith puts it, “If you live in Burlington, VT or Santa Cruz, CA and you eat rice — ubiquitous, vegan brown rice — this is what you’re eating: dead fish and dead birds from a dying river.

If there is a fault wth Keith’s precise arguments, it is how she paints all vegans and vegetarians out to be naive and helplessly idealistic. The antecdotes she tells — about a vegan who wants to erect a fence in Africa to stop animals from eating each other, about a farming commuity that lives solely on bread and salad — are from the half-lunatic fringe. And there are people who live perfectly healthy meat-free lives that are no more destructive than the typical American diet.  Me, personally, since I’ve started eating meat rather than massive quantities of beans, grains, and soy (there is a special ring in Keith’s hell reserved for soy, which can cause thyroid damage), I’ve felt healthier than I can remember. Now, thanks to Keith, I can feel a little better about my choice to start eating pastured animals from a moral and environmental perspective.

Posted in Review.

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Vermont Ski

This past 3-day weekend we went skiing in Vermont. Downhill skiing, that is — no longer am I content to strap on those brutish XC skis, having experienced two solid weeks of Alpine skiing under the expert tutelage of the Monsieurs Ps, which has given me the confidence and ability to brave the snow-covered mountains as well as the leisurely lifestyle of downhill skiing.

We booked our President’s Day skiing vacation back in December, a ballsy move given the inconsistent winter weather that can plague New England — nay, anywhere. We wanted to take advantage of a stunningly superb ski-and-stay package offered by a Hampton Inn — free lift tickets at Smuggler’s Notch or Bolton Valley, free breakfast, and yes they have an indoor pool and hot tub. What more do you need? (It turned out… ear plugs).

Of course, XC skiing does have advantages — it’s cheaper ($16 trail passes versus $60 lift tickets), it’s warmer, and it’ll guarantee a good appetite for sure. So it was a pleasant way to pass a chilly Saturday afternoon as we made our way to the Hampton Inn. Instead of our skating XC skis, we brought our heavy backcountry skis and did a tiny portion of the 300-mile long Catamount Trail. “Catamount Trail sounds like it should be a beer,” I remarked, as we huffed our way uphill. “A hoppy, heavy beer, sold in gallon-sized cans.”

That night we arrived at the Hampton Inn and made a beeline to the hot tub to take a well-deserved soak. As we lounged in the pool area with several other quiet families and couples, suddenly 7 teenage boys appeared and swamped the hot tub. Then 5 more teenage boys came. Then 4 girls, to the subdued cat calls of the boys. Very quickly, the entire pool was beset with teenaged flesh. The dull roar of horesplay echoed through the area as the families hastily toweled off their children and pulled on their clothes. The teenagers rapidly multiplied, turning the area into a  humid stew of seething hormonal energy that made me feel desperately old and anxious.

We quickly realized that the Hampton Inn was host to over 100 teenagers on some sort of retreat. And while they were not running wild, there was inevitable noise, errant voices and laughs, and constant door slams. I tried not to blame the teenagers for being teenagers, but rather focused my displeasure on the Hampton Inn for not segregating the teenagers from the general hotel population. At least they didn’t show up at the breakfast buffet at the same time we did, ensuring our due share of dehydrated eggs and industrial sausage.

The downhill skiing was good. On Sunday, we went to Smuggler’s Notch; on Monday, we hit Bolton Valley. I was a little nervous to ski in Vermont, but it turned out that the slopes on which I learned to ski in the Alps are much, much more difficult than most of what Vermont has to offer. This is where I should have learned, on the gentle road grades of Vermont, not on the steep walls of the Alps. In Bolton Valley, I was coasting down Black trails, carving turns with a confidant style that seemed unimaginable only 1 year ago. Why, I’m a natural. Had I started this 30 years ago, I could have been a contender. I could have been going head-to-head with Lindsey Vonn.

At a restaurant where we ate dinner, the menu contained a sheet of Vermont facts to ponder while waiting for your meal. Fact #1: Vermont is the second smallest state in the country. “That’s not right,” Mr. P immediately said. I argued with him for a bit, maintaining that it could be right, until I remembered Delaware. No way that Vermont is smaller than that speck of miserable land. The remaining facts were too boring to be made up, except for the lovely fact that Vermont means “green mountain” in French, which I already knew, but had forgotten.

Posted in Trips.

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Tweet Me

Valentine’s greetings from northern Vermont, where the air is bitter, the mountains are caked in packed powder, and the chocolates are oh-so-sweet, as evident by these luscious chocolate hearts on display at the Lake Champlain Chocolate factory store.

All the chocolates bore very vanilla sentiments, except, well… “Tweet me?” Must even our candy hearts carry a social media message?

Posted in Existence.

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Sirius Thoughts: You’re Standing on My Neck

On Sirius satellite radio’s Lithium channel (90s grunge and alternative), one of the between-song taglines that seeks to cleverly describe and endear itself to its aging, jaded audience is “It’s what Daria’s mix tape would have sounded like.”

And just as a pleasant buzz of nostalgia radiates from my cerebrum — ah, Daria, the last good thing MTV ever did — a freaking Dave Matthews song comes on.

Excuse me. Daria would sooner join Quinn’s Fashion Club than listen to Dave Matthews. Methinks that, too often, Lithium strays over the critical line between 90s alternative and 90s mainstream by playing the likes of the Gin Blossoms, Limp Bizkit, Lenny Kravitz, and Alanis Morrissette. (I’m sure Daria just loved listening to that former pop princess belt out her overwrought anthems of pseudo-angry chick empowerment.)

More than a decade after the fact, and I’m still pathetically indulging in the whole what’s alternative/what’s mainstream debate. Of course all of the bands that Lithium plays have been commercially successful on a national if not global level, so by the strict, unforgiving standards of my youth, none of them are alternative. Then again, I’m commercially successful, too… I’m pretty darn mainstream these days. So I guess if I want to work a 9-5 office job, spend my weekends skiing, and read fiction, I can’t really hurl accusations of “poseur!” at the Lithium station for playing Dave Matthews. I can, however, change the channel to Factionand hope that some NOFX, Pantera, or Cypress Hill is playing.

Posted in Nostalgia.

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