this one's for SudyRip

We were doomed as kids. We had to listen to Broadway musicals, Barbara Streisand and Barry Manilow as if they were the Gods on Mt. Olympus, which destined my siblings and me to have issues of immense severity. For instance, my sister, Balls, can't go by a road sign while driving without saying, "In your pants" after she reads the sign out loud (ie: Children crossing...in your pants, Construction ahead...in your pants) and my other sister, K.C., raising her son singing, "Is their someone in the city who doesn't need a little kitty" and other inane lyrics.

Me? I have the curse of trying to figure out what every moment might look like if it was a broadway musical. I remember bus rides home from school anticipating that at any moment everyone was going to break out in song and dance. Today, in the office, in fact, I started playing theme music from I-tunes as people walked by, just to liven up the world. I simply took their personality and played a song as the marched along -- I admit, though, the Imperial March from Star Wars was a bit harsh.

Even so, I must nod my head to West Side Story.. Now, there is a catchy musical and I post this today in hopes my mom -- who started all this ridiculousness -- will kick around her house on her recovering legs in Jet and Shark gang-fashion as she heals. I want her and Butch, dangling cigarettes in their mouths, to perform their morning ritual over coffee and complaining in a fashion that replicates the overture of the play. I picture dad flipping an egg on the stove with mom flipping an appendage in his direction as she contemplates Reader's Digest and applies makeup.

The point is, music is catchy and the corniness of aligning music to life is a happy ritual. As noted on an earlier post, Ally McBeal exemplified this immensely. I ask you, then, what is your theme song and choreographed routine for today?

Happy Halloween!

Congratulations, Nikki!

My niece, Nickerdoodle, has been placed on the Northstars cadet winterguard team. Following the tradition of Cynderballs, her mother, she will be marching, dancing and twirling before judges almost every Saturday night starting in January. Her dad, Mike, and I are already preparing our hoots and hollas as she takes the floor in competition.

For those of you who don't know what winterguard is, I've embedded a video. Called the Sport of the Arts, it is a bizarre, international competition where teams of individuals are given less than ten minutes to choreograph and perform with banners, rifles, sabers and props in precision, dancing and visual effects. Although Nikki sent a text to her father that was illegible, we learned she did, indeed, make it and we are all proud of her. Way to make all of us happy, Nicoli!!!

in the dark

A Northeasterner blew in last night and weighed heavily on the electrical lines leading to my street. At 8:15 I lost electricity. I had a lot to do, but I couldn't do it. I was paralyzed against normalcy, or at least how I perceive what a normal evening in my life looks like.

Last night, that normal couldn't be. I couldn't see in my house, I lost all electrical connection, and I was totally divided from the patterns I set as routine: research, reading and writing. It made me think about access. My access was cut off and I couldn't do life, as I know life. I couldn't work.

I have two legs, sight, sound, and education. I am white. I am male. Yet, how accessible is education to those who only know darkness, in light of the 'white, canonized, westernized' traditions of how we do education? Who are disabled? Who don't see the world the way I've been taught to? The disenfranchised? Where does their lack of access get considred?

These thoughts occurred in the dark when I had nothing else I could do. My darkness was only temporary. Looking for ultimate answers, according to the existentialists, is like looking for a black cat in a dark basement at night, when the cat really isn't there. Happiness, though, is knowing the cat has to be in here somewhere. There has to be answers somewhere. Meow.

481

I'm dedicating this week to Interstate 481. Not only does my backyard back up to this highway, but my very own Lucille, the gas guzzling SUV I use to transport my worlds here and there, has frequented its pavement quite regularly. In one day, I moved from Fowler High School, to St. Vincent dePaul Church, to SU's campus to eat lunch with Emad Rahim, to North Syracuse Junior High School, to Nottingham High School, to my parents, and home again. Yes, I used 81, too, but it was 481 that created the most mileage for me. Distance is accessible through such modern transportation, and I am thankful for this. I feel I know my "home" better because of such travel, and I find happiness through my movement.

1985

I believe I was in 7th grade. As par for the course at Gillette Road Middle School, we were taken to Albany, the capital of New York, for a tour of the New York Senate. Woot Woot. A classmate of mine posted this on his Facebook yesterday and I had to laugh. There I am looking marvelously amused. Actually, the whole crew of us look as if we're bored out of our minds -- which I am sure we were (even today, politics sort of dulls the spirit, no?). The game for you is to "try and find Bryan." It's like Where's Waldo except I'm Waldo and all individuals involved look equally pained by the experience. Happiness is knowing that twenty three years later, 7th graders from around NYS are still taking similar photographs of their 'field trip' to the Assembly. Party on, kids.

Didinga Traditions - A Preview

Attending "Meet Our Neighbors at Soul of Syracuse: Folk Arts Series, 2008 - 2009" with several of the Didinga and Dinka men who volunteer with the Syracuse Lost Boys of Sudan Cow Project was historical. Here, at Syracuse University, Dr. Felicia McMahon, through the contributions of New York State Council of the Arts, the Chancellor's Office, Syracuse University, the Department of Anthropology, the College of Arts and Sciences Symposium on Migration and with thanks to Catholic Charities Refugee Resettlement Services, Light Work and St. Vincent de Paul Church, brought together Mohawk, Vietnamese, Bosnian, Liberian, Congolese, Didinga, Dinka, Nepali, Meskhetian Turkish, Ukranian and Haudenosaunee people to represent the folk arts of Syracuse, New York. In the video here are several members of Didinga dancers performing one traditional song and dance from the day's exhibition and celebration. My goal - and I will not be happy until I complete it - is to work with the footage and audio I was able to record today to keep traditional memories alive. As I try to make sense of the American reality as I know it, it is the efforts of individuals like Faye McMahon that inspire me the most. To witness culture in all its varieties is to celebrate the richness of life.

K dot C Dot

Yesterday was my little sister's 35th birthday. We had a party for her with pirate hats, tiaras, chinese food and redneck teeth. It is nice to celebrate life with my family and to be able to be nearby for the festivities/chaos/noise/messiness and it's even better that the clean up is left to her and not to the rest of us. Happy birthday, K dot C dot. We all love you.

Crap, flower children and meatballs

I found Maxine Swann's Flower Children online today and for those who've never read it, it is a happy read.

Yet, this is not why I post. Emily Robertson, my Philosophy of Research Professor, reminded me of a joke tonight that is soon to become my motto. It is about the young child who was an optimist. One birthday, he truly wanted a pony (substitute dog, horse, new car, date with Madonna, knowledge, gift certificate to Barnes and Noble). He begged and begged for his gift. His parents, however, wanted to cure the boy's excessive drive at happiness and optimism, so they filled a room with crap. Horrible, smelling, and deep ca-ca. The brown sh'bang. The big p.u.. The parents sort of snickered to themselves when the young boy ran to the room where they said his birthday gift stood. They expected to hear a "holy sh$!," but instead they heard giggling and laughter. When they went to see what their son was doing they were in shock. Their son was going stir-crazy into the pile of crap and celebrating, "There must be a pony (substitute dog, horse, new car, date with Madonna, knowledge, gift certificate to Barnes and Noble) in here somewhere!"

Finally, when I returned last night from thinking about the way I shovel my way through life, I came home to a bucket of meatballs and fresh, Italian rolls. My pops thought to bring me dinner -- a meatball sub (perfection, I might add - through years of both my parents fighting over who makes the better meatballs).

Happiness is knowing the pony (substitute dog, horse, new car, date with Madonna, knowledge, gift certificate to Barnes and Noble) is out there somewhere.

He's probably better in text form

Several years ago I found an audio collection of Shel Silverstein reading his poetry. He screams his work. I mean he yells his work. I loved it. I ended up playing it often, especially on busy, urban streets with my windows down and bass up. It cracked me up when I competed with the typical music coming from cars trying to out peacock me, and when Silverstein would scream, ONE SISTER FOR SALE, I always laughed. I was thinking about his poetry, books and singing this morning and about how he meant it to be heard, screamed, sung and seen. Also, SHEL SILVERSTEIN has a great website in his honor. I try to imagine what it'd be like to teach Shel Silverstein and that a room full of such minds would be a dream. Yes, it'd be hard to control, but I'm all about such quirkiness. I need to find my Shel c.d. and put it back into the Explorer. As snow begins to fall, I'd like to hear his booming voice work its way through barren trees.

The Meehoo with an Exactlywatt by Shel Silverstein
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Me!
Me who?

That's right!
What's right?
Meehoo!
That's what I want to know!

What's what you want to know?
Me, WHO?
Yes, exactly!
Exactly what?
Yes, I have an Exactlywatt on a chain!

Exactly what on a chain?
Yes!
Yes what?
No, Exactlywatt!

That's what I want to know!
I told you - Exactlywatt!
Exactly WHAT?
Yes!
Yes what?

Yes, it's with me!
What's with you?
Exactlywatt - that's what's with me.
Me who?
Yes!

GO AWAY!

Knock knock...

Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwiches

I did something very important yesterday. I remembered to pack my lunch AND my dinner. Lunch was a ham and cheese, blah, but dinner was a P, B & J and I loved every bite of it. Despite being told that peanut butter is bad for me and that this researcher and that nutritionist says that Peter Pan doesn't have my arteries in their interest, I still love dining on the simplicity of a childhood favorite. I think I'm more happy that I remembered to pack something to eat so I didn't have to live out of vending machines nor the good wishes that someone brought food to pass around for me to munch on. Nope. I had a sandwich and I released it from its plastic-baggy prison into my stomach. Yum.

What does Visual Literacy Sound Like? (Intro)

Distracted last night, I somehow opted to cut up a project I did over the summer and to post it on another blog I've been keeping. The twenty-minute video is meant as a podcast, but as I asked myself what "visual literacy" sounds like, I realized I couldn't divorce the visual because I am a visual creature. Both text and images are interconnect here and I think the project is what I was after when I set out to ask such a necessary question. I failed at making a podcast, however. I made a videocast of my thinking (which, at the University, has to be academic), instead. Even so, I think it makes sense. If you are intrigued by the introduction, you can watch clips 1 - 19, and the finale at my RETHINKING VALIDITY blog that was created for Dr. James Rolling in Art Education at Syracuse University. This project, which makes me happy, couldn't have happened without his influence, nor the wonderful mind of Kathie Maniaci, who had me thinking overtime this summer about the importance of visual literacy in America's classrooms.

Hot, apple pie over vanilla ice cream

Yesterday was moderately productive. I took Baby for a walk (she refused to wear the leash), went for a six mile run, studied a lot, and went to the folks for meat and potatoes. Dad made a perfect apple pie (sorry, Casey, Manlius IS just 12 miles too far to drive on my hectic schedule) and it was absolutely delicious. He inspired me to go home, core a few Empires of my own, and to bake Apple Crisp which I can serve over vanilla ice cream. My mom doesn't believe in vanilla ice cream, so although dad's hot pie was close to nirvana, it fell just a little short. Dad has been doing the grocery shopping since mom's surgery, so blame for the lacking vanilla ice cream can't just fall on my peg-eg mom. Get with it, dad!

Either way, my stomach and taste buds grinned a bit, yesterday.

Clam Bar, North Syracuse

Today I took Dominic Mathiang and Erika Halstead to The Clam Bar in North Syracuse. As one of my surrogate homes in Central New York, I always feel a sense of calm when I visit this restaurant. Why? Well, Butch. If my father isn't at 5388 Amalfi Drive, he's paying his dues at the Clam Bar. Students in my African American Studies classes at Binghamton used to laugh and think I said "Clan Bar" but this is not the case. There are no confederate flags nor white robes hanging on the wall. Instead, there are dead fish, deer, elk, bears, and other wild game.

Helge and Ken, the owners, have done a fantastic job keeping a tradition of excellent food alive for Airport employees and residents of Northern Syracuse. Home to the unforgettable intoxication of Sudy Rip, mom, during dad's retirement party and waitresses who are very tolerant of long winded stories from their clientelle, dad, The Clam Bar is an absolute piece of Syracuse's history.

I grew up on their steak sandwiches, still excellent, but the dinner specials are what makes the food unique. That, and God Bless, their clam chowder. It is out of this world.

Tales

Last night, Tales from the Salt City, conceived by Ping Chong, premiered at Syracuse Stage. I went with members of the Syracuse Lost Boys of Sudan Cow Project: Makram, Michael, Kerubino, Marino, Benjamin, Faye, and Carl to support Lino, whose story was a part of the narrative. The stage featured several variations of the Syracuse, New York, existence and in each performer lived the truth of being alive in America in 2008. What was remarkable about the performance was how history was interwoven with local community, while paying close attention to the centrality of the Onondaga Nation who were keepers of this land before so many pots melted, salads tossed and the modern pastiche of CNY was created. The stories were spoken with laughter, heart, soul and tears, all united under the common umbrella of humanity. Cambodia, Macedonia, Cuba, Onondaga, Sudan, Mexico and American voices became a chorus of meaning in a shrinking globe needing to keep an eye on global obstacles. It was an honor to be invited, to see the cows on display and to learn the literacy of being alive at this time in history. I am a better man for witnessing this event and am inspired to unite our lives further, one truth at a time. Happy is too mild a word for tonight's experience.

Cuz Bryan's the Best Name Ever (and it's spelled right)

Preparing for Saturday's Together meeting at North Syracuse Public Library, I revisited the artwork of Bryan Collier in Martin's Big Words. There's something amazing about the way he layers images, fabrics, textures and imagery that speaks as deeply as Martin Luther King's dreams. Looking at his intelligence, I am thinking how great it is to know not everyone nor everything has to be textual to communicate. To learn more about his work, you can visit his website.

New Yorker Cartoon

Kelly Chandler-Olcott showed me a book of cartoons on Education from the New Yorker. Several of them were hysterical and I couldn't help but laugh out loud. I'm putting this book on my xmas wish list. I know the above font is terribly tiny so I will translate what the jack-in-the-box is saying:
Pretty soon, you're going to start going to something called "school." You'll have to go every day even when you're not in the mood, or when it's cold and dark and rainy outside and all you want to do is lie in bed and watch robot's fight on the t.v. You're going to sit at a little desk and be completely quiet and not fidget while your teacher drones on and on and on about latitude and longitude and nouns and mastery tests, and if you don't like it, too bad for you, 'cause it's the law, you have to go. So enjoy your freedom, because this is the most you're going to have for a long, long, long, long time.
Yes, it is pretty sick, but isn't a lot of our humor based on the macabre? The drawings in this book are rather anglo-saxon in orientation, but a few caused me to laugh in my gut. You've got to love that, right? Once again, visual literacy IS a literacy, and as these artists prove, a drawing can be a profound text.

P.U.

In this year of optimism, I was thrown a curve ball. 

Baby needed to pee at 1 a.m., so I let her out. She immediately took off for the field behind my house and came back coughing and hacking.  Saliva and foam was pouring out of her mouth. She smelled like burnt rubber.  A skunk got her right in the kisser. Since my house isn't fenced in, I chose to let her sleep inside. I  gave her a late bath to temporarily cure the stench, but locked her out of my bedroom.  This is at 2 a.m..  I finally fell asleep, but when I awoke the skunk smell in my house was unbelievable. It was raw and in my face.  It made roadkill smell seem mild.

The thing is, I had to do a teacher observation at Jamesville-DeWitt high school at 9 a.m..  I took a shower, scrubbed hard, but on my drive there, I realized I still stunk pretty bad.  I told the teachers about the olfactory phenomenonf from the previous night and apologized.  They said they didn't smell anything.  Yet, when the students arrived, they began asking, "What's that awful smell?"  I said, 'Oh, that's just me.  The University supervisor -- Skunk issue.'  Then, one of the teachers sprayed apple-cinnamon air freshener.  This didn't help.  Suddenly the room smelled like Pepe LePew at Christmas. 

This is a first for me.  As crazy as it sounds, it made me laugh and I enjoyed the experience.  After doing the student observation, I ran to the store and picked up the above recipe: baking powder, peroxide and lemon detergent.  I doused Baby in this concoction, and also added coconut mouse and apple slice shampoo.  Now, she sort of smells like the Massengill Douche that several websites recommended as perfect de-skunking material.  

After bathing the dog, bedsheets, my carpet and myself, I thought I accomplished a productive day.  Yet, on the way to campus, I stopped by the post office to mail a package.  The first think the employee said is, "Do you smell skunk?"  Alas, I did what I could and the rest is history.  

Did you hear the joke about the skunk?
Never mind, it stinks!

How many skunks do you need to make a house really smelly?
Just a phew!

What did the baby skunk want to be when he grew up?
A big stinker!

What's a skunk's philosophy of life?
Eat, stink and be merry!

How are skunks able to avoid danger?
By using their instinks and common scents!

What is the feeling that you've smelled a certain skunk before?
Deja phew!

Fall Follow Up

Although the temperatures are abnormally high, the colors of Autumn foliage are remarkable this Fall. In fact, they are more vibrant than they were last year. While running along high ways and footpaths today, I was surrounded by breath-taking colors of reds, maroons, yellows, oranges and browns. Later, walking the dog, I wished I actually owned a camera to record such hues. But I'm okay. I like knowing that the changing leaves are in my seasonal understanding of a year. As long as I have life, leaves will alter colors and eventually fall. Perhaps one day, too, my heart, body and soul will join such transcendence. I find happiness in such truth.

It is too bad, however, that some of these colors couldn't stay around to weave within the white and gray days to come. It would be spectacular to see a tree lighting up a field of snow with its late release of summer leaves.

Then again, I have wonderful memories of walking to Alice and Charlie's on winter nights, when their oaks and maples offered dark, branched contrast to the setting sun, purple skies and nightfall. I wouldn't change those images for anything in the world.

Cravings

Ah, traditions! Yesterday, it was Behling Orchard for picking apples: Cortlands, Empires and MacIntoshes. My garage is now an apple farm and for the next few weeks I will be baking, chomping and living in a New York State of Mind. Then, last night, the French Toast craving arrived. Welcome to Denny's breakfast at 7 p.m.. Delicious. Satisfying cravings is a must. In summary, an apple a day keeps the doldrums away in a maple syrup kind of way.

Guess Who' s Knocked Up Again?

It's funny to look at these pictures knowing the carcass within is now a two-year old who runs around saying, "Say, What?!" Yes. my little sister swallowed a watermelon seed again and this time we think the dad is Dave (as if there's any doubt about the first kid). I was slow in posting about K dot C dot's pregnancy because it needed to be more authentic. Tonight, post pizza and a couple trips to vomit in the bathroom, it appeared more real. Discussing the possibility of being her "vowel movement" for Halloween and seeing the early on-set of her exhaustion, I decided to share the news. (Truth is, she threatened me if I didn't).

Not only that, but Casey made me snickerdoodles. How great is that?

good ol' whistle

I saw Spamelot last night based on Monty Python's The Holy Grail. For years, I didn't understand the wit of that British camp, but in time, I've grown to love it. In fact, it has been my cell phone ringer for a couple of years. It's a catchy tune that we all should live by. I've often thought life could be more charming if we remembered the corniness of musicals. And so, a musical for today. Stock markets? Global Warming? Ah, bollucks. Sing a song and sing along!

Curiosity

Funny how I can type in what I'm thinking and I can find an image that corresponds exactly to my thoughts. You've got to love 2008 and that is where I am today knowing that I'll be an inquisitive bloke until the day I die. I like questions usually as much as I like finding the answers. I'm content knowing, too, that cats have nine lives and I'm unsure which number I'm on. It's sort of sad that such a disposition doesn't get ascribed to frogs because I've known my share of croaks on my lilypad of thinking.

What else is there, though, besides an intrinsic drive to understand? If it is true that the more you know the less you know, then I imagine I will go gray(er) with a plethora of question marks at the end of all my thinking. Yes, I'm a dog person, but I respect the cunningness of feline fecundity, as well. Meow + Woof + Ribbit = Happiness.

The Old Making Me Feel Young

Snuck home for an hour yesterday and took the dog/the Baby for a walk. It was a nice Fall day that went from 30 degrees to 70 degrees quite quickly. I had an enormous headache and my sinuses wanted to burst. While on the road, I passed a couple I see walking all the time. They are out in the morning, they stroll in the afternoon and they sometimes go by in the evening. They pick up cans, carry groceries and often hold hands. I imagine they've lived a life together and these strolling rituals have occurred for over forty years. Perhaps not. Perhaps it is an extra-marital sexual thing and walking is pedestrian viagra for the old guy. I don't know. The point is they are walking. They're older than me. They hold hands. And I love seeing their movement.

And I must be honest. I got home yesterday, needed aspirin, and at 3 p.m., I accidentally took Tylenol P.M.. Oif. I knew I needed sinus medicine so I stopped at a drug store and got some pills that I took, too. By 4 p.m. I was so foggy I needed a cup of coffee. From 4 - 6, while in class, I have little recollection of where I was. Things were floating. Either way, the old couple and I passed each other today. That was Bliss.

The Perks of Being Exhausted

They debated last night. I sat under a pile of papers to read and reports to file. I ate two meals yesterday out of my bag. I didn't get a walk, nor a run in. Yet, I entered my house last night and the green color of The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky sat on a mantel and I smiled. That book. I've read it a dozen times and still hate its ending. Even so, I love the story and dream for the day of feeling infinite again. I long for the the days of finding other great reads like this that are "as they are" and not another's critical analysis of "what it is" by use of complicated rhetoric, history, and hostile linguistics of competitive jargon. I find happiness in seeking meaning, but I prefer the meaning from the source, itself. Finding meaning in egotistical babble is not a lot of fun. It's interesting, but I question its validity.

I babble, too. But I've got a post for today when I didn't think I'd find time. Dear Friend, I write to you because I heard you'll listen and I'm interested in what you have to say.

Missing Monday Night of Yesteryear

Back in my Louisville days and early in my teaching career, Ally McBeal made for a great introductions to the work week. Not only was the writing marvelously quirky, but the characters were classics that I fell in love with - especially Ling. I used to try to recreate the silliness in my own teaching. Ritually, friends and I would get together and watch the show together in mini-parties. Reflecting back on this time, I now see that Ally McBeal was ahead of its time and a classic in its own right.

I think we all need theme music to survive our days and Barry White framed the symphony of this show. I wonder, do we know what are theme music is for today? Although the video is a bit long, it captures the flavor that I'm missing in 2008 and recollecting from this morning's memory. It's Tuesday, but in my old world, I still fly high off the episodes of whacky law office drama. Thinking about the choreography of this dance is something that still makes me happy several years later.

Here's to what once was.

Dylan Scott

I love my nephew Dylan.

This is a throwback photo from Casey's wedding and he's grown up quite a lot. Last night, around 5, I got a call from him and he said, "Bryan. Can you come take me to Walmart?" I thought about it and looked at my pile of shirts to iron, the books on the table to read, the dinner I just made for myself, and the essay I needed to write and I said, "Dylan, I am very busy. I don't think I can." There's a pause. A long pause. Okay, a someone just-drowned-a-puppy-in-front-of-a-nine-year-old-boy pause. I say, "Dylan? Dylan? You there?" I hear a small, distant voice that says, "Yeah. I wanted to buy a toy."

Gulp. I told him that if he waited another week, played another football game like this weekend, and earned another $10, then next weekend he will have $20. "That's okay," he said - silence. I hang up and take my dinner out of the microwave. I think about breakfast and the fact I have no milk nor cereal and I call him back. "I'm on my way," I tell him.

We didn't say much on the way to Walmart except what his parents are doing. Mom's painting Nikki's room and Dad's watching, T A L A D E G A! We got to Walmart and he said, "Go get your milk. I'll be in toys." I told him not to get kidnapped and he doesn't. When I returned he had $15 worth of soldiers he wants to buy. I advise he can only afford one. I recommend him take the dollar he wanted to give me for picking him up and to use it to buy another solder. I threw the dollar at him when he presented it to me earlier on the drive. He's 75 cents short at the register and I kick it in. On the drive home, he tells me how the American soldier and the Nazi soldier are going to fight as soon as he gets to his bedroom. I think to myself how his reality is a direct historical consequence of the war he's choosing to play.

And I think, this is a great kid. He truly is.

Songs of Myself

Several of my student teachers are teaching Whitman to their 11th grade students and this makes me happy. I am a fan of the man, mostly because he celebrates everything and finds beauty in the simple. Even though my "cabbage patch/soul patch" is still in its infant stage, this is what I want to look like in 2048 when I hope people find me wandering beaches, cities, country sides and towns writing stupid verse for anyone who will accept it. I used to hand out Butterscotch candy whenever I taught Walt Whitman, and I did this to recall his act of giving such candy to wounded soldiers in the Civil War. Whenever I reread Whitman, I think, now here is a poet and here is a man committed to his own music. I can't flaw him for that, so today, I offer a piece of his song:

27
To be in any form, what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,)
If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were
enough.

Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,
They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can
stand.

YOU

I don't wear make up to look this good. No. It takes you ~ anyone who ventures onto this blog to make me look this good. I stole that from a talk given today by SU's Law School. The woman who pulled international people to Syracuse to address global poverty said just that. No make up. Us. We helped her to look good. That is what makes me happy. You. Why? Because you make me look good. We can't be what we are without all the others who make us what we are. This entry is for you.

Asbestos Crackers

I'm owing my life to Triscuits these days. Why? It is easy to pack a box of Triscuits and a block of cheese for on-the-road eating. It is a ready-meal that doesn't even require peanut butter nor jelly to be spread on bread. It's even faster. As I put in 12 -14 hour days three days in a row, I keep thinking I owe the Keebler elves a letter of gratitude. Yes, I choke on the flakes at times, but I don't tire of such wheat with various chunks of cheese. It feels more sophisticated than a bag of pretzels and a container of yogurt, too.

Now, if I could pack a bottle of wine, as well, that would make me happier, but I'm simply grateful I find moments to eat at all in these long days.

Quirky

I will always have a thing for the Trelawnys of this world. Today, during an observation of a student teacher, instruction was flying here and there and kids were very active. Yet, at the end of the lesson and as kids were departing, this one, young girl walked up to the teacher and said, "Ms. I have dreams. I dream at night and things come true." The teacher said, "That's nice, dear," and continued juggling the zillion papers a teacher has to contend with. The girl went on, "No. I mean I have dreams. I predict things and they happen. They scare me." I had to laugh because the girl was so random with this information and it is perfectly true to what teaching really is, and the teacher responded, "Well, if you dream about me, let me know what's coming my way, okay?" and then moved on with her day.

Professor Trelawny, in my imagination, was the hottest character in the Potter series. That was until Luna Lovegood came along. I like individuals who are odd ducks and this young child cracked me up today. Here was a series of computer lessons, writing prompts, reflections of previous days, attendance, behavior issues, interruptions, paperwork, etc., but this girl stands up at the end of it all and announces premonitions.

The world is better off with people like this. I'm all for the quirky learner.

Molasses Slabs and a stupid joke

It rained. It stayed gray. And on my way home from SU, I stopped by Elderwood with a cup of hot coffee for mom, and a container of molasses cookies -- a perfect remedy for a murky afternoon. They weren't Sherburne, New York, Molasses slabs, but they were decent cookies, nonetheless. Years and years of such cookies were dunked in my morning mocha for a wake-up routine. After snickerdoodles, molasses are my second favorite dipping treat.

And this reminds me of a joke: Three moles were walking up a ladder. The first mole said, "man, do you smell that? I think it's chocolate chip cookies." The second mole sad, "No. No. You are mistaken. That is the smell of oatmeal raisin cookies." The third mole sniffed the air and responded, "Hmmm. That's funny. All I smell are mole asses."

All's Well that Roswell.

As a youngen', I used to love when my relatives got together and talked about times they saw UFOs. This happened to my family a lot more than should be possible and their stories of sightings used to fascinate me and spook me at the same time. There was nothing like getting mysterious, immortal feelings from the thought that life existed elsewhere and my family witnessed it! 

I carried this fascination with me throughout high school and when reading Whitley Strieber's Communion, I couldn't wait until the day I was abducted and studied. I knew I'd be chosen.  That is why, when I met a gorgeous woman who worked the counter at Estee Lauder, I thought my time had finally come. This model-could-be used to tell me that she was from another planet and was here on Earth to study humans so she could have a better understanding of how her species evolved as they did. I was happy when she'd take me to lunch and tell me about her latest return to her home planet and about the multiple scientists who were here with her taking notes on our kind.  I wanted to know, sincerely, what they were learning.

Years passed and my fascination of alien beings was traded in for an obsession with academics (another species that seem to be from another planet). I haven't thought about this alien fetish until yesterday, when my father and I drove to pick up my truck at a repair shop. He started talking about this cool film he saw called Roswell and how it was fictionalized truth or honest fiction -- he couldn't recall. The point was, while I was heading towards a steep indentation to my bank account - the truck - he was unraveling all that excitement I had as a young kid.
And then he raised the index finger of his right hand, which was a glowing, bright ball of red. He looked at me and said, "ouch" and I freaked out. Actually, no. That didn't happen, but how cool would it be if it did? I wouldn't be a son of a Butch, but I could be a son of Wutch, from the planet Woocha cha. But not today. Nope.  No abduction.  No strange lights in the sky.  Only the fact that my middle name is Ripley, the same name as Sigourney Weaver's character in Alien.

Yesterday was Sundae

My brother-in-law, Mike, and I are tele-pathetic and it is amazing how we can read minds four miles away. Because yesterday was the sabbath, a divine intervention overtook me and said, 'Call, Mike. It's an ice cream night.'

As soon as Mike answered I could hear his grumbling. He was slurping on an ice-pop and was not getting satisfied. "No frickin' way," he exclaimed, "I was just thinking the same way."

In a matter of two minutes we were on our way to Big Dip for, perhaps, our last hot fudge Sundae of the season. They close down on Wednesday and their supplies are short - they were out of waffle cones, for instance.

Even so, we got our treats and I even got extra fudge on my cookie-dough. Yo! If that doesn't bring happiness, I don't know what else will!

Some things Never change.

On a rainy, gray and sleepy day, my sisters and I all met at Elderwood homes to visit my lame mother (not that she's lame, but she's in repair from knee surgery). It isn't easy for my sisters and I to be together in unusual situations because they put words in my mouth and interpret my behavior in all the wrong ways. Then they start laughing and get mad at me AS IF I'm the bad guy. 

This has always happened. During funerals, weddings, or even strolling the mall, an unusual set of circumstances will arise and they look at me for my reaction and immediately start laughing. Actually, they begin crying and then get angry with me for my "inappropriate" etiquette in such situations.

Yesterday, lame duck mom was all peg-legged in her wheel chair and going on and on about the ruben sandwich she was ordering for dinner when an elderly man was wheeled outside the door who apparently was humming a broadway tune from the gargling of his throat and the neurological synapses of his past. The music was non-distinguishable, but the singing sounded as if he was a drowning frog becoming lyrical through a straw underwater. Sitting at our table I simply said, "Listen." I wanted to name that tune.

Nope. Wouldn't happen. Not only did Cynde and Casey start laughing, but Nikki began crying, which set me to giggling, too. When I see people laughing I start laughing and I never know what I'm laughing about. Here was this poor man in a wheelchair reminiscing to some melody of his past when my sisters start laughing because they think I'm laughing at him, but I'm not. Mom gets mad, I'm made to feel guilty and Sean asks Dave he can "kick Mimi's boo boo."

It's so strange how such laughter comes from absolutely nowhere ~ Rena's growling stomach during a funeral service is a good example. I guess it's just good to laugh when we can, because chances are, we don't laugh enough.

Cynderballs and Mike

Easy entry. Cynde and Mike showed up with beer and wine at 8 p.m. We watched the debate. All three of us had stressful weeks, and tonight we watched Barack Obama and Senator McCain debate how they would make our weeks less stressful. To make a long story short, we'd vote for Labatts Blue or Merlot if we could. Baby, of course, would vote for anyone who would snuggle with her on the couch. It's been a long while since I've taken a night off to chat and be silly. This is a must in 2008.

exhalation

Way back in the day, like 17 years ago, I read Terry McMillan's Waiting to Exhale. I thought of this yesterday when I admitted to the new professor we hired in our department that I feel like I'm breathing again knowing she's around. I told her, "Man, I know I have to hold my breath for all the stress yet to come in this process of higher education, but today I am breathing because you make sense to me."

phew.

The two of us planned a collaborative research project for next semester, an independent study, and the goal to publish our thinking together. It is wonderful to have another adolescent educator aboard the U.S.S. S.U. taking the helm as I mop the decks. I am feeling relieved to know I now have two English Education supporters pushing me forward.

Ah. Inhalation. Bring on the next adventure. Ahoy.

Meta-morphosis-analysis

I'm thinking about constants as I wake up. Yesterday I bought my mom wine-colored mums to look at in her knee recovery and I deliberately picked them for their color, but also because as Autumn arrives, mums add flavor to the world...mums for moms. Just when flowers begin to hibernate and reload for the winter, mums show themselves as a last reminder that times are changing.

I am pondering how such a cyclical change is good. In the metaphor of the caterpillar to butterfly, I am seeing that metamorphosis is something to keep an eye on. The monarchs are currently flying back to Mexico as the mums are blooming with pre-hibernal thoughts. In terms of my own life, I am in the chrysalis, redefining what I once knew and currently know, transforming to what I'll discover tomorrow. This human condition will be my blessing (notice I didn't say curse) until my pulse is no more and gives energy to a new earthly force.

Change is good. Nature is good. Cycles are good. The cyclical changes in nature equals happiness.

Macy Gray as a Part of My Day

Here's a secret. After being at a local high school from 7:15 a.m. until 9:30, I snuck home to let my dog out. I then stripped from my tie and put on shorts, a hoodie and my sneakers. I grabbed my ipod and I took off. I stole a forty-five minute run. What was spectacular about this was that Macy Gray's "Moment to Myself" song came on and totally set my groove.

How rare is it that we actually jump out of our routine to make a moment for ourselves? Sure, running is a routine, yes, but doing it in the middle of the morning is unusual. I came home, showered, got back in a tie and then went to another high school. From there, I had classes until 7 and didn't get home until almost 8. For the last two hours I was writing up student observations and now I am extremely thankful I took that moment to myself. I encourage everyone else to do the same.

Checking Myself, Checking Checking

When I downloaded the side image (called, coincidentally, checklist) I noticed a peculiar thing. On my desktop, it is one of five or six documents that are called checklists. This one, of course, is the only jpeg checklist, but that's not the point I'm trying to make. My younger sister makes lists before she goes to the grocery store and crosses off each item. My mom (whose knee surgery went well today) makes lists on all times of paper about any sort of thing.

I've never been a list person, but when teaching I was known to scribble items of import up and down my arm. I used it as a filing cabinet for items that were of immediate attention and it worked wonderfully. Yet, now I am supervising student teachers while supervising myself, while being supervised by mentors and I am recognizing I am becoming a master of checklists. I check articles I read, schools I've visited, meetings I've attended, stores I need to stop at, hours I've been able to get a run in, and I realize I'm just becoming a check list checker of proving my humanity. I think this is good. Checking the list helps me to see all I've accomplished in a given day and helps me organize for my tomorrow to come. It keeps me focused, prepared and reliable. I feel such checking is a peculiar way to be happy and I laugh to think how I must be perceived by those who know me, checking off everything as I do. Ah, c'est la vie. I can check today's blog entry off my list.  Woot Woot!

Lakes

Yesterday, Kathy Hinchman invited people from Reading and Language Arts to her camp north of Altmar, Parish and Williamstown. Sitting on the front porch drinking a beer, I was reminded of the view of Lebanon Reservoir near Hamilton, New York, where I spent most of my childhood summers.

No, there weren't the hills nor Grannie Annie's ceramic frog collection, but the lake was small and beautiful, similar to the damned water where we used to watch the stars bathe during the day. I decided to look up my grandmother's lake, Loch Lebanon as she called it, and found these two images. One is an aerial focusing on the campground (our camp was on the other side of the lake) and the other is the entrance way to the path that lead to the candy store. Many times, Casey, Cynde and I walked to get treats or icecream by this path. It looks cleaner now and more floral.

Being by such water is a piece of heaven and smelling lake air last night made me really miss the ritual of seeing Ann and Spence every weekend. There will be a time again, though, where "dam car, five points" will be in my ears. The popping of a can of beer, the sound of a lighter going after a camel, and the beauty of my grandmother's latest poem all being heard as the sun sets behind the cabin. Such simple happiness, really.

Star Bellied Thoughts Again

Dr. Seuss had a happier ending than I see usually occurring when he scripted his Star Bellied Sneetches Allegory, but I love it nonetheless. I spent a portion of today reading theoretical writing that tried to place "other" in context with the dominant discourses of western society (see dead white guys) and of course I thought of the green stars upon thars. That's what it is and will always be. During my Environmental Masters I did a paper on Dr. Seuss's yellow critters -- emblems of the postmodern conundrum because Sylvester McMonkey McBean gets away with the cash while the "others" are left with frankfurters and friendship. That was a late-capitalistic reading though.

Now, I'm transcending McBean's role to the University. They cash in on the power of knowledge, but this power plays into the socio-economic structure of a larger culture. Those there speak academese and police, via peer review, those who aren't worthy of their hot dog parties. The current structure operates this way because knowledge is not democratic by the Germanic model of eugenics that created higher education. The result is, even though cultures are more global and multiple, and many institutions have had to change, the university's way of "measuring" knowledge, quantitatively and qualitatively, has not. Esoteric rambling in a game of language gymnastics blurs the important points such writing is trying to make.

I am feeling like actions speak louder than words. I prefer doing over pontificating, but I value the interplay between them. What I'm trying to say here, however, is thanks Theodore for a metaphor I'll use throughout my life. Too bad Bizarrely Bonked Bryan, McBean's crazy nephew, was never written into the story.

The American Dream

Today begins the first day of the Togetherness series at Northern Onondaga Public Library in North Syracuse. Working for the New York Council for the Humanities, my task is to work with 6th graders and their parents to discuss books. Why? Studies show that it is this period of time that kids lose interest in chapter books; such distraction hurts their academic life later on (I know, there are studies out there that say everything).

Looking at the theme of WE THE PEOPLE, all the books I've chosen are geared towards living an American life. Can this be done in 6 texts? Absolutely not. Yet, preparing the discussions has me thinking hard, once again, on the pursuit of happiness and the opportunity to at least try to make dreams come true. 

I pulled out an editorial and a personal narrative that Khang Nguyen wrote when he was at Brown. I read both and smiled that a young man, now a medical student at Johns Hopkins, could be so astute at his young age. What gives him a drive, however, is his father's history in Vietnam. For him, not pursuing education and possibilities would be the best way to shame what his father endured.

We forget that life elsewhere is not life here. It is an election year -- an important election year -- and for me, I'm not going to neglect that our ancestry is typically the immigrant's story. Perhaps this writing is more patriotic than I usually get, but that is what is driving me towards serenity these days.

Let a thousand flowers bloom

Thursdays are philosophy nights, so Fridays are meant for intellectual meandering. Last night, Emily Robertson let out a poetic line about research and the creation of ideas, "Let a 1,000 flowers bloom." I loved it and wrote it down. In a land of freedom, trusting others to be themselves and to foster their own ideas is admirable. The irony is, however, that Mao Zedong of communist China said this in 1957, or at least that is what one website reports. Actually, he said, "let a thousand flowers blossom." In retrospect, I imagine he would have been proud of this year's Olympics.

I digress. The sky went to 35 degrees last night and the leaves are turning. It is not the season for things to bud and pop up, but I'm going to try to live my friday with the motto of letting a thousand flowers blossom. Perhaps they'll find some bees that mysteriously are disappearing or be picked for a beautiful funeral arrangement.

Ah, my humor shows again.

Drums

I like the cadence of drums. I wish I could summon them as I walk from point A to point B to help me keep my groove, but I can't. Instead, I have to think about the beats that are in my heart and memories of the rhythm I left behind. But what if? What if everyone had their own drumbeat they moved about to, and when individuals were seen moving in their daily routines, they were followed by a beat. This is sort of Ally McBeal, I suppose, but like her theme songs, what if we had drum rhythms?

Okay, yesterday was a long day and I was thinking about how I needed a new strut to my step. I thought of the film above, and listening to the tip-tapping makes me happy.

I am an Ape in a Cave

Growing up, I watched Captain Caveman all the time. Reflecting on this, I think it is humorous to think of a less evolved version of myself solving riddles for today. Maybe this is the same appeal for the Geicho caveman. It is Geicho, isn't it? A neanderthal helps us, like Encino man, to see the silliness of our today.

I was thinking about cave people and their drawings as I read, wrote, reread, rewrote and tried to make sense of the constant stimulation of text in my life. It seems that a cartoon, or a cave drawing, could map out a lot more detail in a simpler way. We designed an alphabet, words, sentences and school to complicate what it is we know and don't know. Then, from the "art" of words, we created hierarchy, competition and status by who can communicate best with those words.

To me, a simple cartoon says a lot more and this one says it all. It is something that we "grade" one's depiction of their own reality and it is called education. I am hoping Captain Caveman will come and rescue our society today reminding us of more primitive ways of knowing that had the potential of being more to the point. Me Bryan. Me Hungry. Me want a Snickers bar. What's wrong with making knowledge accessible?

Call me "Crazy," Ike.

I know I shouldn't be happy about a hurricane, but I am truly amazed by their power. Ike blew through Central New York at about 2 a.m. Monday morning and the winds pushed against the back of my house, the south, for two straight hours. Actually, it popped a window out of the hinges and that is what woke me up. The air smelled like the ocean and the sky was bright gray. I can't even imagine the strength of it in Texas and I am now in awe of such might. In the end, nature always prevails.

And then, yesterday, the clean up began. Most of CNY was without electricity and many schools were closed. I did a couple of observations at schools that were open and then I came home to pick up all the debris in my yard. This might be mighty chimpanzee of me, but I love my garden tools. It is so great to pull them off the nails in the garage and put them to use. Such hands-on work is much more fulfilling that the labor of the mind and I simply love being outside, even if the temperature has dropped and there is still a wind. It is labor that is worthwhile.

Saucony for Sucky knees

My first pair of running shoes were a $20 dollar pair of gray saucony kicks that were cheap and not purchased for status. In years to come, I'd try new running sneakers; Nikes, Adidas, Reeboks, New Balance and Asics, but I always return back to Saucony shoes. Why? They last. They're beyond comfortable, and the grooves on the souls make for better traction. I couldn't count how many sneakers I've used and abused over the years, nor how much money I've spent on my road hobby, but it is a lot. Trying to put 25 - 30 miles in a week does cause wear and tear on the ol' shoes, but Saucony athletics hold up well. I was thinking about my history with sneakers when I ran to my sister's yesterday in extreme heat, but also when I took baby for a walk last night. I am a better man because of these shoes and if I was more affluent, I would own more styles - especially a pair of camouflage retro Saucony that I've yet to find for a price I can handle. Regardless, I continue to claim them as the happiest shoes around and I recommend them for happy feet.

Being a cookie Monster!

I am very intentional about not bringing cookies into my home. Why? I become blue and like a muppet creature; it is easy for me to fall into a fit of rage, screaming, "mmmm. mmmm cookies. mmmm" while crumbs fall into the air. It is my understanding that our politically correct culture has now banned chocolate chip cookies from Sesame Street and monsters must now eat carrots in a fanatical rage, and to me, this is sad. Cookies, especially chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the often, are the universe's way of saying "it's chaos, but don't let too much of it matter. Here's a glass of milk. Enjoy." Yesterday, Casey had cookies at her gathering and I loved them. Not only were they chocolate chip, they also had M & M's in them. PBS made a mistake: Cookie Monster deserves more and more Double Stuff Oreos and Nestle Tollhouse surprises! Shame on censorship. If you're related to me, you can always send me baked goods.

Hope

My cousin Mark is an amazing human being. Knowing the world as he does, he has given his life to the work of HOOPS4HOPE and bringing opportunity to youth of southern Africa and Zimbabwe. It has made me proud to know him and to witness the incredible perseverance and hard work of sharing America's abundance with populations that face struggles unimaginable to my growing mind.

Last night, Mark came to Syracuse and took me with him to the premiere of THE EXPRESS starring Dennis Quaid and written by Charles Leavitt. The role of Ernie Davis was played by Rob Brown and the direction of Gary Fleder is something to make every 'Cuse fan proud. The city of Syracuse should be impressed by the historical accomplishments this story reveals. Coach Ben Schwartzwalder led the orangemen during a time of racial unrest in our history and meeting his granddaughter and great grandson, yesterday, allowed me an opportunity to see how real the landscape of one lifetime can be. I will remember, always, the way the cinematic light glowed on the face of Syracuse Graduate, Bob Costas, who sat kitty corner from me and I will hear the applause of youth as the role model of Ernie Davis was revealed. He pushed forward in a time where history wanted to hold him back, and I see this film as inspiration for fighting forward to make America the democracy it has always built itself to be.

Attending the after party with my cousin and introducing him to Syracuse faculty who are guiding my path felt right because I admire his goals and dreams. Although it rained yesterday, this movie cleared the skies, and in the words of Dennis Quaid, Ernie Davis's story is of hope to do what is right and good. This is what we should all be working towards.