Zombie Nation: We Don’t Need No Education…

When I used to teach high school, my students did one thing—and honestly only one thing—that drove me completely batshit-crazy virtually every day.  It wasn’t their styles, their behaviors, their attitudes, or any element of the teenage creature, specifically.  In fact, I should probably mention that I love the American teenager in all of their convoluted, hormone- confused chaotic glory (seriously—they are splendid beings with the most abundant reserves of compassion and beauty that I’ve ever beheld—they’re just simply uncomfortable revealing it in uncertain company, lest it set a precedent that they be held accountable to).  I could write volumes about the best qualities of today’s youth, but I don’t want to stray too far from my original purpose: addressing their solitary flaw.

Now that I begin to write about it, I’m not even sure if I should call it a “flaw”—perhaps I should frame it more as an infection.   The evidence is everywhere—I’ve seen it firsthand: migrating from their pockets and purses, snaking out underneath their hoodies, reflecting upon their faces with a sickly glow—literally.  Their faces are actually illuminated by the electronic glare of the cellular phones, iPods, and the variety of other digital paraphernalia that have completely enzombied (I make words up—just go with it) their attention spans.  While this contagion varies from school to school, district to district, please make no mistake—it holds no regional boundaries and its influence has reached pandemic proportions.

Before you are too quick to dismiss this as a “terrible kids today” or “terrible teacher classroom management”-kind of dilemma, I must step to the defense.  (I may have majored in Literature, but I definitely picked up a minor in devil’s advocacy.)  I do not believe that the young people are consciously trying to be disrespectful—in fact, I don’t believe that they see it as any more disrespectful than we did when we passed notes to one another in Mrs. Rose’s mind-numbing lesson on factoring polynomials.  Today’s kid just has more expensive note-passing tools and, as a number of studies have suggested, a shorter attention span thanks to complete media saturation.  Again, to them, it’s not disrespect—it’s just an element of their cultural DNA.  

In my experience, the blatancy of their inability to adhere to the no-electronic-devices rule varies from school to school—sometimes the students display a great deal of finesse and sophistication in their rebellion…and sometimes, well…let’s just say that I fantasize about ripping their Beats™ from around their necks and…well…beating them senseless with them.  I do have a certain appreciation for the students who make efforts at subtlety—students have pretended to nap to text, hidden their phones in their sleeves to text, buried themselves in books to text, searched their purses for lengths of time for “something important” to text, used the larger student in front of them as a human shield to text, and borrowed the bathroom pass to leave the room to text (the last one is reserved for only the most courteous offenders, of course).  My favorite ploy?  The young gentlemen’s infamous stretch-and-lean-over-maneuver where they half yawn/ half shuffle around in their pockets languidly, causing the lowest levels of disruption that they possibly can as they text—but it’s still so obvious.  My usual response? 

“Hey [insert name of puckish student here], you’re clearly either masturbating or texting under your desk there and neither one is acceptable in my class so…knock it off.  Now.”

Usually this would arouse a few pink-cheeked laughs and the phones would remain out of my line of sight for the remainder of the period.  Until the next period.  *sigh* I felt like Sisyphus in 4G hell. 

Without boring you with too many of the details, please know that [most] teachers put a ton of thought, planning, and (despite rumors that say we’re all heartless bastards) love into our lessons—we have, on average, five classes per day, thirty kids per class, and about fifty minutes per section to devote to the classroom management, curricular advancement, and socio-emotional welfare of our darling charges, while still trying to make the experience of being locked in a box with us as painless and personally meaningful as we possibly can for them.  (Not complaining, mind you—just dispensing information.  These are simply the challenges of the career—and a source of constant inspiration and joy to a teacher who loves what they do.)  However, when you add battling that loveless little rectangle of circuitry for their attention (let alone their engagement in your lesson) multiplied by all of the offending students, it’s maddening…and more than a little disheartening.  To be clear: they know better.  There is no lack of clarity in the “rules”, including expectations and consequences, which are indelibly etched into the syllabus and the school handbook—but there is absolutely no compliance with this, rendering the teachers/ counselors/ deans absolutely impotent if Little Johnny or Little Sarah’s mommy and daddy want them to have a phone with them in a school building.  In case of an emergency, of course.    

I adapted a lot of my skills as a teacher to circumvent the waning interests of my students and to avert their desire to tune-out from the lesson and tune-in to the latest youtube video.  I stepped up my game—I inserted the media they craved into the lessons I planned wherever possible and I allowed them the freedom to produce electronic projects that connected their world to the work I needed them to accomplish.  Oh, and when that didn’t work?  I’d stalk them.  Yep, I’d roam about the room while presenting information to them and when I spotted my prey, I’d loop back over my tracks to throw off their suspicion and when they were least expecting it—I’d pounce.  I cannot even begin to count the number of phones I snatched in my handful of years as a teacher.  Though I would never publicly read their information any sooner than I would read their notes aloud, I always glanced at the content of their interest—the ego in me had to know what was so much more captivating than the information or activities I had prepared for them.  I could condense my findings down to a couple of generalizations: If I grabbed the phone from a girl you could almost bank upon it being related to shopping, a message to a girlfriend about a guy who was pissing her off, or a message to a guy about said girlfriend who was pissing her off.  If I snagged the phone from a boy, the key topics of discussion were always hot girls, the after-party at the next game, and weed.  Or if the hot girl would be at the after-party after the next game with the weed.  Period.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is the product of your $50+/month child-protection emergency plan: the mating and recreational tool of the American teenager.

Maybe I’m being a bit of bitch, riding along on my tallest pony, taking a little too much smug pride in my possession of an ancient burner cell phone—the same lame Tracfone© that I purchased over six years ago for fourteen dollars and loaded with 400 minutes that I still have yet to dispose of—but is taking satisfaction in not being sewn to a phone such a bad thing?  After all, where do you suppose our children learned their behaviors? I mean, who…exactly…taught our kids to value these devices to the degree that they do?  Before I explore my hypothesis, I will acquiesce to the fact that we know that the kids were sent to the schools accompanied by these phones with the very best intentions—they were intended to be a means to stay in convenient contact, an attractive global positioning device to keep the precious progeny locatable at all times.  Why, as the child of a single mother for the better part of my life, I know from personal experience the neurosis of always having an emergency dime—then, as the years passed, an emergency quarter—in my pocket so that I could always check in with my mom from a payphone.  Hell, in my youth (Oh. My. God. I just joined the “back in my day”-gang, didn’t I?), kids weren’t generally allowed to travel outside the boundaries of their mom’s shouting range—but the liberation of the cell-phone generation comes with the price of being at the electronic snap of the parents’ beck and (ha ha) call.  As I drive my daughter home from school, I have seen kindergarteners and first-graders walking along, cheerfully tapping away on their tiny digital leashes.  From PSPs to DSiXLs and from Kindles to the latest iGeneration contraptions, the importance of near-constant digital entertainment/communication has been ingrained into young people for so long, how could they be faulted for revering these items and feeling like constantly engaging with them is the norm? 

My husband and I took our two daughters to a local park last week for an outdoor viewing of the film “Megamind”—a family favorite.  As we were merrily munching our popcorn and reciting the movie out loud, line for line (yeah, we’re not just annoying people at a movie…we’re THE annoying people at a movie), I scanned the four-hundred-or-so people around us in the park, curious to see if we were bothering anyone.  What do you suppose I saw from my collapsible captain’s chair in the dusky twilight?  Pods of families, most with two or more children watching the film, escorted by two eerily illuminated parental units sitting behind them, fingers flicking into the night as they scanned their emails, updated their facebooks, tweeted urgent nonsense to their followers, and disengaged from the family connection experience entirely.  The alien quality of the moment was so surreal that I had to hunker down in my chair and inhale a second package of Twizzlers just to help me calm my nerves. 

I won’t be a hypocrite: I love my facebook and I, too, have bought my children’s silence and/or compliance with an app or two when the moment required solemnity—sometimes an electronic gag is truly a parent’s best (if only) friend.  But seriously—when did you last have an in-person conversation with someone that exceeded fifteen minutes where they didn’t check their phone at least once (or twitch noticeably from the intrinsic compulsion to do so)?  When was the last time you saw a family out and about where one or more (or all) of the members wasn’t searching their brittle little glow boxes with greater interest or intimacy than they were the eyes and emotions of their own familial company?  Think about it—restaurants, games, movies, malls, waiting rooms, road trips—all places where wonderful, informal conversations used to happen because the people only really had one another to talk to.  Now virtually everyone travels with their electronic entourage and multi-tasks their way into shallow waters with the real people that matter most to them in life.  We all know this somewhere, deep in our collective consciousness—but what are we going to do about it?  What will be the product of this digital revolution…how will it all end?  And in the meantime, the state of American education continues to decline—much to the chagrin of the parents, teachers, administrators, and the society of community that raised them: But how can we blame the children for following the trail we have blazed for them?  I predict something like the old 80’s public service announcement where the father harangues the child until he tells him how he learned to smoke marijuana and finally the boy bleats out the same response we deserve: I learned it by watching you.

Damn it, they’re good kids—the next time adults feel inclined to point their fingers at one of them in judgment, they should take a look at the ones pointed back at themselves…you know, the ones probably holding their phones.  I’m pretty sure that Alexander Graham Bell probably did not foresee this over a century ago—but I’m also pretty sure that half of the Americans reading this couldn’t tell me what, exactly, Alexander Graham Bell has to do with this matter (at least, not without first checking Wikipedia on their mobiles for the answer). 

“Life has no meaning. Each of us has meaning and we bring it to life. It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer.” ~Joseph Campbell, American Writer

Prometheus— The implications of the name alone thrilled the Classical Civilizations minor within me as I sat in the late night showing of Ridley Scott’s new science fiction opus.  Prometheus—the Titan architect and champion of mankind, who fearlessly braved the wrath of the Olympic gods to reward his human creations with sustainable life—and now, a futuristic spacecraft chartered for exploration of the origins of man’s very existence.  Heady stuff for an early summer thrill ride, eh?  While I enjoy a variety of films, not since Paul W.S. Anderson’s Event Horizon had I been quite this excited to see a movie set outside my solar system.

The movie is gorgeously cast, both exotic and menacing in its foreign beauty, and startlingly suspenseful (especially considering that anyone who’s seen 2001: A Space Odyssey, the Alien films, or any of the Star Wars/ Star Trek films knows that anything—and I do mean anything—can pop up in outer space to scare the stardust out of you).  But this isn’t a rave review, as the film isn’t without flaw—there are a half dozen too many broadly-drawn characters, a disappointing waste of star power (the woefully underutilized, and virtually unrecognizable, Guy Pearce killed me—and Charlize Theron stalks about the Prometheus looking stunning but offering little more than a sketch of the fallow human existence of a corporate drone), far too many predictable events (who honestly couldn’t see the glaring inevitability that the irascible hipster-geologist who irreverently modifies his multi-million dollar spacesuit into a high-tech bong was going to be the first person face-raped by the alien larva?) and maddeningly ludicrous, distracting details (for example, somehow, despite the fact that future-us can construct a trillion-dollar mission to the outer reaches of existence, we still wrap ourselves in diaper-like undergarments that look like dirty Ace bandages.  WHAT?  They can afford crystal chandeliers and a pool table with titanium balls on this spacecraft but a stop at Victoria’s Secret was not in the budget?)   HOWEVER, to be fair, in defense of the casting, Michael Fassbender’s divinely silken android, David, was mesmerizing (leaving me to puzzle, once again, what the hell is wrong with me that I am always drawn to such emotionally unavailable men).  As far as the action in the film, I must say, the self-administered alien abortion in the pneumatic surgery pod was horrifyingly original—and, of course, nauseatingly horrifying.  And, in all fairness regarding the rehashed, hackneyed, or cliché material in the film, who better to steal from Ridley Scott’s bag of tricks with impunity other than the man himself?  (As for borrowing the gauze-pad bandaged underwear look from Luc Besson’s The Fifth Element, when you have actresses as beguiling as Milla Jovovich or Noomi Rapace, I suppose I could hardly blame them.)      

Was the film good?  Absolutely—well worth the time, the money, and enduring a theatre full of choleric teenagers pushing the limits of their curfews.  Was it frightening?  I’ll submit my bloody, shredded fingernails as evidence to the affirmative.  I suppose the discordant note in my tone at the heart of this reaction/review stems from the fact that I, in the audience, was left with a personal watershed experience of brooding introspection about the philosophical implications of the Prometheus journey that was, apparently, far deeper than any single character’s on the screen.  But for the two scientists whose research incited the exploration, no character puzzles or scrabbles with the weight of their mission’s objective—essentially—to corner “God” and to ask him “Why?”  While I understand that most people come for the extra-terrestrial matter splatter, you’d think a few more moments of a 2+ hour film could have been spared to allow the human characters more time to wrestle with the poignancy of their purpose.

Man has struggled with his comprehension of the higher order of things since long before myths of trees laden with the fruits of knowledge were first woven—the hunger to know the mind of God is our tragic human flaw as well as the inspiration for our greatest triumphs.  Mankind’s interminable need to understand the “who” and the “how” and the “why” has been the driving force in the creation of our philosophies, sciences, and arts—all things which define and delineate the exquisite nature of the human creature and, coincidentally, make pseudo-gods of us all.  And yet we still hunger for the “one” with the answers to everything.  As a human who struggles daily with the weight of Epicurus’ assertion (“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?  Then he is not omnipotent.  Is he able, but not willing?  Then he is malevolent.  Is he both able and willing?  Then whence cometh evil?  Is he neither able nor willing?  Then why call him God?”), I take this conundrum very personally.

I suppose, in a way, good films (much like good books or good music) show us what we need to see if we allow them to—as a child without a father (not by fate or circumstance, but by his choice alone), I have spent a lifetime examining the relationships of parents and their children.  Through a childhood without memories OF him, an adolescence without experiences WITH him, and an adulthood left ruminating ABOUT him, I have invested a great portion of my life seeking some understanding of how someone could bring something into this world and have no connection or interest in its survival or accomplishment.  My life is approximately half over, and I have distilled my emotional war to a single, overly-simplified parallel: our bodies create cancer, but we do not love it or cherish it or parent it—we loathe it and seek to destroy and eradicate what we have created. 


According to the film Prometheus, “God’s” answer to our earnest, child-like inquiries to the motivation of our creation is equally discouraging —just because something can MAKE us does not mean it WANTS us.

Wow.  All this self-actualization for the price of a movie ticket and a box of Junior Mints.    

“Fifty Shades of Grey”: More Than Innocuous Entertainment for the Minivan Mafia?

Consider this more of a brief “reaction” than any kind of “review”…but I couldn’t resist commenting on the “Fifty Shades of Grey” hoopla.

It should be noted that, ordinarily, I leave people and their reading choices to themselves—I figure, hell, at least they’re reading (as it has become my greatest fear that the written word may soon face extinction).  So books about orphaned wizards facing existential crises, sparkly vampiric heartthrobs wooing petulant teenage girls, child-gladiators in post-apocalyptic reality-TV arenas, and the like are a mildly enjoyable (if not mind-numbing) necessary evil to keep the horrifyingly narrowing portal to the world of literature open.  Heaven help us if anyone in the next generation has to actually ask what a book store was…but, I digress.

I’m not going to be one of those readers leaping to the soapbox to demonize or deify this book; in fact, having just finished the “novel”, I am simply left puzzling over how wholly derivative literature has become.  Of course we’ve all heard that there is nothing new under the proverbial sun (<-hence the cliché), we all stole from Shakespeare, Shakespeare stole from the Greeks…etc…but this book honestly felt like a hastily stitched together mess of Twilight, Jane Eyre, and Taming of the Shrew—even reaching into the world of films like “9 ½ Weeks”, “Pretty Woman” and “Bridget Jones Diary”—utterly and completely devoid of original thought or development.

I’m no stranger to borrowing from literary prototypes—the great works can inspire great work when the creator reaches deep into the fundamental elements and weaves something imaginative and new.   It’s moving and engaging and exciting when stories pay homage to the influences that came before them—when a reader slips across an allusion or a parallel setting that brings the connection between existing archetypes from previous literature it unifies the human experience and rewards the reader for his or her membership in this “club”.  However, what “Fifty Shades of Grey” accomplishes is akin pouring Pepsi, Coke, and Dr. Pepper in a bottle, relabeling it, and marketing it as “My New Cola”—it’s just inauthentic and off-putting somehow.

Is “Fifty Shades of Grey” distracting?  Sure—it does get into your head.  Is it sexy?  Yes, at times—but then this brings to mind a whole ‘nother set of concerns about the possibility of misconstruing and setting the advancement of relations between men and women (let alone feminine rights and liberties) back half a century.  Okay, perhaps this may be a bit of an overstatement, but erotica is nothing new—so why have ten million fiercely defensive readers breathlessly swept this particular book into their hearts and nightstand drawers?  While I can appreciate the attraction to the complexities of a world I don’t know from personal experience (wealth, privilege, BDSM lifestyles…) at the core of this story lies a clear, and troubling, statement: if a man is rich enough, confident enough, handsome enough, and damaged enough—a woman will beg, literally, to be broken and mastered by him; in exchange, the woman will provide the magical elixir of her love to “fix” the beautiful, wounded, omnipotent man.  Happily ever after indeed…

Whether or not we care to admit it, an economy in affairs of the heart DOES exist—there is always some system of checks and balances in the exchanges between two attracted individuals.  Affection, intimacy, loyalty—all currencies up for negotiation and modification by the consenting partners, shaping a mutually beneficial contract that meets the terms and conditions of BOTH parties—but derivative, escapist fan fiction like “Fifty Shades of Grey” fails to realize that the business of human attraction does not speak for the unnamable mysteries of the human heart—whose depths are far darker and more enigmatic than this novel ever even imagines.  I suppose I can only hope that the people (oh, let’s face it…the women) who pick up the book recognize this fact and keep their tongues firmly planted in their cheeks as they read it.

Now, you’ll have to excuse me…Amazon has a special on the sequels, “Fifty Shades Darker” and “Fifty Shades Freed”.  You know, for further research.   

Over 50 Million People Belong Under the “Generation X” Umbrella: If You Are One of Us, See “Rock of Ages”

When I was thirteen years old (in a decade I almost dare not confess, as I fear I will be forever pigeonholed by today’s young readers as a dusty relic from some random, post-Mesozoic era), I had 5^th period Math class with Mr. Ass-Whole* (*all names have been changed to protect the innocent and the churlish, alike).  Mr. Ass-Whole was the kind of teacher—we’ve all had at least one of these—who entertained himself daily by lording his middle-school-level wisdom over the tiny, redneck-town 7^th graders he held captive for fifty four minutes of hell at a time.  While Mr. Ass-Whole found it utterly hilarious to degrade and demean the pitiful arithmetic abilities of his young charges, in time, his class won its way into my heart.  In fact, I actually came to love attending math class every day—NOT because he had some special gift to reach inside my hormone-drunk brain and help me find my inner intelligence and self-esteem through conquering my fear of simple calculations—but because his seating chart placed me directly behind the beautiful back of one young Justin Dreamy*, 7^th grade stud muffin and all around parental nightmare. 

Justin’s perennially tanned neck, draped in the shiny, jet-black curls of his artfully crafted mullet, and the way that he sullenly sank back into his seat to carve his name into the ancient plank of his desk, putting my fingers within inches of his delectable flesh, infused my tender young heart with palpitations of joy and anguish the likes of which I had never even imagined possible.  To my pure, virginal soul, perhaps the most enticingly exotic detail of Justin to note was his sinful (remember: tiny, redneck-town, people—keep up!) collection of black t-shirts emblazoned with a variety of Man’s Ruin tattoo details: impossibly beautiful half-naked women, roses, skulls, flames, and guitars…all scrawling out the names of the bands whose music charged our fledgling spirits while it ate the batteries of our Walkmans (look it up, kids)— Mötley Crüe, Def Leppard, Dokken, Poison…and of course, the inimitable Guns-n-Roses.

Oh, the days Justin wore his G-n-R “Appetite for Destruction” shirt were the very best—I could study the crucified skeletal portraits of Axl and his boys at my leisure, fantasizing that maybe…just maybe…Justin thought of me when they sang about eyes as blue as skies.  (Pshaw.  As if.)  If Justin was feeling particularly sleepy or if he was ducking one of Mr. Ass-Whole’s searches for a blank face in the audience to assault, dear Justin’s head would tilt back ever so slightly, nudging his feathery curls down his back and gently kissing the edge of Slash’s top hat, sending mysterious, coded messages to my beguiled brain.  What can I say?  To my thirteen-year-old heart, it “meant something.”

I wish I could say that one day, years later, Justin noticed me amidst the crowded high school cafeteria and strode purposefully across the sea of envious students to pull off my glasses, untie my pony-tail (immediately rendering me shockingly beautiful, of course) and carry me to his awaiting IROC-Z (look it up already!) parked outside, blaring Warrant’s “Heaven” or Skid Row’s “I Remember You” so that we could drive away into the sunset to the fist-pumping cheers of our entire school—but… that would be nothing but fiction…and I am nothing if not a realist.  John Hughes did not author the adventures of my youth.  In fact, last I heard, I’m pretty sure Justin ended up getting someone pregnant and dropping out of automotive school—but, you see—none of that matters: Justin Dreamy will forever be frozen in time as the impossibly beautiful boy from my thirteen-year-old delusions of grandeur, racing the night by my side, because the music of G-n-R staged the soundtrack for the sweetest dreams imaginable.  Even if I never had the young man, I had the music—and somehow, that was enough.

It was that thirteen-year-old-girl who left “Rock of Ages” tonight, clapping like a simpering baby seal—cheeks aglow with laughter and the vicarious thrill of having a smoldering dream reignited.  NO, I’m not leaving my beloved husband and darling children to pursue a grade-school crush—I’m referring to the precious reminder that when the music is in you (really in you, coursing through your veins and thrumming in your throat), you are alive forever and a part of something so much bigger than your own tiny problems on your own tiny planet—and you still have a chance.  Your time here isn’t finished and if you still have breath in your lungs and a beat in your heart, you can still make a difference.  Flashes of this timeless feeling are so rare—but when you are privileged enough to find one, the bond you feel with those around you in that moment is nearly overwhelming.  Imagine the ultimate “lighters up” performance at a concert (you know…that song where everyone sang in unison and you heard the collective voices of thousands of people harmonizing and connecting)—for a single, simple second, your whole life was in front of you, nothing was out of your reach, and you were not alone.

“Rock of Ages” is a satirical piece of humanism, exploring the two extremes of life—one point of view is drowning in the undertow of their feelings and the naïveté of their inexperience with life—and the other is sinking from the inability to feel anything because they’ve experienced too much from life.  And (spoiler alert!) BOTH will be saved by music and love and human connection.  I don’t want to give too much of the film away (and I can only discuss it in terms of the film, as I have not seen the musical it was based upon…so…haters gon’ hate) because I want everyone to JUST GO SEE IT.  Admittedly, there are tons of cheesy moments, clichés, and predictable action and draggy moments in need of some editing, blah blah blah… but, in the end, can’t the very same things be said of real life?  This film is FUNNY.  And endearing.  And the music kicks so much ass—the songs weave a lyrical tapestry that informs the viewer so much more about the characters than the sometimes sketchy dialogue can even hope to convey.    

Again, though I am loathe to date myself, I must share that the summer before I sat lusting behind young master Justin Dreamy in Mr. Ass-Whole’s math class was when “Top Gun” blew up the movie world and Tom Cruise became more than the cute boy dancing in his underpants while his parents were out of town.  I have grown up beside this man and always marvel at his commitment to his performances (my personal favorites are a toss-up between Frank T.J. Mackey from “Magnolia” and Les Grossman from “Tropic Thunder”) but in “Rock of Ages”, while his performance vaguely hints at self-parody, Cruise luxuriates in the skin of this libidinous and sulky and charmingly disarming, brilliant study in self-awareness.  Goodbye, Maverick.  Welcome, Stacee Jaxx.  Tom Cruise not only lights up every scene he appears in—he sets it on fire, then proceeds to eat it whole.

Honestly, I thought the casting was excellent across the board; even if the nuances of their performances were a wee bit uneven—but there is no actor I would change.  The “ingénues” (Julianne Hough, Diego Boneta) conveyed their innocence with charm—and the jaded “professionals” (Cruise, Paul Giamatti, Alec Baldwin) may be cynical, but they were never lackluster.   (Speaking of which, there is an Alec Baldwin subplot with Russell Brand that was—I believe—played for laughs, but that I thought rang sweeter and truer than most straight drama I’ve seen.  Pun intended.  See for yourselves.)  The only crime perpetrated by the film was the lack of screen time for Mary J. Blige—but she kills with what she gets.  And, again…the music.  The MUSIC!  The performances of each and every neo classic hair-metal ballad enthralled the thirteen-year-old girl inside me completely (and from my stolen glimpses of the nearly sold-out audience lip-synching along, she wasn’t alone.)

Admittedly, as my husband and I left the theatre with joyful hearts and refreshed spirits, we were mildly dismayed to be among the youngest viewers of the film (honestly, it looked like the set of the latest erectile dysfunction medication advertisement—but, I've tried to remain focused on the positive.)  Listen—if a super-fun musical with amazing music isn’t for you, then don’t go see the movie.  If these kinds of memories are not YOUR kinds of memories, then go watch the Adam Sandler tripe in the theatre next door (okay, confession time…the thirteen-year-old-girl in me kind of wants to see that TOO)—but I mean it: if these aren’t your memories, then just stay home.  This film was not made for you.  Maybe one day someone will make you a movie starring the spawn of Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez with tons of Drake and Josh/ Spongebob Squarepants/ That’s So Raven references starring Channing Tatum as your washed up dreamboat set to the music of Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift.   Seriously.  It’s probably in pre-production now.  No?  Then go see “Rock of Ages”—now.  

As for me, I’m just thankful for the reminder that music—especially the music that truly matters to you and marks your memories, etching its name inside your very core the way Justin Dreamy scarred the surface of his 7^th grade math desk before my craving heart—and the feelings, are alive forever.  Rock on…and on…and on…

The Circus Sideshow: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.”

Prologue: I have this friend who has kindly brought to my attention my proclivity toward incessant self-deprecation (a quality that I also recognize in myself and that I know to be utterly unappealing but find almost inexorable) —so I hope he (and you) will accept this exercise in attempting to develop my authorial voice by NOT apologizing for my tone as stage one of my rehabilitation and recovery process.  Per the conundrum I expressed in my first blog, I struggle too often to be the voice others need to hear—but now I need to know if what I need to say is even worth hearing.  If I had to evaluate this particular entry, I’d give it a PG-13 for bitter language, blatant first-world navel-gazing, and caustic sarcasm—if any of these characteristics disturb you, run…run away now.  As always, caveat lector.

Step right up!  Come one, come all and witness the bargain of the century—oh, have the fates smiled upon you today!  Right before your eyes, an offer the likes of which you have never seen will be presented to you, my lucky, lucky friends.  Please hold your applause and keep your “oohs” and “ahhs” to the minimum, as this is a very momentous matter.  Be sure that this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity will never find its way to you again, folks, so before you are too quick to dismiss it, look it in the mouth, or puzzle over the “catch”, please realize that this prospect is very, very real and it shall not pass this way again—operators are NOT standing by, so you must listen closely and act quickly.

Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves to be amazed, shocked, and awed!  May I present to you… one large, rare, certified human soul for sale—virtually unblemished at only (shut up) thirty-eight years old, this soul is practically brand new (at least in the cosmic sense), why, it even has that new soul smell!   Friends, friends…don’t leave!  I’m not crazy…in fact, I have never been more serious in my entire life.  This soul comes to you freely and of its own accord, without strings or contracts, for you to do with it what you will.  Do you need an “out” in a crossroads deal with the devil?  Done!  Do you need a spare shot at humanity after a salacious excursion to the city of sin?  Sold!  Whatever, wherever, this soul can be yours today—and it is rock-bottom-priced-to-move for the insanely low, low price of only 100,000 U.S. dollars.  

You heard that right—my soul is unequivocally up for sale and bargain priced at only 100,000.  “Bargain?!” you scoff?   That’s right—in the United States of America, where the average new home price is 275K, a new Lamborghini Aventador will set you back over 300K, and a 72-day marriage to a Kardashian will knock immeasurable millions out of your pocket—you can plainly see that the staggering savings of this bargain-priced soul is a value beyond comparison!!!

Why am I liquidating this soul, you didn’t ask?  Well, for those who don’t know (and, honestly, as loud and as frequently as I bitch and moan about it, I’m fucking shocked that there’s a citizen left in the tri-state area who hasn’t heard): I am an out-of-work teacher.  While I’m aware that this is a woefully familiar tune these days, my story is complicated by a few factors—1) I have two incredible young daughters to raise, support, and somehow empower as they watch their mother unravel before their eyes, 2) I have an enormous debt load (not the product of rampant partying outside the perimeters of my means—simply a combination of my and my husband’s loans, higher-education balances, and basic American citizen living expenses) that threatens to crush my family’s humble dreams and goals (you know, like preschool…and groceries whose first three ingredients aren’t water, high fructose corn syrup, and artificial flavorings), and 3) pardon what will appear as a gigantic ego (you must trust me when I say I have lived my entire life without an ounce of self-esteem), but I am pretty damn good at teaching.  Strike that: I am pretty damn good at teaching—but… that’s not what I’m here to talk about, so maybe I’ll save that for another entry.  For now, let’s get back to the cause of your extraordinary purchasing opportunity!

You see, when I lost my job in 2010, our family income was cut approximately 40%.  We had to eliminate our extravagant lifestyle (you know—the high-life stuff like rollin’ up to Kohl’s for back to school clothes, monthly dinners to T.G.I.Friday’s, and purchasing used vehicles without the rust layer in the wheel wells) and dig deep into our pioneering roots to make our ends meet.  Even though I was fortunate to qualify for up to 99 weeks of the unemployment benefits, my family chose to wait as long as we could (almost three full months), slashing our spending and pulling the plug on our savings in an effort to avoid draining the state system unnecessarily.  When I was finally left with no alternative other than to start drawing unemployment, my benefits only amounted to approximately 25% of my previous salary—hardly enough to help us tread water, but at least we had justenough to breathe. 

I earnestly sought work and, within a few months, I was able to secure four 8-12 week maternity leave placements at four different high schools spanning the next fifteen months.  To be back in the ol’ proverbial saddle was its own reward—I love teaching and I love my subject matter and I love the young people herded through my doors every day; to make it worth their while for having the courtesy to show up is a source of daily inspiration for me.  Though I was only paid daily-substitute dollars, I was able to plan, create, and implement a complete curriculum for the students and manage all aspects of their classrooms, attend faculty meetings, communicate with parents…you know, be a “real” teacher again.  As always, the kids made every single moment worth it, even if the income was abysmal.  (I should clarify that daily substituting paid about 30% less than the unemployment benefits I would have been collecting during this time—but who can put a price tag on a child’s smile, right? Teaching has never been about the money—but seat-warmer substitute wages for full time teaching are pretty insulting.) 

However, more distressing than the revenue was the leaving—over and over again.  Each time I believed that I had established a rapport with the students and faculty and felt like I was finally “home”, it was time to pack up and hit the pavement.  Leaving is never easy, but my last placement was the very worst—kids climbed out of their shells and shed all the preconceived, media-hyped notions of “typical” teenage behaviors to openly share their feelings and thoughts on what they had learned with their time with me…and the emotional outpouring was astounding —and deeply humbling.  But—once again, that’s not what I’m here to talk about, so maybe I’ll save that for yet another entry.

What I need to share is the reason for this soul saving bonanza!!!  The soul sale of the century comes to you courtesy of the crisp, freshly printed rejection and denial of my unemployment benefits by the Shitty-Shits that run the fucking freak show that is this state’s government that arrived in my mailbox today!!!  That’s right, my friends: had I simply sat at home, sucking down Ramen noodles and Yoo-Hoo’s, while watching Maury Povich proclaim paternity all afternoon, then our beloved government officials would still be sending me tidy sums of cash that, at the very least, touched the fingertips of the interest rates that shadow my family’s not-so-slowly-sinking ship as it spirals down the drain!!!  But NO—stupid, stupid me…I had to get off my fat ass and actually apply for work and take the jobs that were available to me and try to make a positive difference because I had a moral code that wouldn’t allow me to suck the state off with impunity!  And here I thought Maury’s guests were the morons, when the biggest idiot of all was staring at me in the mirror every morning!  As Sammy Davis, Jr. would have said: “What kind of fool am I?”  Seriously—what kind of lesson is there to be learned in this corrupt comedy of the grotesque? What wisdom is to be gleaned from this situation?          

*sigh*  Once more, I digress.

Folks, raise your glasses with me in a toast to an American Dream as it crashes and burns around me and mine.  Where I once held a sense that if I worked hard enough and believed strongly enough, nothing was out of my reach, now there is simply a smoldering legacy of emptied accounts and broken bits of wrecked security littered around my family like the charred vestiges of an airliner after a crash.  BUT WAIT…what’s that I hear, pounding off in the distance?  Is it the thumping, beating, writhing heart of corporate capitalism, here to rescue the battered remnants of my petty dreams and bandage them whole once more?!?!  YES!  Of course—I’m not entirely broken if I’ve still got something of value to sell…which, coincidentally, brings us directly back to the soul bargaining table!!!   

I recently wrote something about the evisceration of the human spirit when, in times of desperation, we begin placing the value of our existence in the balance against the value of our life insurance benefits—and the numbing horror of the realization that those you adore would profit more from the latter than the former.  (Shit just got real, right?) 

Ladies and gentlemen, I have learned that there is no cash value in leading a good life and there is no 401K for setting a positive example; there may be no mortgage for the human soul—but I’ll be damned if the only inheritance I can leave my beautiful children is a ratty bag of principles and ethics that this world will all too readily pull down its pants to piss upon.  I will not be able to leave them wealth, but I refuse to leave them ash heaps, either. 

100,000 is the number that would eradicate my family’s debt, replenish its reserves, and set the course for the future that they deserve—so, please: step right up.  Buy my soul—it’s not like I need it for anything—and, much like my old inspiration from Shel Silverstein’s “The Giving Tree”, it is all I have to give.  

First Blog: Why the @#$% am I doing this???

Why do I write?  I don’t know—why do we eat?  Breathe?  It’s just something I need to do without thinking too much about its origin or purpose, I suppose. 

I have issues—massive, psychology-textbook-imploding issues—so writing is cathartic on some level… but criticism is my kryptonite.  I know that we learn from constructive input, but I still loathe it because it pokes at the rawest part of me, the part that simply longs to just make everyone happy all of the time.  In fact, I have a huge compulsion to satisfy everyone’s needs—friends, family, and strangers alike—over my own.   I probably don’t even know you, but I will do my best to open the most preferable vein for your tastes.

This need has made it extremely difficult for me to cultivate or develop my own voice (which to a real writer is their compass—perhaps this is why my path has been so circuitous.  No sense of voice = no onboard guidance system.)  This bloggy-thing is an exercise in self-exploration, an experiment in trying to get some sense of what I sound like outside of my own head.

Word of warning: I swear like a street rat, rationalize like a philosopher, and try to behave like humanitarian—I am all of these things: vulgar, pragmatic, empathetic.  I contradict myself regularly and it’s a veritable cacophony inside my brain—if you don’t like it, please don’t tell me how much you don’t like it.  Just go read something else. 

…are they gone yet?  Are you still here?  Good.  I’ll try to make it worth your while.