Dear Masses,
I sit here in my dirty bedroom, covered in dried-out wine drinking a sketchy tasting bottle of my winery's manufature that may or may not have gone bad, but the booze tastes sweet on the tongue, and that is all a man can ask. It seems kinda dark in here with one lightbulb perched above my oversized map of Southeast Asia, but it could also be the fact that I didn't get off work until after sunset, and I was awake to see Helios march his goddamn chariot over the eastern horizon this morning. While Bergevin Lane Vineyards may make a quality bottle of wine, my cross-eyed morning haze is always rudely stripped away by possibly the nasties coffee I have ever tasted, but I drink it all the same because boss makes it and boss likes his coffee. Don't diss boss coffee, drink boss coffee and smile.
10/10/06
10/7/06
Profiles in Altzheimers: Molly
This is part of my continuing series of essays on residents of the memory care community at which I work. Names have been changed.
This morning during sing-along, I was startled to hear what I thought was a flourescent light tube burning out. I looked around and realized it was actually Molly, harmonizing a flat blah'th above me. None of the residents are particularly good singers, and neither am I for that matter, but when she joined in, I noticed. The reason that it was so unusual to hear Molly singing is because Molly doesn't normally partipate in any of our activities. She prefers to get people's attention.
"Marcy! Mark! Grandma!" she'll call across the room at you. Everyone is either Marcy, Mark, or Grandma to Molly. At least at first. After about a month at the facility, I've noticed Molly has added a few new names. Now she'll call people Grandpa, Greg, or Phillip. No one working there goes by any of those names.
Once you respond to Molly, usually with a friendly "Hi Molly, my name isn't Phillip, it's Matt", she'll ask you to hold her hand. This is endearingly sweet, even though it happens roughly thirty times a day. Then she'll say one of two things. "Oh, you've got a warm hand" or "Your hand's not very warm, is it?" I have yet to find any correlation between the actual temperature of my hands and Molly's judgement. I think it may be some kind of fortune telling thing. Maybe on days when my hand is warm more times than it isn't, I should approach old problems with new solutions or something. Or maybe on days when my hand is more often cold, I should watch out for death's icy grip.
The other thing Molly will do is ask other residents if she can go home. Now, understand that everyone at the facility has some form of dementia. She asked one fellow if she could go home and he said yeah, sure she can go home. She asked him which way home is, and he said "It's three blocks east and then straight to hell."
Another time, she asked a woman if she could go home. The woman replied "You don't want to go home, you're just scared of the saurus: don't lose your pods! You can go home. Me, I was just running around last night with my ski-helper, springing keys around with my five hands. Then silence." Molly usually dismisses whatever response people give to her questions. According to the facility's nurse, Molly just wants attention. If I were her, I would worry about the saurus.
Later this afternoon, after Molly sang for the first time, we were playing a group game and she called for my attention. I said "Molly, just a minute, I'm busy." She called to me again and another resident told her "He's busy, hold your horses." Then Molly called the resident an asshole.
This morning during sing-along, I was startled to hear what I thought was a flourescent light tube burning out. I looked around and realized it was actually Molly, harmonizing a flat blah'th above me. None of the residents are particularly good singers, and neither am I for that matter, but when she joined in, I noticed. The reason that it was so unusual to hear Molly singing is because Molly doesn't normally partipate in any of our activities. She prefers to get people's attention.
"Marcy! Mark! Grandma!" she'll call across the room at you. Everyone is either Marcy, Mark, or Grandma to Molly. At least at first. After about a month at the facility, I've noticed Molly has added a few new names. Now she'll call people Grandpa, Greg, or Phillip. No one working there goes by any of those names.
Once you respond to Molly, usually with a friendly "Hi Molly, my name isn't Phillip, it's Matt", she'll ask you to hold her hand. This is endearingly sweet, even though it happens roughly thirty times a day. Then she'll say one of two things. "Oh, you've got a warm hand" or "Your hand's not very warm, is it?" I have yet to find any correlation between the actual temperature of my hands and Molly's judgement. I think it may be some kind of fortune telling thing. Maybe on days when my hand is warm more times than it isn't, I should approach old problems with new solutions or something. Or maybe on days when my hand is more often cold, I should watch out for death's icy grip.
The other thing Molly will do is ask other residents if she can go home. Now, understand that everyone at the facility has some form of dementia. She asked one fellow if she could go home and he said yeah, sure she can go home. She asked him which way home is, and he said "It's three blocks east and then straight to hell."
Another time, she asked a woman if she could go home. The woman replied "You don't want to go home, you're just scared of the saurus: don't lose your pods! You can go home. Me, I was just running around last night with my ski-helper, springing keys around with my five hands. Then silence." Molly usually dismisses whatever response people give to her questions. According to the facility's nurse, Molly just wants attention. If I were her, I would worry about the saurus.
Later this afternoon, after Molly sang for the first time, we were playing a group game and she called for my attention. I said "Molly, just a minute, I'm busy." She called to me again and another resident told her "He's busy, hold your horses." Then Molly called the resident an asshole.
Since My Day...
The Catholic High School Mixer
Wielding only a flash light and a yellow shirt that read "Staff," I was the reluctant guardian of 1500 high school kids ages 15-17 at the Back to School Mixer.
I arrived onsite to a throng of segregated girls and boys. This was a night unlike others. My high school is an all-male Catholic high school, and its mixers, for whatever reason, draw more girls than all the frat houses (from our college days of yore) combined. The two opposite sexes entered the school gym in two opposite sides, the boys in the back, the girls by way of the front. There were easily more people in attendance outside than went to my college. I walked past several hundred girls keeping my eyes on the prize (the door) and ignoring the combination of their perfumes (only someone who's dead wears that much perfume). I had an orange piece of paper folded in my pocket--instructions on my responsibilities that night. Here's how they were actually broken down:
Phase 1
Make a presence in the gym as teenagers enter. I crossed my arms behind my back and assumed an army at-attention stance. Meanwhile, teachers were searching girls' belongings and seizing water bottles, containers of perfume, and hairspray. Apparently in mixers' past, girls had smuggled in alcohol by means of these innocuous bottles. About 25% of the girls would walk in, take off an outer layer to reveal spaghetti straps, and be immediately grabbed by the Dean and reminded clothing wasn't optional.
The next hour was pretty tame as the gym filled with kids. Not surprisingly, the sexes were still segregated--girls dancing with girls, boys pretending not to watch. The girls' clothing left little to the imagination and the boys were varying degrees of gangsta or I-Just-Got-Out-of-Bed. Despite their apparel, that girls would grind with one another (before being broken up by yours truly), or that the boys were doing their best impressions of hyphy, it was during this first blooming hour that I saw a true innocence.
Without a frontal lobe for impulse control, their poor little brains grappled with the event unfolding. MTV says, "loud music, poorly lit arena, bodies, sweat--let's get it on!" While the event organizers (good Catholic folk, and then me) were saying, "Leave room for Jesus!" I was entertained that these horny kids were so scared and oblivious as to how to deal with their opposites. The boys, dressed to kill, would find any excuse NOT to interact with the girls. This included strutting up to me or other teachers prefecting and chatting it up. We've all done this at a party--spot the one person you at least know and attach yourself to them. But in this case, their latching onto the authority figures they usually detest for assigning too much Spanish homework!
Things eventually picked up.
Phase Two
I supervised the volunteer kids who were pouring water for the sweaty party-goers. Nothing going, except that even when it's just water, kids will hold it like it's a beer, and slam the table like they're ordering bourbon.
Phase Three
Now I'm patrolling outside in what is essentially a dog-run that the kids can escape to from the heat of inside (the walls are sweating by now). As my colleagues make loops through the crowd trying to break up as much "freaking" as possible, I was outside in the cold. There are different ways to remind kids they're not living up to God's expectations, and I've alluded to one of them already (Leave room for Jesus), but the one we use is "Imagine I was her father." Can you see that working coming from me? I think that's why I was outside...
Mind you, it's asphalt and concrete out here, but the unlit area still encourages the kids to make out. Lying on the asphalt...leaning against a concrete wall...making out. My job was mostly to ruin the fun. It's incredibly awkward to break up a tongue party, but I just remembered what grandma said about rattlesnakes: "They're feeling more awkward than you are." I let my flashlight do most of the talking, and it worked. These kids are so terrified mommy and daddy might be called, they'll listen to gentle reminders of Christian living from a flashlight.
Phase Four
After the kids were all gone, we opened up a classroom and drank beer for a few hours. Nothing like getting shitty with some old mentors!
Wielding only a flash light and a yellow shirt that read "Staff," I was the reluctant guardian of 1500 high school kids ages 15-17 at the Back to School Mixer.
I arrived onsite to a throng of segregated girls and boys. This was a night unlike others. My high school is an all-male Catholic high school, and its mixers, for whatever reason, draw more girls than all the frat houses (from our college days of yore) combined. The two opposite sexes entered the school gym in two opposite sides, the boys in the back, the girls by way of the front. There were easily more people in attendance outside than went to my college. I walked past several hundred girls keeping my eyes on the prize (the door) and ignoring the combination of their perfumes (only someone who's dead wears that much perfume). I had an orange piece of paper folded in my pocket--instructions on my responsibilities that night. Here's how they were actually broken down:
Phase 1
Make a presence in the gym as teenagers enter. I crossed my arms behind my back and assumed an army at-attention stance. Meanwhile, teachers were searching girls' belongings and seizing water bottles, containers of perfume, and hairspray. Apparently in mixers' past, girls had smuggled in alcohol by means of these innocuous bottles. About 25% of the girls would walk in, take off an outer layer to reveal spaghetti straps, and be immediately grabbed by the Dean and reminded clothing wasn't optional.
The next hour was pretty tame as the gym filled with kids. Not surprisingly, the sexes were still segregated--girls dancing with girls, boys pretending not to watch. The girls' clothing left little to the imagination and the boys were varying degrees of gangsta or I-Just-Got-Out-of-Bed. Despite their apparel, that girls would grind with one another (before being broken up by yours truly), or that the boys were doing their best impressions of hyphy, it was during this first blooming hour that I saw a true innocence.
Without a frontal lobe for impulse control, their poor little brains grappled with the event unfolding. MTV says, "loud music, poorly lit arena, bodies, sweat--let's get it on!" While the event organizers (good Catholic folk, and then me) were saying, "Leave room for Jesus!" I was entertained that these horny kids were so scared and oblivious as to how to deal with their opposites. The boys, dressed to kill, would find any excuse NOT to interact with the girls. This included strutting up to me or other teachers prefecting and chatting it up. We've all done this at a party--spot the one person you at least know and attach yourself to them. But in this case, their latching onto the authority figures they usually detest for assigning too much Spanish homework!
Things eventually picked up.
Phase Two
I supervised the volunteer kids who were pouring water for the sweaty party-goers. Nothing going, except that even when it's just water, kids will hold it like it's a beer, and slam the table like they're ordering bourbon.
Phase Three
Now I'm patrolling outside in what is essentially a dog-run that the kids can escape to from the heat of inside (the walls are sweating by now). As my colleagues make loops through the crowd trying to break up as much "freaking" as possible, I was outside in the cold. There are different ways to remind kids they're not living up to God's expectations, and I've alluded to one of them already (Leave room for Jesus), but the one we use is "Imagine I was her father." Can you see that working coming from me? I think that's why I was outside...
Mind you, it's asphalt and concrete out here, but the unlit area still encourages the kids to make out. Lying on the asphalt...leaning against a concrete wall...making out. My job was mostly to ruin the fun. It's incredibly awkward to break up a tongue party, but I just remembered what grandma said about rattlesnakes: "They're feeling more awkward than you are." I let my flashlight do most of the talking, and it worked. These kids are so terrified mommy and daddy might be called, they'll listen to gentle reminders of Christian living from a flashlight.
Phase Four
After the kids were all gone, we opened up a classroom and drank beer for a few hours. Nothing like getting shitty with some old mentors!
10/4/06
Hey Ma, Look at Me Now!
This is a line Alanis Morsette removed before releasing her hit song, "Ironic." It proved too cumbersome for her song of faux disgruntled frustration.
Here's a joke known well by all aspiring English majors: What are you going to do with that, teach? And then there's a laugh at the expense of the English major. I was never upset that my degree had the stereotype of tracking its graduates into teaching positions--it was the idea that teaching was somehow...unworthy of respect.
Well, now I'm a teacher. And I recognize the same lack of respect from my students. We're a nation of do-it-yourself'ers who ought not to rely on the tutelage of an older sage--because it's not what you know, but who you know.
But irony is sweet. I just got back from Kaiser after a brand new operation (they gave me a second liver) which cost me $15 because of my health plan. On my way home, I saw a familiar face--a friend from college--a poli/sci major! He was waving a sign that had something to do with Mondo Burrito's Grand Re-Opening...I couldn't really see, he was waving it too erratically.
I waved to him, and as my car splashed muddy water in his face I could see it in his eyes...the recognition of what I knew all along: That age old lesson...only slightly more dangerous than giving a Mafia Don some lip (or the prison guard union a salary cut), is making fun of a teacher.
I was the magister, and he--unwittingly--was my pupil.
Here's a joke known well by all aspiring English majors: What are you going to do with that, teach? And then there's a laugh at the expense of the English major. I was never upset that my degree had the stereotype of tracking its graduates into teaching positions--it was the idea that teaching was somehow...unworthy of respect.
Well, now I'm a teacher. And I recognize the same lack of respect from my students. We're a nation of do-it-yourself'ers who ought not to rely on the tutelage of an older sage--because it's not what you know, but who you know.
But irony is sweet. I just got back from Kaiser after a brand new operation (they gave me a second liver) which cost me $15 because of my health plan. On my way home, I saw a familiar face--a friend from college--a poli/sci major! He was waving a sign that had something to do with Mondo Burrito's Grand Re-Opening...I couldn't really see, he was waving it too erratically.
I waved to him, and as my car splashed muddy water in his face I could see it in his eyes...the recognition of what I knew all along: That age old lesson...only slightly more dangerous than giving a Mafia Don some lip (or the prison guard union a salary cut), is making fun of a teacher.
I was the magister, and he--unwittingly--was my pupil.
Idiot Rock
Once upon a time a bunch of guys were in a basement and they had no girlfriends. These guys were also on a wrestling team and drove pickup trucks. They have about ten half-gallons of vodka to drink and they wanted to party, but there was no music to party to. This is the situation that spawned the genre I like to call idiot rock.
"Big Balls" - AC/DC (1981)
This is one of those gimmicky songs written for idiots. The lead singer of AC/DC, I don't know his name because he isn't important, sings about how big his balls are, and how big the balls are of the people around him. This is a good song for getting pumped up for lifting weights or going to the bar and not picking up chicks. One who likes to think they are smart about music might make the argument that "big balls" could refer to courage or bravery, since one of the lines in the song is "she's got big balls" and hopefully the dude isn't referring to a transvestite, though knowing the shenanigans of bands in the 80's he may very well be. Even if it does refer to courage, it isn't really a big step up. An idiot rock song like this one either 1) makes dudes chug beers because they like to imagine they have a huge sack of nuts or 2) makes dudes chug beers because the song makes them feel like someday they might be brave enough to ask out a girl in real life.
"Bawitdaba" - Kid Rock (1999)
Kid Rock tried to gain rock legitimacy by speaking gibberish and having a sickly looking midget run around on stage and piss his pants. Instead all Kid Rock did was make dating strippers seem like something that you could get away with and still manage to scrape respect out of your peers. I think in the music video Kid Rock had dirt bikes doing jumps over him while he sang the song. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like a good neon green Fox Racing jersey as much as the next guy, but the Kid Rock is singing about trailer parks while fucking DIRT BIKES fly overhead. There is nothing inherently idiotic about dirt, bikes, trailers, parks, kids, or rocks, but when you put all those things together and try to write music you get a bunch of guys blasting that shit on their stereo and trying out WWF moves on each other in the back yard talking about how sweet it is going to be when they are old enough to enlist.
"Any Song Ever Written By" - Def Leppard (Oblivion)
Def Leppard is the epitome of idiot rock. A band that forms out of the desire to be sweet like other bands. A band formed up by obsessive roadies and alcoholics who like to punch holes in the wall when they get riled up because it "makes them feel like they are alive." Def Leppard seriously got their name from the lead singer thinking about how he could make a band name on par with, in his opinion, the "sickest" band name ever, Led Zeppelin. So what you have here is a bunch of morons writing songs that didn't hit record charts at all but instead went straight to the mixtape that plays on the only strip club in Omaha, Nebraska open on Christmas Eve.
These are my opinions, and I am unwilling to hear a serious opinion against my humorous opinions. I will not entertain a fan of any of these bands or songs trying to have a serious debate. If you want to make fun of AC/DC with me, that's cool, because the lead singer needs to quit already, he's like 65.
"Big Balls" - AC/DC (1981)
This is one of those gimmicky songs written for idiots. The lead singer of AC/DC, I don't know his name because he isn't important, sings about how big his balls are, and how big the balls are of the people around him. This is a good song for getting pumped up for lifting weights or going to the bar and not picking up chicks. One who likes to think they are smart about music might make the argument that "big balls" could refer to courage or bravery, since one of the lines in the song is "she's got big balls" and hopefully the dude isn't referring to a transvestite, though knowing the shenanigans of bands in the 80's he may very well be. Even if it does refer to courage, it isn't really a big step up. An idiot rock song like this one either 1) makes dudes chug beers because they like to imagine they have a huge sack of nuts or 2) makes dudes chug beers because the song makes them feel like someday they might be brave enough to ask out a girl in real life.
"Bawitdaba" - Kid Rock (1999)
Kid Rock tried to gain rock legitimacy by speaking gibberish and having a sickly looking midget run around on stage and piss his pants. Instead all Kid Rock did was make dating strippers seem like something that you could get away with and still manage to scrape respect out of your peers. I think in the music video Kid Rock had dirt bikes doing jumps over him while he sang the song. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like a good neon green Fox Racing jersey as much as the next guy, but the Kid Rock is singing about trailer parks while fucking DIRT BIKES fly overhead. There is nothing inherently idiotic about dirt, bikes, trailers, parks, kids, or rocks, but when you put all those things together and try to write music you get a bunch of guys blasting that shit on their stereo and trying out WWF moves on each other in the back yard talking about how sweet it is going to be when they are old enough to enlist.
"Any Song Ever Written By" - Def Leppard (Oblivion)
Def Leppard is the epitome of idiot rock. A band that forms out of the desire to be sweet like other bands. A band formed up by obsessive roadies and alcoholics who like to punch holes in the wall when they get riled up because it "makes them feel like they are alive." Def Leppard seriously got their name from the lead singer thinking about how he could make a band name on par with, in his opinion, the "sickest" band name ever, Led Zeppelin. So what you have here is a bunch of morons writing songs that didn't hit record charts at all but instead went straight to the mixtape that plays on the only strip club in Omaha, Nebraska open on Christmas Eve.
These are my opinions, and I am unwilling to hear a serious opinion against my humorous opinions. I will not entertain a fan of any of these bands or songs trying to have a serious debate. If you want to make fun of AC/DC with me, that's cool, because the lead singer needs to quit already, he's like 65.
10/2/06
Bratwurst tacos anyone?
I never figured Walla Walla to be a cultural melting pot. I eagerly await the annual Walla Walla Sausage Festival every year and I eat my fill of bratwurst, wienersnitzel, and all the other bavarian meat amalgamations that have ever been squeezed into animal intestine. On that same token, I am a regular of the local taco trucks that serve up all kinds of authentic mexican food...sometimes too authentic. I have never ventured to try the burritos filled with cow tongue that many of the trucks offer, but I have seen several patrons of the taco trucks eagerly eat that shit up like the Sunday comics character Cathy gobbles up chocolate cake after a long day of trying on dresses.
While the quick ethnic food in Walla Walla is not very diverse, you can always get your hands on a tasty sweet onion-filled taco from one of the many taco trucks or you can swing by Walla Walla Onion World on the main drag downtown and get a sweet onion sausage. The Irish can cook a potato a million ways, and the people here in Walla Walla can make a sweet onion work in just about anything. I guess it was just a matter of time before someone in the community decided that tacos and sausages make a good combo, and the cultures that inspired these foods incidentally know how to party, so you might as well combine the two and throw a sick Oktoberfiesta.
While the quick ethnic food in Walla Walla is not very diverse, you can always get your hands on a tasty sweet onion-filled taco from one of the many taco trucks or you can swing by Walla Walla Onion World on the main drag downtown and get a sweet onion sausage. The Irish can cook a potato a million ways, and the people here in Walla Walla can make a sweet onion work in just about anything. I guess it was just a matter of time before someone in the community decided that tacos and sausages make a good combo, and the cultures that inspired these foods incidentally know how to party, so you might as well combine the two and throw a sick Oktoberfiesta.
10/1/06
Bombs Away!
Here is another addition to my "whatever the context, this photo suggests darkness" photography series. I found this in a local wine bar called Vintage Cellars. It is a picture of two guys taking some drinks in the cockpit of an aircraft. I would hope that these guys aren't about to fly an airplane, but one can only assume that if they had the liberty to bring alcoholic beverages into the cockpit of aircraft there probably isn't somebody from the TSA breathing down their neck. Let's just hope this isn't a maiden voyage.
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