So I got that teaching job I said I was looking for back in March (The Burden of an Education). For a poverty level paycheck I still can’t believe how demanding teaching high school can be. (That’s right, high school. I was also offered teaching positions at two different junior high schools, but I decided early adolescents was someplace that, psychologically speaking, I could not venture.) I spend my extra time trying to stay one day ahead of the students as we are covering 20th Century history this year and my exposure to said field was cursory at best. And so I feel like I am just as much a student as I am a teacher. Since August I have been on the edge of my seat with shock and awe as I have investigated the past like some kind of explorer.
Assuming that most American high school graduates left school with the same sheltered/half-truth education that I did, I feel it a duty as an educator to shine the light of truth where there has previously been darkness, especially on the lesser known tidbits from our collective pasts. Let this be the first of those entries.
Did you know that the most famous duel in history is laced with irony? The duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr really had nothing to do with politics or slander. What most history books fail to mention is that while the two statesmen were heavily involved in American politics they were also in a bluegrass band together and they both played the banjo. It was called “The Burilton Mountain Pickers” and they enjoyed traveling around the colonies playing family parties, barn dances, and various church functions. One of their most popular tunes was a little ditty they wrote together called “Competing Banjos.” The song was written to be an equal opportunity for the two virtuosos to display their picking prowess but Hamilton, who was kind of a showboat, insisted on taking an extended solo to end the song. Burr tried to express his frustration but was stymied by his band-mate’s pompous indifference when Hamilton told him to “Blow it out your butt.” Burr, at wits end from the constant upstaging by his musical compatriot, held his rage in until their next performance when right at the climax of Hamilton’s final solo, at the end of “Competing Banjos”, Burr bludgeoned Hamilton over the head with his banjo fatally wounding Alex and putting an end to “The Burilton Mountain Pickers.” Coincidentally, the name of the song was later changed to “Dueling Banjos” which only helped perpetuate the myth that an actual “duel” took place.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Life Lesson #62
When calling a friend, make sure it’s him that answers before responding, “Hey numb-nuts!” just in case he decided to go on vacation and leave his cell phone with his mother.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Failed marketing slogans for the “Segway”
And you thought you were fat before.
Paving the way to a more obese future.
Just (Let Someone Else) Do It!
Remember when people walked for leisure? Ha ha ha.
The Atrophiezer
When you fall over it’s not as hard to pick up as one of those motorcycle things.
The Vertical Geriatric
Best Chick Repellent Since B.O.
Suckway!
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Dad
In Charles Dickens “A Christmas Carol” Ebenezer Scrooge is visited by his old business partner Jacob Marley who warns Ebenezer that his life of selfishness will lead to sad ends. “…no space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Oh! Such was I!” Scrooge attempts to defend Jacob’s life. “But you were always a good man of business, Jacob” to which Marley replies, “Business! Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”
Over the years I have often been surprised at how liberally my dad gave others of his personal time, money, and love. When he died on August 10, 2007 at the young age of 56, I began to think on how he spent his time and have come to realize that he lived like a man who knew his days were numbered. One of the few comforts I have had since his passing was the knowledge that my dad knew what his business was, and was expert in his field. Sometimes when I’m missing him to the point where my chest tightens and my eyes begin to brim with tears, I wonder how different our lives, our relationships, and the world might be if we all lived in such a way. Before I go on, please know that what I say about my father is said without hyperbole, undue bias, or the typical heroification that usually accompanies the post-partum memoirs written on behalf of deceased parental figures. Since his death I have developed the theory that there are many ways to be a good father, but significantly fewer ways to be a great one. I want to write about some of those ways.
Through personal observation and speaking with friends I learned early on that my dad was different. If at the home of a friend, I knew I could usually come and go without having a single run in, let alone an actual dialogue with that friend’s father. And to be honest, that was fine with me since other dad’s usually seemed gruff, authoritative, and pretty much unapproachable. If I were to have a friend, male or female, over to my house I knew there was little chance of me getting that friend out the door without first being accosted by my father. He wanted to know everything. How’s the family, school, dating, (then to both of us) what are you doing, where are you going, with who, what else, when will you be back, remember who you are and what you stand for, (then to me) I love you. Honestly, his seemingly unnatural level of attention/interrogation sometimes embarrassed me; but my friends never seemed to mind. Now I like to think that they might have been a little envious of the zealous style with which he approached fatherhood. I’m going to miss his zealousness.
I am amazed at how often he found or created opportunities to teach us, his sons, something he felt was important. Sometimes the lessons seemed untimely but he was of the opinion that if children learn important lessons early, and establish a strong foundation, major issues never become major issues.
“There was a story on the news I wanted to talk to you guys about.” He said to me and my brothers one night.
“Ya?”
“A young teenage girl got high on crack and dove headfirst into an empty pool and died. Do you guys know how scary drugs are? How much they hurt not just the people who abuse them but also their loved ones? You four boys mean everything to mom and me. Do you know that?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you have the courage to stand up for what’s right when it comes time to decide.”
(Pause for effect)
“Dad, I’m only six years old. I don’t even know where to get cigarettes let alone crack cocaine.”
(I didn’t say that last part. But if I could go back in time and enter my six-year-old head, I would have.)
I loved the way he valued our sense of adventure and need to do things that weren’t always part of the mainstream. His willingness to risk financial security to do something unusual with the family had become a source of criticism from friends more than once. But whether we wanted to sell it all and move to Nauvoo, or Jackson Hole, or anywhere else, he was in, as long as the family was doing it together. Even after suffering major financial loss at the hands of dishonest partners, or due to poor personal business execution, my dad maintained a surprisingly positive outlook, regrouped, and was willing to try something else. When most fathers would try to sober their sons with dream defeating reality my dad praised our ideas and hoped they included the group being together. He knew where his priorities lie. Daily he worked to lay up treasures in heaven and hoped the earthly treasures lasted long enough to do so comfortably.
Though he spent much of his life on the road he somehow always managed to be there when it was important. If someone was moving, had car trouble, was performing on stage, had a game, needed advice, wanted someone to play golf with, dad was there. “Just don’t tell mom. She’s at work while I’m out here with you.”
Speaking of mom, I learned how to treat women from the example he set with my mother. I’m going to miss the way he talked about my mom. In front of her and in private he loved to tell us how lucky he was, and how lucky we were for having her as our mother. He was the first to admit that he married above himself. He would hug her tight, kiss her, and say, “Your mom is one in a million.”
I will sorely miss his liberal showing of affection; the random calls where he would just call to say hi, what’s up, I love you. I talked to my dad on the phone two days before he passed; a long stretch by our standards. The conversation was insignificant. We talked about my family getting back to Utah, and getting moved into our new place. I hadn’t seen him for about two months due to a summer job I had taken and he expressed how much he missed us and how excited he was to see my wife Kathryn and my kids Maggie, and Cash (who he called Jack). He had to get back to work but he wanted me to know he loved me and was thinking of me. The last words that passed between us were “I love you.” If I’d known it was going to be the last time we spoke I would have slowed down, told him I still needed him, that I would miss our private conversations, that it breaks my heart to think of my young mother going to bed at night and seeing only space where her dearest confidant used to lie, that the real tragedy is that my children and many of my brother’s children will have no memory of him, that I wished I were there so I could hug him and kiss his cheek, that I wished I could have looked into his eyes when I said my last “I love you, dad.”
There may be some, surface associates, that thought that Martin Quinn’s business was picture framing. But sales and frames “were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of [his] business;” a necessary evil to create free time for his real job. His business was family and man, and he was expert at it. Now that he’s gone it is my intention to take up the family business. I hope I can make him proud.
Over the years I have often been surprised at how liberally my dad gave others of his personal time, money, and love. When he died on August 10, 2007 at the young age of 56, I began to think on how he spent his time and have come to realize that he lived like a man who knew his days were numbered. One of the few comforts I have had since his passing was the knowledge that my dad knew what his business was, and was expert in his field. Sometimes when I’m missing him to the point where my chest tightens and my eyes begin to brim with tears, I wonder how different our lives, our relationships, and the world might be if we all lived in such a way. Before I go on, please know that what I say about my father is said without hyperbole, undue bias, or the typical heroification that usually accompanies the post-partum memoirs written on behalf of deceased parental figures. Since his death I have developed the theory that there are many ways to be a good father, but significantly fewer ways to be a great one. I want to write about some of those ways.
Through personal observation and speaking with friends I learned early on that my dad was different. If at the home of a friend, I knew I could usually come and go without having a single run in, let alone an actual dialogue with that friend’s father. And to be honest, that was fine with me since other dad’s usually seemed gruff, authoritative, and pretty much unapproachable. If I were to have a friend, male or female, over to my house I knew there was little chance of me getting that friend out the door without first being accosted by my father. He wanted to know everything. How’s the family, school, dating, (then to both of us) what are you doing, where are you going, with who, what else, when will you be back, remember who you are and what you stand for, (then to me) I love you. Honestly, his seemingly unnatural level of attention/interrogation sometimes embarrassed me; but my friends never seemed to mind. Now I like to think that they might have been a little envious of the zealous style with which he approached fatherhood. I’m going to miss his zealousness.
I am amazed at how often he found or created opportunities to teach us, his sons, something he felt was important. Sometimes the lessons seemed untimely but he was of the opinion that if children learn important lessons early, and establish a strong foundation, major issues never become major issues.
“There was a story on the news I wanted to talk to you guys about.” He said to me and my brothers one night.
“Ya?”
“A young teenage girl got high on crack and dove headfirst into an empty pool and died. Do you guys know how scary drugs are? How much they hurt not just the people who abuse them but also their loved ones? You four boys mean everything to mom and me. Do you know that?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you have the courage to stand up for what’s right when it comes time to decide.”
(Pause for effect)
“Dad, I’m only six years old. I don’t even know where to get cigarettes let alone crack cocaine.”
(I didn’t say that last part. But if I could go back in time and enter my six-year-old head, I would have.)
I loved the way he valued our sense of adventure and need to do things that weren’t always part of the mainstream. His willingness to risk financial security to do something unusual with the family had become a source of criticism from friends more than once. But whether we wanted to sell it all and move to Nauvoo, or Jackson Hole, or anywhere else, he was in, as long as the family was doing it together. Even after suffering major financial loss at the hands of dishonest partners, or due to poor personal business execution, my dad maintained a surprisingly positive outlook, regrouped, and was willing to try something else. When most fathers would try to sober their sons with dream defeating reality my dad praised our ideas and hoped they included the group being together. He knew where his priorities lie. Daily he worked to lay up treasures in heaven and hoped the earthly treasures lasted long enough to do so comfortably.
Though he spent much of his life on the road he somehow always managed to be there when it was important. If someone was moving, had car trouble, was performing on stage, had a game, needed advice, wanted someone to play golf with, dad was there. “Just don’t tell mom. She’s at work while I’m out here with you.”
Speaking of mom, I learned how to treat women from the example he set with my mother. I’m going to miss the way he talked about my mom. In front of her and in private he loved to tell us how lucky he was, and how lucky we were for having her as our mother. He was the first to admit that he married above himself. He would hug her tight, kiss her, and say, “Your mom is one in a million.”
I will sorely miss his liberal showing of affection; the random calls where he would just call to say hi, what’s up, I love you. I talked to my dad on the phone two days before he passed; a long stretch by our standards. The conversation was insignificant. We talked about my family getting back to Utah, and getting moved into our new place. I hadn’t seen him for about two months due to a summer job I had taken and he expressed how much he missed us and how excited he was to see my wife Kathryn and my kids Maggie, and Cash (who he called Jack). He had to get back to work but he wanted me to know he loved me and was thinking of me. The last words that passed between us were “I love you.” If I’d known it was going to be the last time we spoke I would have slowed down, told him I still needed him, that I would miss our private conversations, that it breaks my heart to think of my young mother going to bed at night and seeing only space where her dearest confidant used to lie, that the real tragedy is that my children and many of my brother’s children will have no memory of him, that I wished I were there so I could hug him and kiss his cheek, that I wished I could have looked into his eyes when I said my last “I love you, dad.”
There may be some, surface associates, that thought that Martin Quinn’s business was picture framing. But sales and frames “were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of [his] business;” a necessary evil to create free time for his real job. His business was family and man, and he was expert at it. Now that he’s gone it is my intention to take up the family business. I hope I can make him proud.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Let US Pray
Good news Muslim high-schoolers. You can now pray it up in school. Despite attempts on the part of a few vehement atheists to stifle your religiosity many states are holding up your right to get all churchy during school hours. Personally, I really can’t say I blame you for putting up a holy stink. If a few prayers meant I could get out of class 5 or 10 extra minutes every day, then give me a rug and call me Ishmael, because I’m in.
Mind you, I haven’t always been in favor of special consideration for minority groups. Let me illustrate with an example from my past. I am a member of a church that enjoys a relatively high Polynesian membership, for the lower 48 at least. And without fail, anytime one of them gets up to the pulpit they yell “Aloha!” Not only that, but everyone in the audience is expected to yell “aloha” back in response. (I guess it’s the islander’s version of the Southern Baptist’s, “Hallelujah!”) If the congregation doesn’t yell it loud enough, which they never do the first time, the screaming Polynesian repeats his greeting louder than before in an effort to prod the sleepy assembly in a kind of “come-on-crackers-you-can-do-better-than-that” sort of way. And the process repeats until the islander is satisfied, which can take some time. I’ve seen this go on for 20 minutes before. This practice has always seemed strange to me since I’m quite satisfied with just a single greeting from a friend or group of people, despite the decibel level.
When I first witnessed this I was still in my youth and believed that one should never shout in church. Pious indignation spurred me to my feet upon the pew and I attempted to subdue the seemingly hypnotized congregation. With hands raised like Moses to the Israelites I entreated all with a loud voice, “No my people! Do not blaspheme in the house of God! Be still. Peace be unto you. Be not easily swayed by the wicked enticement of one man. Be as a rock, a rock upon which we can build some homes, or maybe some condos for the lower income families! Yea verily - ”
My father jerked me from the pew mid soap box sermon by my tie, told me I’m not Moses, and later informed me that the man was Polynesian and is allowed to scream in church. Not only that but he was also expected to eat an inordinate amount of Spam.
“Can I yell in church?” I asked.
“No.” said my father.
“Why not.” I persisted.
“Because you’re white.” He explained.
“What does my color have to do with it?” I queried.
“You're so young.” he laughed.
Needless to say, I learned a profound lesson that day. Part of that lesson is that there are still some exceptions that cannot be made, especially if we are talking about mainstream America. At the same time high school Muslims were receiving legislative support for their right to pray to their God in their way, everyone else was further reminded that God has no place in our educational system. (Luckily He already knows everything and has no need of a preparatory education.) Several districts, in places like Texas and elsewhere in the United States had, up til recently, been allowed to practice what they called a “moment of silence” exercise where students could pray, reflect, think about the hot chick in class, or just pick their noses without other students witnessing it. Whether they were doing it in classes, at the beginning of sports games, or before the schools human sacrifice ritual I don’t know. The fact of the matter is, is that these “moments of silence” were being practiced in the presence of atheist students, whose parents found out and were immediately gripped by the fear that some of these religious thoughts might rub off on their child and influence them to buy a gun and vote another redneck into the Whitehouse. Justifiably they rallied, and by the authority of the Constitution of the United States of America, (which we all know was written by religion hating atheists), they, along with the ACLU, the harbingers of all that is good and right, put an end to this evil “moment of silence.”
Some of the ACLU’s social scientists have determined that the intellectual casualties were significant and they were lucky that they put an end to the “moment” when they did.
So pray on Muslims, because you too will soon be part of the mainstream and an eligible target of the protectors of Trooth, Rite, and the Amerikan Way.
God bless. (Just not at school.)
Mind you, I haven’t always been in favor of special consideration for minority groups. Let me illustrate with an example from my past. I am a member of a church that enjoys a relatively high Polynesian membership, for the lower 48 at least. And without fail, anytime one of them gets up to the pulpit they yell “Aloha!” Not only that, but everyone in the audience is expected to yell “aloha” back in response. (I guess it’s the islander’s version of the Southern Baptist’s, “Hallelujah!”) If the congregation doesn’t yell it loud enough, which they never do the first time, the screaming Polynesian repeats his greeting louder than before in an effort to prod the sleepy assembly in a kind of “come-on-crackers-you-can-do-better-than-that” sort of way. And the process repeats until the islander is satisfied, which can take some time. I’ve seen this go on for 20 minutes before. This practice has always seemed strange to me since I’m quite satisfied with just a single greeting from a friend or group of people, despite the decibel level.
When I first witnessed this I was still in my youth and believed that one should never shout in church. Pious indignation spurred me to my feet upon the pew and I attempted to subdue the seemingly hypnotized congregation. With hands raised like Moses to the Israelites I entreated all with a loud voice, “No my people! Do not blaspheme in the house of God! Be still. Peace be unto you. Be not easily swayed by the wicked enticement of one man. Be as a rock, a rock upon which we can build some homes, or maybe some condos for the lower income families! Yea verily - ”
My father jerked me from the pew mid soap box sermon by my tie, told me I’m not Moses, and later informed me that the man was Polynesian and is allowed to scream in church. Not only that but he was also expected to eat an inordinate amount of Spam.
“Can I yell in church?” I asked.
“No.” said my father.
“Why not.” I persisted.
“Because you’re white.” He explained.
“What does my color have to do with it?” I queried.
“You're so young.” he laughed.
Needless to say, I learned a profound lesson that day. Part of that lesson is that there are still some exceptions that cannot be made, especially if we are talking about mainstream America. At the same time high school Muslims were receiving legislative support for their right to pray to their God in their way, everyone else was further reminded that God has no place in our educational system. (Luckily He already knows everything and has no need of a preparatory education.) Several districts, in places like Texas and elsewhere in the United States had, up til recently, been allowed to practice what they called a “moment of silence” exercise where students could pray, reflect, think about the hot chick in class, or just pick their noses without other students witnessing it. Whether they were doing it in classes, at the beginning of sports games, or before the schools human sacrifice ritual I don’t know. The fact of the matter is, is that these “moments of silence” were being practiced in the presence of atheist students, whose parents found out and were immediately gripped by the fear that some of these religious thoughts might rub off on their child and influence them to buy a gun and vote another redneck into the Whitehouse. Justifiably they rallied, and by the authority of the Constitution of the United States of America, (which we all know was written by religion hating atheists), they, along with the ACLU, the harbingers of all that is good and right, put an end to this evil “moment of silence.”
Some of the ACLU’s social scientists have determined that the intellectual casualties were significant and they were lucky that they put an end to the “moment” when they did.
So pray on Muslims, because you too will soon be part of the mainstream and an eligible target of the protectors of Trooth, Rite, and the Amerikan Way.
God bless. (Just not at school.)
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Salt of The Earth
I love small town folks. I recently met three in Missouri when I took my laptop into one of those 24-hour diners where the waitresses call you “Honey” and they only play pre 1965 music from an old fashioned jukebox. I thought I should write about the encounters since I’ve never before had three such conversations in such a short amount of time. The ages are approximations and the conversations are as close as I can remember.
I first met Warren (age 48)
Warren: “You gittin’ internet in here?”
Me: “No. I’m just working on some other things.”
Warren: “Really? You looked like you was gittin’ Wi-Fi.”
(This was the first time I’d heard “gittin’” and “Wi-Fi” in the same sentence.”
Me: “Nope. I wish.”
Warren: “You should go down ta Burger King. You can git Wi-Fi there.”
Me: “Is that right?”
Warren: “Ya, just go in and turn down that narrow hall there (he says, assuming I know the layout of the Burger King) and there’s a big table in the back. You can plug in and git Wi-Fi all day back there.”
Me: “Thank you. That’s good to know.”
Warren: “Yep.”
Later I met Jacob (age 14)
Jacob: “Is that your computer?” (He says while approaching me with a burger in one hand and a drink in the other)
Me: “Yes, it is.”
Jacob: “What are you doing with it?”
Me: (Remaining vague in case he’s computer savvy enough to speak at length on any computer related prompt.) “I’m just typing.”
Jacob: “What kind is it?”
Me: “It’s a Mac.”
Jacob: “How much did it cost?”
Me: “About a thousand dollars.” (It was more, but I’m still being vague.)
Jacob: “Wow, that’s a lot! (coughs a second) What if computers like that grew on trees? That would be cool.”
Me: “That would be pretty cool.”
Jacob: “Ya, you could go out and just pick as many as wanted.”
(Long pause as we both smile at the prospect of computer trees.)
“Well, I gotta go.”
(He sets his burger on my table so he can shake my hand which, despite my grease-a-phobia, I shake because Jacob seems like a nice kid.)
Me: “It was nice to meet you Jacob.”
Jacob: “See you later.”
Last I met Paul (age 65) who was sitting at the counter eavesdropping on mine and Jacob’s conversation.
Paul: “So what kind of program does that have?”
Me: “Whats that? Oh, it has all kinds of different programs.”
Paul: “You a computer guy or some kind of programmer?”
Me: “Me? No. I can barely use the basic programs.”
Paul: “You have one of them new iPod’s you can talk on?”
Me: “You mean the iPhone?”
Paul: “Ya. One of them you can talk on and play music.”
Me: “No, I don’t have one of those.”
Paul: “They cost a lot?”
Me: “I understand they cost quite a bit for a phone.”
Paul: “What the Hell people need all that s@#% for anyway?”
Me: (shrugging) “I think they’re just lonely. So they try to bury the memory of past failed relationships and lost loved ones by investing a gratuitous amount of money on the latest gadget, naively convinced that the burgeoning tech industry and the developments of the future will help take their minds off the pains of the past.”
Paul: “What?”
Me: “I don’t know why people need all that stuff.”
I first met Warren (age 48)
Warren: “You gittin’ internet in here?”
Me: “No. I’m just working on some other things.”
Warren: “Really? You looked like you was gittin’ Wi-Fi.”
(This was the first time I’d heard “gittin’” and “Wi-Fi” in the same sentence.”
Me: “Nope. I wish.”
Warren: “You should go down ta Burger King. You can git Wi-Fi there.”
Me: “Is that right?”
Warren: “Ya, just go in and turn down that narrow hall there (he says, assuming I know the layout of the Burger King) and there’s a big table in the back. You can plug in and git Wi-Fi all day back there.”
Me: “Thank you. That’s good to know.”
Warren: “Yep.”
Later I met Jacob (age 14)
Jacob: “Is that your computer?” (He says while approaching me with a burger in one hand and a drink in the other)
Me: “Yes, it is.”
Jacob: “What are you doing with it?”
Me: (Remaining vague in case he’s computer savvy enough to speak at length on any computer related prompt.) “I’m just typing.”
Jacob: “What kind is it?”
Me: “It’s a Mac.”
Jacob: “How much did it cost?”
Me: “About a thousand dollars.” (It was more, but I’m still being vague.)
Jacob: “Wow, that’s a lot! (coughs a second) What if computers like that grew on trees? That would be cool.”
Me: “That would be pretty cool.”
Jacob: “Ya, you could go out and just pick as many as wanted.”
(Long pause as we both smile at the prospect of computer trees.)
“Well, I gotta go.”
(He sets his burger on my table so he can shake my hand which, despite my grease-a-phobia, I shake because Jacob seems like a nice kid.)
Me: “It was nice to meet you Jacob.”
Jacob: “See you later.”
Last I met Paul (age 65) who was sitting at the counter eavesdropping on mine and Jacob’s conversation.
Paul: “So what kind of program does that have?”
Me: “Whats that? Oh, it has all kinds of different programs.”
Paul: “You a computer guy or some kind of programmer?”
Me: “Me? No. I can barely use the basic programs.”
Paul: “You have one of them new iPod’s you can talk on?”
Me: “You mean the iPhone?”
Paul: “Ya. One of them you can talk on and play music.”
Me: “No, I don’t have one of those.”
Paul: “They cost a lot?”
Me: “I understand they cost quite a bit for a phone.”
Paul: “What the Hell people need all that s@#% for anyway?”
Me: (shrugging) “I think they’re just lonely. So they try to bury the memory of past failed relationships and lost loved ones by investing a gratuitous amount of money on the latest gadget, naively convinced that the burgeoning tech industry and the developments of the future will help take their minds off the pains of the past.”
Paul: “What?”
Me: “I don’t know why people need all that stuff.”
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Room 116
My curiosity got the best of me and now I’ll probably be dead before the sun rises. I’m writing this in a motel room in Missouri. I have been here on business the past few days and am without wife or child and get reasonably lonely in the evenings and so I thought I might take myself to dinner and a show. Why not, I said to me. I’m good company and have been meaning to get to know me a bit better.
Skipping forward in time; so there I was, appetite satiated, standing before the box office of one of Springfield’s picture-show houses.
“One for 1408.” I naively said to the box office employee.
As it turns out 1408 is Stephen King’s new movie about a haunted hotel room that no one makes it out of alive. Now, when I bought the ticket I forgot to consider two major factors. 1) I scare easier than a six-year-old girl. (The sequel to Wizard of Oz still has me terrified of monkeys AND roller-blades, and especially monkeys ON roller-blades.) AND 2) After the movie I would have to go back to my motel room… alone.
Right when I return to the room and walk in I know something is wrong. Evil is here. And because I’m crap-myself scared right now and can’t sleep, I decided to write all night just in case I wake up dead. That way my loved ones will know what happened to me.
11:35 pm
The air conditioner sounds like ghost howling. I try to shut it off but to know avail. It’s stuck on full fan.
11:50
The evil air conditioner won’t let me sleep so I turn on the TV to distract me but it clicks several times before coming on. Not mechanical clicks you might hear when turning on an old tube TV that needs to warm up before use, but a poltergeist or maybe a possessed-midget-who-is-stuck-inside-and-trying-to-get-out kind of click. M.A.S.H. is on but the sound isn’t coming from the TV like it’s supposed to. Instead it’s coming from my own brain. It’s like that dream I have where I’m on stage singing “Welcome to the Jungle” and I know all the words. I’m freaking out because I’ve never watched more than a few minutes of M.A.S.H. due to the fact that it’s not nearly as funny as people born before 1975 claim it is.
12:27 am
I started to drift off to sleep but was startled back to full consciousness by the sound of a baby crying. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but it’s unnerving. I hate it when the Devil uses children against us.
12:42
I’ve put tissue in my ears in an attempt to drown out the baby and the AC unit. But now the TV has come back on and the only thing on is the same episode of M.A.S.H. that was on before. I turn the channel and realize it’s on every channel and now the TV won’t shut off.
1:20
All three noises climb to an unbearable climax so I try again to shut off the AC unit. No luck. I’m writhing from the auditory assault and in a fit of desperation I grab the desk lamp and smash the AC unit to pieces.
2:41
The AC unit is quieter now though it is still clinging to life with a pitch-fluctuating whirring sound. The crying of the baby is on the brink of making my ears bleed. I bang on the walls and scream “FEED THAT BABY!” The crying doesn’t stop but now there is someone behind every wall banging and screaming “FEED THAT BABY!”
3:15
I’m lying at the end of the bed, ear to the mattress with a pillow pressed firmly against my other ear. Something catches my eye. The handle on the bureau drawer moved ever so slightly. Hesitantly I move toward the drawer to investigate. I pull it out in one quick yank and without warning an angry piglet leaps from the drawer and hooves me to the ground with one powerful blow to the chest. He lands on me with all the fury of a Christmas ham, beating me mercilessly about the face and head with his fore hooves.
5:05
I must have blacked out because I just woke on the floor in a pool of blood I can only assume came from my nose and mouth. I crane my neck quickly in anticipation of another attack from Beelzepig. It is nowhere to be seen but I lay there a minute to be sure.
5:06
Just when I’m about to get up I hear a blood curdling squeal and look up to see the swine flying over the bed toward my face. This time I react by spinning to the side while reaching for the animal as it flies past. I snagged one of its rear legs. I keep spinning so to use the centrifugal force to keep his teeth away from my kill zones. When I don’t think I can spin any faster I release and watch the un-kosher terror fly headfirst into the T.V. thus ending his life and M.A.S.H. with one big electrical crash.
5:10
I’m really upset now because I’m usually pretty good with animals and only like to kill them for food… or sport… or as punishment to a neighbor who has wronged me.
5:46
I gather my wits and go to the bathroom to wash the bacon grease and blood from my hands. I scrub and scrub and never feel clean. When I dry my hands I realize that the cheap motel soap has made my eczema flare up. I’m in Hell!
5:53
I search high and low for some kind of ointment or lotion to sooth my dry itching hands but nothing.
6:10
I punch the bathroom mirror in frustration and shatter it. Now my hand is throbbing and bleeding heavily. I curse my stupidity but fail to learn from my mistakes and illustrate this by punching a pile of broken glass with my other hand. Crap.
6:14
My brain cracks and I loose it. I’ve never taken any martial arts classes but my rage doesn’t care. I kick and smash and do some major Jean-Claude Van Damage. I even pull the pig from the TV and use it as a club to beat the room to pieces.
6:57
Everything is destroyed, including the pig.
7:00
The guy I’m traveling with knocks on my door. Shaking from nerve wrecked hysteria and exhaustion I answer. He notices the blood on the walls, the smashed furniture and AC unit, the pig, and asks what happened.
7:35
I check out at the front desk and lodge a serious complaint with the manager.
7:36
Manager hands me certificate for “1 Free Nights Stay” at any Hampton Inn in the country.
7:37
I forgive the Hampton Inn and am looking forward to my next stay.
Skipping forward in time; so there I was, appetite satiated, standing before the box office of one of Springfield’s picture-show houses.
“One for 1408.” I naively said to the box office employee.
As it turns out 1408 is Stephen King’s new movie about a haunted hotel room that no one makes it out of alive. Now, when I bought the ticket I forgot to consider two major factors. 1) I scare easier than a six-year-old girl. (The sequel to Wizard of Oz still has me terrified of monkeys AND roller-blades, and especially monkeys ON roller-blades.) AND 2) After the movie I would have to go back to my motel room… alone.
Right when I return to the room and walk in I know something is wrong. Evil is here. And because I’m crap-myself scared right now and can’t sleep, I decided to write all night just in case I wake up dead. That way my loved ones will know what happened to me.
11:35 pm
The air conditioner sounds like ghost howling. I try to shut it off but to know avail. It’s stuck on full fan.
11:50
The evil air conditioner won’t let me sleep so I turn on the TV to distract me but it clicks several times before coming on. Not mechanical clicks you might hear when turning on an old tube TV that needs to warm up before use, but a poltergeist or maybe a possessed-midget-who-is-stuck-inside-and-trying-to-get-out kind of click. M.A.S.H. is on but the sound isn’t coming from the TV like it’s supposed to. Instead it’s coming from my own brain. It’s like that dream I have where I’m on stage singing “Welcome to the Jungle” and I know all the words. I’m freaking out because I’ve never watched more than a few minutes of M.A.S.H. due to the fact that it’s not nearly as funny as people born before 1975 claim it is.
12:27 am
I started to drift off to sleep but was startled back to full consciousness by the sound of a baby crying. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but it’s unnerving. I hate it when the Devil uses children against us.
12:42
I’ve put tissue in my ears in an attempt to drown out the baby and the AC unit. But now the TV has come back on and the only thing on is the same episode of M.A.S.H. that was on before. I turn the channel and realize it’s on every channel and now the TV won’t shut off.
1:20
All three noises climb to an unbearable climax so I try again to shut off the AC unit. No luck. I’m writhing from the auditory assault and in a fit of desperation I grab the desk lamp and smash the AC unit to pieces.
2:41
The AC unit is quieter now though it is still clinging to life with a pitch-fluctuating whirring sound. The crying of the baby is on the brink of making my ears bleed. I bang on the walls and scream “FEED THAT BABY!” The crying doesn’t stop but now there is someone behind every wall banging and screaming “FEED THAT BABY!”
3:15
I’m lying at the end of the bed, ear to the mattress with a pillow pressed firmly against my other ear. Something catches my eye. The handle on the bureau drawer moved ever so slightly. Hesitantly I move toward the drawer to investigate. I pull it out in one quick yank and without warning an angry piglet leaps from the drawer and hooves me to the ground with one powerful blow to the chest. He lands on me with all the fury of a Christmas ham, beating me mercilessly about the face and head with his fore hooves.
5:05
I must have blacked out because I just woke on the floor in a pool of blood I can only assume came from my nose and mouth. I crane my neck quickly in anticipation of another attack from Beelzepig. It is nowhere to be seen but I lay there a minute to be sure.
5:06
Just when I’m about to get up I hear a blood curdling squeal and look up to see the swine flying over the bed toward my face. This time I react by spinning to the side while reaching for the animal as it flies past. I snagged one of its rear legs. I keep spinning so to use the centrifugal force to keep his teeth away from my kill zones. When I don’t think I can spin any faster I release and watch the un-kosher terror fly headfirst into the T.V. thus ending his life and M.A.S.H. with one big electrical crash.
5:10
I’m really upset now because I’m usually pretty good with animals and only like to kill them for food… or sport… or as punishment to a neighbor who has wronged me.
5:46
I gather my wits and go to the bathroom to wash the bacon grease and blood from my hands. I scrub and scrub and never feel clean. When I dry my hands I realize that the cheap motel soap has made my eczema flare up. I’m in Hell!
5:53
I search high and low for some kind of ointment or lotion to sooth my dry itching hands but nothing.
6:10
I punch the bathroom mirror in frustration and shatter it. Now my hand is throbbing and bleeding heavily. I curse my stupidity but fail to learn from my mistakes and illustrate this by punching a pile of broken glass with my other hand. Crap.
6:14
My brain cracks and I loose it. I’ve never taken any martial arts classes but my rage doesn’t care. I kick and smash and do some major Jean-Claude Van Damage. I even pull the pig from the TV and use it as a club to beat the room to pieces.
6:57
Everything is destroyed, including the pig.
7:00
The guy I’m traveling with knocks on my door. Shaking from nerve wrecked hysteria and exhaustion I answer. He notices the blood on the walls, the smashed furniture and AC unit, the pig, and asks what happened.
7:35
I check out at the front desk and lodge a serious complaint with the manager.
7:36
Manager hands me certificate for “1 Free Nights Stay” at any Hampton Inn in the country.
7:37
I forgive the Hampton Inn and am looking forward to my next stay.
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