november 14th

There is a phone booth in the waiting room. She's inside the booth, apparently calling work to tell them she won't be coming in for a few days. Tears are streaming down her face as she sobs into the phone.

I keep asking her why she's crying. Maybe it's because I've been running around in my underwear and hiding in the bathroom. But she keeps saying, "It's nothing, don't worry about it dear."

But this whole situation just doesn't feel right.

Things haven't been great for me lately. My ankles are swollen, my joints hurt, I'd been missing school. The last doctor I saw put me on prescription Advil.

It didn't do so much.

So mom's been taking me all over the place. And now I'm in St. Louis. I'm not sure who these people are. I'm not sure what they want with me.

I've been running and hiding all day. In my underwear mostly. Despite the ankles and joints thing I'm a sprightly little kid and can care less if people know I wear Superman underwear.

I tried the bathroom. They found me. So I slipped under the stalls and through their legs.

There was a long hall. So I darted down the hall and into one of the rooms.

Bad move. They had me corned. There was no escaping. My mom asked, "What can I do?" The reply? "Grab him!"

The next thing I know I'm curled up on a table and things were going into my back. I hate them. I hate what they were doing. I can't for the life of me understand how or what I had done to deserve to be punished like this.

Art Tyler is my savior. He's there through the whole thing. He's really the only one that gets me. He listens, never argues and always wants to hang out no matter what I'm doing. And even on that table while I was curled up and screaming, he's here.

After the table, the rest is a blur of needles and nakedness. But nothing was blurry for my mom.

Life comes into sharp focus when you find out your seven year-old son has leukemia.

Three years. Too many drugs with too long of names to remember. Twice loosing hair. 3 blood transfusions. One trip to Disney World. Two summers at camp and facing pain and anguish far beyond what my classmates could comprehend, I emerged cancer free at age 10.


That was exactly 18 years ago today. And though I don't celebrate it as a big deal, it is a big deal. Today is the day I was given my life back. Today is almost more important to me than my birthday. Today is my Life Day.

Today, thank someone who helps children. Today, thank your parents for raising you and putting up with you. Today, thank the powers that be that you've been given another day to make this world just a little better for the next generation.

Today is Life Day.

p.s. Art Tyler is still around. He lives with us now on a chair (just his size) by the fireplace in the living room.

question #2

Question #1, about evolution, was a while back.

I had intended to change the blog to all questions. But I don't know that my readership is big enough to get enough comments to keep it interesting. And the readers I do have don't like to make comments.

Nonetheless, every night while I'm trying to fall asleep, my brain is filled with questions. Sometimes they're based in reality (like how can I get motivated to paint the living room) but they're of a hypothetical nature.

So here goes. This was on my mind last night:

You get the chance to pick your dreams every night before you fall asleep. Right down to the last detail. Would you do it?

What if you weren't allowed to remember them the next day?

comment away.

paper clips

My blog has officially been compared to paper-clips: sometimes useful but not very interesting.

Ouch.

In person, I'm usually compared to the drunk uncle at Thanksgiving who you keep a close eye on just to see what very inappropriate thing he'll say next.

In person I've got an audience who reacts. I can play off them. I can read the room. If I see a lady at the table wearing a big cross, I'm probably going to leave the alter-boy/priest jokes at the door. If they look like a hippie, I probably won't talk about PETA. That is, People Eating Tasty Animals.

But you folks are inordinately quiet out there. Except for a couple of you anonymous Hebron Ground guys. (you do know that there is an "other" option where you can put your name, right?)

While I'm on the subject of Hebron Ground, let me just mention that you inspired me to write a whole post on the subject of all things Hebron. Be sure to let me know if there's anything I should not forget to include. It'll take a couple days though. I need to scan some pictures.

So I'm assuming that if there's some Wartburg guys reading, it must mean there's some sports fans reading out there.

OK, I'll admit, if it weren't for Chad Feldmann and his patient explanations(thanks Chad) I still wouldn't have a clue what I was seeing when I looked at a football game. At least now, I can feign interest when I have to go to the H.S. football games to watch my step-daughter march at half-time.

If it weren't for Vic, I'd still throw a baseball like a girl (Thanks Vic). Now I don't look completely sissified when joining the kids on the playground for a game of catch at recess. Sidenote: I still have that ball that Vic taught me to throw with.

In H.S., Jacquelyn tried to give me tips on tennis. I thought it would be like a big game of ping-pong. Oh, was I wrong. It didn't help I was using a racquet I'd bought at garage sale for $1.00. But it looked like a cool retro racquet and I still have it to this day. But now it's decoration. I'm trying to make my basement look like Applebee's. All I need is a H.S. football team that's just suffered a difficult loss show up, hang a picture of the heroic, retiring coach on the wall and stick around and find solice in a family size portion of turkey-jalapeno-fun-time-popper wings w/ bacon. (you'll only get that if you've seen the commercial)

I actually attempted to play basketball in J.H. To this day, I don't know what made me want to do it. I played out the season, but I was so ashamed of my chunky legs, I never wore the shorts. I always had on my sweatpants, sweatshirt and headband. I'm also sorry to report that all pictures from that time were destroyed in a tragic scissors accident.

The Hart household was not one of sports. And certainly not of sportsmanship. Anytime we played games, my dad had to win. No matter what, he won. I'm not sure if he just needed to feel better about himself, or if he really wanted to make sure we knew we were losers.

Otherwise, I'm apathetic towards sports . I don't love them. I don't hate them.

One thing I don't get, however, is the fuss over college sports. Entire magazines are devoted to the stuff. Whole radio stations and TV stations are tuned into it. Men (and the occasional lesbian) spend hours discussing it.

At night the radio is turned to an A.M. talk channel that changes to sports every morning. It's either that channel or the christian channel that changes to talk of the market prices for hogs and heifers in the morning.

These guys on the radio get worked up and even ARGUE over COLLEGE KIDS!! Seriously, these guys are going to have college careers of *maybe* two years. How, then, can you predict a season when the team changes every year?

At least professionals have teams that stay semi-coherent for more than a couple years. And if they pick up new players, they usually come from other teams and have a record.

So, guys, explain to me (especially you Wartburg folk who don't really have a alma-mater to cheer for on Saturday afternoon ESPN) why's college ball so big?? Why the fuss?

There. You've been given an assignment. I expect it to be turned in by Monday.

Extra credit if you can explain why guys wear jock-straps at the YMCA. Is it because your butt can't stand being confined?

please don't touch me there

It simply baffles me at times how in the world humans ever make relationships work.

Unless you're working with a matching agency or some online dating service that gives you hours and hours worth of personality profiles to fill out, it's really just a shot in the dark.

Sure, there's always that first spark of interest. But what REALLY tells you that you're compatible?

When it comes down to the nitty-gritty of everyday life, some little thing that you've never thought that much about suddenly becomes annoying after 5 years of being around it. Those little things that no one ever talks about that, in the course of any long-term relationship, (and I include friendship in this) will eventually pop-up.

Most of us know ourselves well enough to know what we like and dislike. But the majority of our likes and dislikes matter little when first getting to know someone. They're just irrelevant. Does it matter that you have to put your right shoe on first? Not really. Will it make a difference if you always take out the left contact first? I don't think so. Does it impact the greater world that you have to have your coffee at 130 degrees? Well, except for the poor coffee shop guy who hasn't learned to read a thermometer, no.

There are certain things, though, I've found that really should be upfront.

Growing up with an older brother and sister meant I was routinely subjected to tickle torture of all sorts and sizes. Jim and Denise knew my sides and my feet were my weakest areas. I'd be laughing so hard I couldn't breathe and would BEG them to stop. Of course that only made them want to do it more.

There's a reason my sister's screennames have included "evil" and "sick puppy."

Over the years I've tried to NOT be ticklish. Sometimes just telling a person, "sorry, not ticklish" and hoping they aim for an area where I'm not ticklish does the trick. Why tickle when you're not going to get a rise out of someone? My sides aren't as ticklish anymore. I've left a couple layers of fat in those areas just hoping the padding will dull the pain.

In college, it became crystal clear that I'm not a "touchy" kind of person. I get jumpy when people are touching me. Especially if it's by surprise.

My friend Jill discovered this pretty quick. If you're going to hug me, you have to warn me. Just something as simple as, "come 'ere and give me a hug" will suffice. She learned that even the hand-on-the-shoulder move had to be prefaced with a disclaimer letting me know that another hand was about to touch me: "such strong shoulders." (I was working out at the time, so I bought it.)

Poking my side just drives me batty. Even with fair warning.

My strangest "never touch" areas are my belly button and the dimple under my Adam's apple.

I HATE it when people, anyone/anytime, touch those areas.

It especially drives me nuts when I repeatedly ask someone to stop touching me there (of course in a light-hearted and jovial manner) and they keep doing it.

I suppose it all stems from growing up a very closeted kid. I never knew what was appropriate touch and what wasn't, so I didn't touch at all.

To this day, I don't touch other people, for fear it would be mis-interpreted.

And, as luck would have it, my lack of touching has been misinterpreted as not caring and not interested. Mostly by women, who are the touchiest-feeliest lot of them all. Seriously, you don't have to touch my leg to let me know that you're enjoying the conversation.

And for the straight guys, you don't have to grab and yank on my nipples to let me know that you think I'm alright.

Nipples? Off-limits in public or outside of intimacy.

By the way, is there a class I missed somewhere in J.H. or H.S.? How is it that so many guys have such perfect aim for nipples? Even under 5 layers of clothes, one swift move and my poor tic-tacs are throbbing. How the hell?

I've gotten better about other people touching me. I've gotten used to spontaneous hugs from kindergartners and first graders. And even the occasional adult touching me on the shoulder or leg.

But for god's sake, please leave my nipples be.

laid-back bull

All over the internet in various profiles, on TV in commercials, on billboards, magazines on the radio I hear and see the words "Laid-back." Almost as often I see the words "Easy-going."

Like most things not meant to be thought about, I thought about what the heck those micro-phrases really mean. It seems like everyone wants to be called "laid-back' and "easy-going." As if that's a goal of our society. And if you think about some of the most popular people in school, who were they? The "laid-back, easy-going" types.

So what's it mean? In the most popular sense of the word, I suppose it means that you don't let little things bother you. You roll with the punches, go with the flow, play 'em as they come. (ran our of cliche metaphors there.)

But the more I thought about it, I don't think it's necessarily always a good thing to ALWAYS be laid-back. The REALLY laid-back folks I know are usually just plain lazy. They could care less about the world around them. They have no real opinions, no real back-bone.

Of course, the opposite of that would be hard-headed, stubborn and arrogant. And no one likes that.

I've been known to call myself laid-back and easy-going. And in my public life I usually am.

But in my private world, I'm not always that easy-going.

I like things a certain way. I like my private world to be ordered, organized and logical. I like for the things I do and have to have meaning and reason.

That's one big reason I don't collect knick-knacks. What's the point of a pretty bowl on the table that never has anything in it that you got at Big-Lots? I'd understand if was Venician glass you got on your trip to Italy. But just to buy stuff to have stuff? I don't get that.

When I put things away in my house, I need it to always go back in the same place. I'm a forgetful person, so if I don't always put it back in the same place, I completely forget where it's at.

If I make a mess, I clean it up. And I honestly expect others to do the same. Take care of yourself.

These 'laid-back' 'easy-going' guys who never know how to clean up after themselves, I don't get it. It's a sign of a lack of self-respect if you ask me.

Then again, if you're out in public and you flip out over the tiniest things, that's a bit too much. I have a great deal of patience with other people. I don't get road rage or aisle anger in the store. If I made plans and then something comes up and they have to change, no big deal.

Most of the time, I don't sweat the little things. Step on my toes? No biggee. Bump my knee? Oh well. And usually when I make mistakes or things go wrong, I end up laughing. What else can you do?

But for the love of all things sanitary, don't put your dirty socks on the stove to dry.

i love a parade

Just this week I got an e-mail from a long-lost childhood friend.

It was a bit shocking to say the least.

She lived behind me for a few years when I was 7 or 8. I know I was on treatment for cancer at the time only because she remembered and asked how it all turned out. (been in remission for 18 years... So great!)

She brought up stuff that I had completely forgotten. And I'm really sorry to say that I don't remember much of what we did as kids.

I do remember they had an old chicken coup we used to play in. And at one point, we were at "war" with each other. It was myself and a gaggle of kids across the street, and she and her sister on the other side. The coup was their fortress and a "bush-house" we'd carved outta of my mom's lilacs (sorry mom) was our fort.

But the e-mail started getting me thinking about my childhood and, honestly, how good I had it. Unlike some folks who had traumatic childhoods and bad parents, aside from the cancer thing and a mostly absent father, I had about as idyllic childhood as one could have.

While most kids were into TV and the new Atari (still pre-computers) I was busy with projects.

I CONSTANTLY had something going on. I was constantly outside playing in some form or another.

Here's some highlights:

• As very young child, my mom was a babysitter for a bunch of kids. So I would organize parades around the block with, of course, me as the leader of the band. To this day, I love parades. The more bands, the better. A parade with just bands? Might just wet myself.
• Besides the 'bush-house' we had an alternate club space in a gully just outside of town. It was covered with trees and full of trash the local farmers had dumped in it. The perfect play spot for kids with imaginations.
• I discovered how to get into the town rain sewers. At one point, we walked the entire length of the town through the storm sewers.
• I tried to start my own choir when I was 10. I couldn't understand why no one showed up for the auditions.
• When I was over creating plays, I tried to start a play house. For a while, we used the new play set my dad had built as our set. When I wanted to get more fancy, we moved it into the garage. I built a proscenium that could be lifted into the rafters, my friend Adam and I built a control box with dimmers that we could hook lights up to. Had my stereo with the speakers hanging from the rafters and even had working curtains.
• When I was 12, I started cooking and needed fresh herbs, so I built my own herb garden to supply the meals.
• My red wagon was my favorite toy. We used it as a float in the parades and turned the ditch next to our house into a roller coaster.
• Also tried to start a summer kids club with planned weekly activities. Only my friends could be members.
• Blocks were my second favorite toy. I was constantly building something with them. I liked building them on top of my record player turn table and then when I was done building it, turn it on and let it spin the creation apart.
• We used our bunk beds like a space ship and used to dress in our snow suits as our space suits. The stars on the ceiling added that special effect. When we were launching, we'd have the lights on, and when we got to outter space, we'd turn them off to see the stars.

I was also REALLY good at making money. I loved having money.

As a very little kid, I used to pick flowers from the neighbors yard, then go to their front door and sell them back to them as fresh cut flowers. (mom put the brakes on that one)

So then I made windchimes out of wood and sold them. They didn't go over well.

There were lots of girls in the neighborhood, so I made barbie furniture out of mud. The girls didn't go for it.

On my artistic side, I glued together rocks from the road and painted them and tried to sell them as original art.

But my two best sellers were popcorn and lemonade.

My best friend across the street was a farmer that grew popcorn. So we'd get her dad to give us some and we'd sell it around the neighborhood.

And almost every day during the summer we had lemonade stands. Our best profit came on the day that our neighbor was having and auction. We set up our stand across the yard from where the local church was selling refreshments. We WAY undersold them on the drinks with our $.10 lemonade. We made $27 dollars that day and were miffed when our mom's asked for the cut of the profits since they provided the lemonade. Little did I understand the necessity of suppliers.

And God bless my mom for putting up with all the stuff I did. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have had nearly as good a childhood as I did.

It wasn't a good childhood, it was a great childhood.

drama free dowdiness

I couldn't imagine anyone shooting the Amish. I mean, they're the Amish for christ's sake! Who wants to shoot the Amish? I wish I believed in hell because I'd really like to imagine the man that did that burning there right now.

It's times like this that depress me. Our government is constantly touting the dangers from the enemies around us. Seems like the whole world is out to get us because "they hate our freedom." (yeah, right.) We're told it's in their religion to hate Americans and try to kill us.

But, yet, no one in any level of authority has dared ask the real question, "why do they hate us?"

And now with three school shootings within a week, it's becoming pretty clear that Arab nations aren't the only one's capable of producing terrorists. (or as G.W. would say, "terists.") We seems quite capable of producing home-grown nutsos right here in the good ol' U.S. of A.

Once again, I haven't heard anyone ask, "what the hell are we doing wrong as a nation to produce these kinds of people?"

Could it possibly be that our own government is saying it's OK to kill those you don't like? Is it possible they the government condones, even encourages derisiveness among people?

Though it's commonplace to lay blame on the easiest targets, (our schools) schools don't have nearly the impact that the real-world has on kids.

In schools, it's NOT ok to bully or pick on kids.

In the real world, it happens every day. Our own representatives and senators do it every day.

In schools, diversity and tolerance are seen as a good thing.

In the real world, "diversity and tolerance" is code for "they wanna take our jobs and turn our kids gay!"

In schools, kids are taught to work through and compromise their issues.

In the real world, you "gotta stick to yer guns."

"Stick to yer guns..." The irony is palpable.

For everything we do in the schools, there is something in the outside world that fights what we teach.

It hit home last week with the Amish shooting. Just that day I had reminded my students that "this is a safe place. No one is going to laugh at you, or make fun of you in here. You can be yourself in my classroom."

But it's not a safe place. And the places they go home to are not safe. And no "war on terrorism" is going to change that.

We shouldn't be scared of the the Arabs who hate us. We should be scared of what is going to become of our own kids. We should be scared that our own country is producing and encouraging hate.

We should be scared that nothing is going to change.

proper use of a coma

My mom is pretty darn close to being the bionic woman. After having a hip, and both knees replaced, a shoulder repaired, an ankle rebuilt, 4 weeks ago she had her left foot rebuilt. After years of working on her very flat feet as a nurse, her foot finally just said "enough already!" and collapsed on her. That's right, collapsed. Bone, tissue and all.

Trying to maintain my status as "favored" child is a tough gig. Every once in a while I have to do extra nice stuff. Like giving her decorating ideas such as getting rid of the cast iron, orange plastic medieval replica chandelier in her stairway and replacing it with a neo-colonial, two-tiered, brushed nickel, frosted glass beauty.

A couple weeks ago, partly out of guilt that the burden has rested solely on my sister's shoulders, I went to visit mom. She was staying in a nursing home that's right between my aunt and sister's house. Though she's non-weight bearing and could get around on crutches, because of all the other surgeries AND the fact that she's got another condition that has caused nerve damage in her legs, she can't get around without help. And at that moment it was being done, however so ineptly, by the nursing staff.

I basically grew up in a nursing home. Mom has always worked in one. Mostly at the one in the town where I grew up when I was young. Plus, in my grandma's later years, she lived in the home where my mom worked. So after school and on weekends, when I was young, I would ride my bike over to the home and visit and cuddle up with grandma in her bed.

It wasn't a depressing place to me then because mom and grandma were both there. And being the youngest grandchild, I was grandma's favorite. (the youngest was always her favorite and I just happened to be the last of 14 of them.)

But it's been over 10 years since I stepped foot in a nursing home. And this place that mom is staying in is just depressing as hell.

All around the nurses station and along the halls are parked wheelchairs with half-slumped bodies in them. No one talking to them. No stimulation except for the constant beeping of call lights that never seem to get answered.

I can't help but imagine what the lives of these folks used to be like. These people had dining rooms with tables and probably a hutch filled with the china and silver they'd collected over the years. They had living rooms and family rooms. They celebrated birthday parties for their children, they had family over for Christmas and thanksgiving. They had bedrooms with family pictures and the bedroom set they bought years ago.

They raised families and hopefully raised them well.

Guessing by how expensive this nursing home was, they probably did a pretty good job if their kids can afford to put them there.

But I can't imagine how any child could walk into this place, see the masses of elderly people hunched over in their chairs and think, "yeah, this looks like a good place to store mom."

These people deserve better than this. These were the people who were young adults during WWII. These were the people who helped make our country what it is. And now they're shoved in a hallway... Waiting to die.

Having no children of my own, plus being the youngest child of the youngest sibling in my mom's family. (my eldest cousin is 20 years older than me) it's probably likely that if I make it to old age, most of my family will be dead and gone. And who will take care of me? Who will be my advocate?

I hope that I don't get to that point, but given my families medical history, it's likely that I won't be able to take care of myself.

I hope that I simply slip into a coma. And I hope that someone puts headphones on me and plays Mozart and children's choir all day long. I hope I'm in a happy place and surrounded by loved ones. I hope that my life will have had some positive impact on the world and that I won't be left to rot, slumped over in a wheelchair.

annoying

Since I've fallen so tragically from the blogger horse, I'll begin to take baby steps to getting back into the writing saddle. (HA! "writing"... like "riding." I'm way to easily amused)

I often like to think of myself as infallable. Who doesn't? However, I realize that there are things I do that annoy other folks. And in the spirit of honesty and candor, I openly share them here. That way, if we strangers should ever meet, you'll be fairly warned.

I place them in two categories: "Things I can help" and "Things I can't help."

Things I Can Help:

• When even the slightest bit dehydrated, I tend to clear my throat. A lot.
• I tend to spend a long time in the bathroom. It's my reading time.
• My laugh can be loud and obnoxious.
• Often, I unconsciously hum along to music... but not the melody. I harmonize.
• My stories don't always get to the point right away.
• I drive like a grandma.
• I eat really fast.
• I don't return e-mails or phone calls promptly. Or sometimes ever.
• I tend to be a neat freak.
• I like to be right.
• My posture is not always the best.
• I pick my nose.

Thing I Can't Help.

• Not only do I spend a lot of time in the loo, I tend to use it a lot. Now this may fall into the category of "things I can help" if I would regulate my diet better, but I just go when the bowels say "Go!".
• I smack my lips when I sleep.

So there. Be warned. Even though I can help most of the things in the top list, I doubt much will change about it. I do try to hydrate at the first sign of throat clearing and I've been working on the "always need to be right thing", but I don't think driving like a grandma is a bad thing. I get motion sickness and people who drive crazy make me car sick. And I'm addicted to my nose. I always tend to feel a sence of accomplishmet and satisfaction when I get a really good booger. Especially if it's one I really had to dig for.

I do, however, try to do it only in my car or in the loo.

OK. That's all for now.

notebook

He was a tyrant. By all accounts, he had no problem beaming his baton at you if you squeaked an incorrect note or hurling the score at you if your reed was maladjusted. He had no sympathy for singers either. If he thought you weren't projecting or enuciating well, he would jump out of the pit and onto the stage and grab your jaw to show you what you should be doing with your mouth, besides kissing his ass.

He could have been a Leonard Berstein, or a Sir Henry Wood: both phenomenal conductors, both a bit crazy and lacking finesse when it came to criticism. But he wasn't and will not be. He has been and always will be a B-list conductor. I might even call him a C-list conductor. His resume reads of small town community symphonies and village festivals. None of which have seemed to instill any sense of humility in the man.

Knowing the stories behind the man who stood at the helm of the Kansas City Lyric Opera for 40 years, I was all but giddy to see for myself the man behind the myth.

But what I saw on Friday night was a shell, albeit a portly waddling shell, of the monster known as Russell Patterson.

His arthritis and weight issues kept him from doing a full bow to the roaring crowd at Washburn Universities White Concert hall in Topeka. He needed the help of the concertmaster just to make it up the 8 inches to the podium.

And his conducting. Oh, the conducting. If he didn't look like he was lifting 5 lb weights while holding himself up on the back rail of the podium, he looked downright bored by the whole occasion.

Here, in small-minded, boorish and uncultured Topeka, was a festival that has it's roots in a 20 year old idea that some of the best classical musicians meet up in central America to have a "jam session" for a week. They called it the Sunflower Music Festival. And even with the worst conducting I've seen to date, they made the most sonorous sounds I've heard yet in Topeka, outside of my own home CD player.

Handel's Water Music was light and airy while Mozart's 21st piano concerto was sublime.

The audience noticed. They stood up after ever piece.

Poor souls. This kind of music is obviously a rare treat for them.

Myself, I'm just darn lucky. Here I sit in St. Louis. Monday I saw a small section of 1st century Rome pop out of the grounds of Forest Park in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar by the St. Louis Shakespeare Festival. That morning I went to see the Chihuly glass exhibit set in the incredible grounds of the Missouri Botanical Gardens. Then last night I got to sit front and center to see Opera Theatre St. Louis' interpretation of the first opera I ever saw: The Barber of Seville. (it was also a small birthday treat since my birthday was Monday and the last time I saw it I stood for 3 hours in the 4th balcony) It was also appropriate that while the Staatsoper of Vienna took a classical, period reading of the opera, St. Louis decided to put it in 1920's Spain, but set against and very post-modern backdrop.

Today I saw a very cute, very well sung Hansel and Gretel. Tonight I see the American premier of Jane Eyre and tomorrow, Street Scene.

Not to mention, all the time in between I get to spend with my brother, hanging out with my sister at the lesbian bar, having dinner with my aunt, chatting up late nights with my mom and spending any free time in places like Tower Grove Park, or Forest Park, or the Central West End or shopping the Soulard Farmers Market.

I may be gone for a while. This Friday I head to a camp for underprivileged inner-city kids in Springfield, Illinois and then to a camp for kids with cancer the next week.

And feel free to donate generously to either camps as your birthday present to me.

Love!

The bread story

I don't have much going on. I did find out today, however, that 1.) my services will not be needed at opera camp this summer. I have a slightest feeling that the director of the camp is pissed because I wasn't going to have my school fork over the $700 to have her "opera on the road" come out to my school. and 2.) Blockbuster has reinstated late fees. I discovered that when I got a letter from a collection agency. I, of course, called the local store to bitch. The manager replied, "well, we did post it." I asked if they did the mailings on the massive scale they did when they got rid of them, or put enormous signs in the windows saying, "THE START OF LATE FEES! THE END OF MORE!" or even bothered to put anything up on their marquee? ALL things they did when they got rid of them for a while. Of course they didn't. He offered to cut the late fees in half, but I'm still pissed and want them all gone.

So I'll share a happier story that I did not pen.

I've mentioned her before and probably will lots of times if I continue this blog.

In college, my freshman year, I made a friendship that has forever changed who I am.

Her name is Jill. And in addition to being my best friend, she was also my only girlfriend (EVER) and the first person I told I was gay.

With time and distance (she's now in New Mexico) we've drifted apart. Though when we talk, it's like we've haven't missed a beat.

She's an excellent writer and for the longest time I was afraid to send her e-mails because they paled in comparison to the vignettes she almost daily sent me. But she guided me along and helped me be a better writer (among being a "better" everything)

These little spaces between thoughts? You can thank her for that.

There was a time when she knew more about me, and me about she, than any other person in the world. We had a strange and immediate connection and, sometimes, instead of having lots of deep conversations, we'd discover the deeper sides of ourselves by happenstance.

One of my biggest flaws is that I am perennially looking for the greener grass. I never realized it until a conversation we had at the local Hy-Vee in Waverly, IA.

She wrote the story down and was planning on using it in a novel about two characters named Sam and Dan. My middle name is Daniel. I have no idea why she chose Sam(antha) for her character.

In any case, I'd thought I'd share one small part of the story as told, so eloquently, by Jill. I had shared some of the stories, by word of mouth, with my friend Ted, who always cast a doubtful eye on some of the stories I told.

What follows is an e-mail version Jill sent me after I told her my problem of retelling our story.
-Kevin
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sweetie, if you need to, you can tell Ted that I said every word of this story is true.


The Bread Story.

Here is the defining moment of our lives.

Picture us: we are standing in the bread aisle of a grocery store in Iowa. I reach for a loaf of Amana whole wheat, a delicious, hearty, perfect bread, as Dan reaches for this small, pebbly little loaf of something with berries. I know for a fact that if we were to flash back to a vision of Dan's kitchen table twenty minutes previous to this moment, we would see a third kind of bread, mostly eaten. I turn to him as he begins to lift the loaf to say, "Are you dissing my bread?"

Amana whole wheat is my all-time favorite bread. Ever. It's perfect. Good crust, hearty without being grainy or chunky. No pieces get stuck in your teeth. Energy providing. I'd suggested it to Dan a few weeks previous to this moment for his power lunches at his new job trying to be a summer construction worker, and he'd loved it. And now here he was, buying a new bread. With a third at home.

"Huh?"
"Well, are you dissing my bread?"
"No! I loved that bread."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Oh, I like trying a new bread every time," he says, casual as hell.
"Every time?"
"Yeah."
"But what if you find a really great bread, Dan? Wouldn't you want to spend as much of your life as possible enjoying a great bread you really love?"
"What?"
"What if you move, and you can't find the great bread in your new town? What if they discontinue this bread and you've squandered your time on other breads instead of appreciating a really great bread when you had the chance?"

And Dan looks at me and says, "But what if there's a better bread?"

And my heart dies a little.

"Excuse me?"
"What if there's a better bread? And what if you find a bread that's not so great? You could tell people to stay away from that bread. Oh Sam, wouldn't you feel good about knowing you've saved someone from a bad bread?"
"Well, that's silly. I would just point them in the direction of my bread, and that way they could know they're getting a good bread."
"What if you move?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"What if you stay with your bread for years, Sam, and then one day you come to my house and have a different bread and you have this amazing awakening in which you realize that you didn't even know how sick of your bread you really were, and you've wasted your life on a boring bread. And here I am! A bread expert, ready to guide you through your journey to a new bread. What if as a bread lover with a knowledge of great variety and taste, you could do the same for another person? Wouldn't that make you feel good?"

I sigh.

"Listen, let's just get some peanut butter, Sam."
"Okay, as long as it's creamy."
He sighs and walks down the aisle.

While we are not yet willing to admit that this conversation is about something other than bread, a strange thing happens that seems like a sign. At the very end of the aisle, a sad loaf of plain store brand bread slinks off its shelf to the floor landing at our feet. I pick it up and try to shove it back into the perfect bread-shaped hole it left among its mates, but it does not fit. It just keeps slinking back to the floor.

Neither of us knows what this means, but we both consider this as the beginning of our story.

jkn

sleeeepy

First let me inform you all that ANYONE can now comment. I realized after someone e-mailed and said they would comment after they got a membership on eblogger that I had my settings screwed up. It was a pretty easy fix.

And even though I fancy myself fairly handy with a computer, the words "HTML code" scare me in a way that Superbowl parties scare me. They both involve languages I can't speak.

But I was able to write in some code to make my page just a bit prettier. (small golf clap, please.)

I can sum up my favorite part of summer break (or any break, or weekends, for that matter) in one word. Naps.

For anyone who knows me, you know I'm a sleeper. I friggin love to sleep. And I feel SO good after a nice 10 hour sleep or a 2 hour afternoon nap... Preferably in a beam of sunlight. (btw, off topic, that pic was snapped by my roomates in my favorite bedroom of all time. It was small, efficient and got GREAT afternoon sun. My mom made the curtains and in-fact, I still own everything in that pic except that lamp.. rest it's cheap wal-mart soul) I'm not sure why, if it's just because it's hard-wired in me, or if it's because I have such vivid and awesome dreams that make my waking world pale (comeon.. When am I ever really going to get the chance to fly in a car or jump from mountain peak to mountain peak in real life?).

And for the longest time, I used to be the fellow who would fall asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. In fact, my freshman roommate commented that I slept more than any other person he'd met. (I didn't put much stock in the comment seeing as how he graduated with 15 people and lived in a down of 200.)

But lately, for some unknown and somewhat disturbing reason, I can't fall asleep at night. It's been going on for a couple years now.

Dustin has made remarks to the effect of "what are you feeling guilty about?" which again, I don't put much stock in, even though, in typical Kevin style, I overanalyzed it and that comment alone kept me from falling asleep.

Even when I was with my ex, whom I detested and was counting the days and calculating my escape from, I slept fine. In fact, it pissed him off to no end that I had no problem falling asleep while he would lay in bed, sighing heavily, until he'd get up and go watch Buffy reruns.

These days, though, I just can't shut my brain off at night. I have no idea what I USED to think about when I fell asleep. I know I've always made lists in my head. But that never stopped Mr. 40-Winks from finding me.

I'm usually VERY good about getting big things done that need to get done, just for fear that it will keep me up. And today, I got my last big thing done. I got my new contacts which have been awaiting my pick-up since November. It's a long story, but I was afraid that, once again, it would take 5 visits to the eye doctor before he'd hand them over. He takes his job too seriously. He's an OPTOMITRIST for christ's sake. He treats me like I'm a parent trying to adopt and he has make sure I'm a fit parent for these damn lenses.

Granted, I'm also a forgetter... BIG TIME. That's one reason I can't hold a grudge. I completely forget I'm mad at someone. There are only three people alive in this world that I have not forgotten why I don't want any contact with them.

To avoid libel suits, I'll approximate names here.

One is a kid I went to elementary school with. His name was Flint Keamann. His dad owned the one and only car dealership in our town. The kid just thought his shit didn't stink. But for some reason, he thought mine did. Not only was he the ONLY kid who ever made fun of me to my face when I was bald from chemotherapy. But then, in junior high, he pissed on my gym clothes (to which the P.E. teacher nonchalantly said, "well, I GUESS you don't have to dress today.) Then he put exlax in my lunch dessert. And even if he's joined the preisthood, I'd just assume he was defiling young boys.

The other is a girl from H.S. Her name was Shisha Tear. I mostly hung out with her in H.S. because she was the only one who would do "cool" things with me. (I take that back. It was pretty cool stealing road signs with Adam.) But she was flaky as hell and I was ditched by her more times than a short-self-conscious-over-weight-closeted gay boy's ego could handle. But the kicker came in college. Living 8 hours from home meant a clean start for me in college. I had good friends, but I always talked about my friends from H.S. Mostly Shisha, Adam and Jacquelyn (check the previous post's lists for more info on these folks.) And I REALLY wanted my new college friends to meet them. Well, Jacquelyn had her life at college and I actually went to see her once. (great party Jacquelyn.) But I Shisha had made plans to drive up with Adam to see me one long weekend. Since Adam didn't have reliable transportation, the whole gig depended on Shisha. And the day before they were going to drive up, I called Shisha to confirm plans and she said something to the effect of "oh, yeah, well, I can't do it now.. I have to go, um, you know, to, yeah."

And that was the last time I talked to her. That was 1997.

The third person is my Dad. And that's some dirty laundry I'd rather not air here.

But other than that, I'm over things pretty darn quick. Simply because I forget. But big things, I don't forget.

Sure the house still needs to be painted, the lighting fixtures need to be replaced and the yard isn't done and sometimes I think about all the things I'd like to do to the place, but that's way down the list since that all costs a pretty penny.

But you'd think on summer break when the most I really have to worry about is getting my dog's anal glands cleaned (which, holy cow, is quite the experience... yum) I'd be able to fall asleep great!

Alas, tis not so.

So, in my typical fashion of over-thinking, I'm wondering, am I now my ex? Is Dustin plotting his escape? (Edit: No.  He was just being a sociopath.)  Am I being the naive one? Should I look into Ambian?

smile pretty

Hold doors for other people. Pay the toll for the person behind you. Pick a charity or two and donate both your time and money to it. Clean up after yourself. Tip generously for good service. And even if the service wasn't the best, still treat them with decency. You have no idea what is affecting them at that moment.

I don't know if it was my mom who taught me these things, or if I read them somewhere or if I just figured them out for myself. And, in my maxim in of questioning everything, I sometimes wonder why I do them all.

The cynical side of me thinks, "Hey, that guy's got two working arms, why can't he open the door for himself?" Or, "Why pay the toll? He should have had money if he was going to take this road." Or worse yet, "Am I helping to foster a society of welfare and entitlement by giving to charity?"

And yet I do it all because something inside tells me it's right to.

But is it all a façade? Is it a façade like every new house they build?

When I was at my first teaching job, it was at the end of a road, at the end of a subdivision built in the 80's. And then a farmer died and during my first year at the school, the road was extended and branched and houses flew up overnight. The walls, the paint, the windows, they were all ready to go in giant pieces. Some men who were handy with nail guns threw them up. and in two years you couldn't see any more empty land.

What struck me most about the houses, though, was the care with which the faces of the houses were constructed. Each one made to look slightly different. Different colored stones, bricks and mortars. Various styles or real wood plank siding, lovely divided light windows and the nicest trim you could find.

But on the sides and on the back, the windows were plain. The exterior was clad in cheap vertical masonite no thicker than a Hershey chocolate bar. The trim was plain and sometimes nonexistent.

I thought, "why would anyone buy a house that looked good on front but looked like every other house (cheaply built) on the other 3 sides?"

To my shock, the houses ALL sold. Most before they were even finished.

Last November when we were house hunting, I was all but adamant that we find a house that looked just as good on the sides and back as it did on the front. To me it was a sign of care and love put into a house.

All the houses we looked at, however, were just like the ones I'd watched get thrown up around the school. The builders didn't care about craftsmanship, they cared about money. And why spend money on something most folks will never see?

We ended up getting one of those houses with the Masonite sides. Beautiful front with nice stone work and wooden siding.

It's a lovely neighborhood. Sidewalks run by perfectly kept lawns, dutifully treated with the proper chemicals to keep out the unwanted natural growth and beds of flowers and bushes perfectly manicured and treated to the point of falsity.

People don't care for their yards, they treat them. They don't love their houses as homes, they love them as investments.

As I was walking last night after watching the story of Edward R. Murrow, I realized that this neighborhood and the millions of others exactly like it spread across the American suburban landscape were not the problem but only a symptom of the greater issues of gluttony and sloth that face our nation.

People don't care about what's under the surface. As long as there's gas in the SUV, the cell phone connection is good and there's escapist entertainment on the boob-tube, no one will ever wonder what's underneath it all.

I was particularly struck by the beginning of the movie I watched right after "Good Night and Good Luck." Though the rest of movie isn't worth mentioning, the idea of "King Kong" that stuck with me is that while people are being evicted from their homes, living in tin shacks in the park and going hungry, all they really wanted was escape. They didn't, or couldn't fix the problem, they just wanted entertainment.

I wonder what we will be like when we're evicted from the homes we don't really own? What will we look for when the cell phones go silent and the TV goes black? What feasts will we have when the bank accounts run dry and we can't put gas into our SUVs to get to the Super Walmart which I'm sure will still have fully stocked shelves?

The reason I still open doors, and pay the extra toll is because I have an idea of what's under the surface of all this. And all too easily it could go away. I'm not trying to provide entertainment or escapism, I'm providing care, compassion and love. Ideals the leaders of this nation are sorely in need of.

Who dis?

My friend from H.S., Jacquelyn, called the other day. It's been many months since we've spoken. One of the first casualties of my busy life is my friends. But my real friends keep coming back because they know that my humor and wit are worth waiting for.

That being said, Jacquelyn was really first to point out the humorlessness of my posts. And I had to, sadly, agree. I suppose it's the dichotomy that is Kevin that I've mentioned before. In person I'm the jovial, joking, witty type who gets uncomfortable in "serious" situations and always tries to lighten any mood with a joke. I am the original shit-starter in faculty meetings (which besides dull and drone end up taking a tone of seriousness that bespeaks the strains that teachers are under.) And online, my serious, often VERY serious side comes out.

My best audiences for my humor are typically educated non-pretentious folks. Therefore, my humor usually falls flat on the folks at the opera. Unless I'm making a snarky remark on the conducting style of the maestro (humor that falls squarely in sarcasm, a genre I don't have much respect for) or a paltry take on the sometimes squeaky soprano, they have NO interest in what I'm saying.

Teachers, however, I've found to be my best audience. They're typically educated folks who, often, but NOT always, have a humbleness on their shoulders. And especially the elementary folks who usually only wander as far as their "TIME for kids" to get their news. They're usually pretty simple folk. And they're NOT used to someone blurting out the unexpected at meetings.

And only three days out of school and every example I could give has escaped. I typically try to clean my brain of everything "school" faster than I ran from that tranny hooker back in college.

In any case, she's read the names of many folks on here and couldn't keep them all straight... or gay for that matter. So here's a short run-down of folks I might mention. If one of them is you and you'd rather I edit you out, just let me know.

Mom and Dad- self-explanatory. Mom might sometimes be referred to as Jeanette and dad as Bill.

Jim- My brother: the designated breeder of the family.

Denise- my lesbian sister: the keep of the neurotic dog sanctuary.

Dustin- my boyfriend/a sociopath

Jordan- His laid-back 14/yo daughter who lives with us.

Stevie- His princess 12/yo daughter who's living situation is up in the air.

Ted- my best friend (gay and only friend who lives close) who's not going to live close anymore come July.

Jill- my (straight) best-friend from college who was partly responsible for me moving to Kansas from Iowa. She's since moved to NM with her beau. I miss her terribly.

Vic- My best-friend (straight) from college I met in the corn fields of Iowa. (literally)

Jacquelyn- (straight, though I've encouraged her to try the lesbian route) One of only two friends I keep in touch with from H.S. if only to live vicariously through her fabulous life ranging from TX to NYC. (and she's damn funny)

Adam- we met as toddlers, went all through school together and was his best man. (the only wedding I've cried at)

Tricia 1- my fag-hag in HS, even though I didn't know it at the time. I refer to her as my whore-slut friend. My brother calls her butt-skanky-ho. We've actually been estranged for almost 10 years now.

Tricia 2- Dustin's white trash ex-wife.

Joe- (gay) One of the few folks from online that I've actually met recently and keep in regular contact with. A super good guy who I wish I could see more often.

SO. there's the folks I regularly talk to/about.

And, though depressing, it's true that besides Ted, I honestly have no friends here. I've thought about why for a long time. Some of you folks about there who live on an unseen/unspoken short leash might understand. But even when I was single, I didn't have many friends. I think I'm really just THAT picky on who I hang out with.

I don't typically get along with other music folks because they're, well, usually just odd. Either they're so wrapped up in themselves or they're so wrapped up in their world of music that they have no concept of a world outside that.

And on top of that, unless I feel an immediate connection, I usually don't pursue friendships. The folks I've tried to "make" friendships work with never panned out. The friendships I have are with folks with whom friendship came effortlessly.

Maybe I'm just lazy?

AHHHH, summer break.

unlike the others

If I had more discipline, I'd write more often. As is the case, like a late birthday card, the longer I go not writing, the harder it is to do.

The opera's done. One more school program to go next week.

I estimated that between the opera performances and the performances of my kids (I call my students my "kids') I've stood up before more than 3000 folks over the last 2 months. I've had enough compliments this last month to sustain my need to feel approval for at least the next month when I'll need to feel approved again and will volunteer at two consecutive camps. One for kids with cancer, one for underprivileged kiddos.
On top of all that, I applied for an and did not get a new teaching job closer to home (and more pay). I'm over it now. It's the first job in my life that I applied for and didn't get. That stung a bit. But it truly was not a good fit.

I've come to believe that I really do not teach like most of the general music teachers. I've found that they are either so gun-ho about one method, or one area of teaching that they completely shut out any other styles, or that they are so lazy,they just open up their teacher books and teach the next lesson.

I want kids to love music. I want them to go home and tell their parents about what they learned in music. I want them to know that it's ok to sing and it's ok to try new things in music. I want them to understand and appreciate the thousands of years of music history that came before the stuff we hear on the radio today and understand how we got to where we're at. I want them to know that no matter how bad you think you are at singing, you should still sing and sing with all your heart. I want them to learn that they cannot accomplish on their own what we can accomplish together.

And I'm not going to get all that by teaching out of the textbook. I'm not going to get that by being a hard-core Orff-method or Kodaly-method teacher. I get too bored to stick with one style anyway.
The other day, I had kids singing a song about everyday heroes. They were 6th graders. The group I usually have the hardest time with. But they sang so beautifully, I welled up. That NEVER happens. I'm not a weller-upper. It takes a whole-dang-lot to move me. When parents are gushing over a performance of my kids, or gushing over something they told them they did in music, I graciously take the compliments, but they don't move me.

I've said it before and I'll say it till the day I die: I do this job because I love it. I don't feel like I work. And I couldn't imagine living a life where I don't get to hear children sing.

I've realized this past couple months that I'm a passionate man. And not just about music. About a lot of things. I don't just like things, I get passionate about them. (some would call it OCD) And when I believe something, I REALLY believe it.

But one thing I used to believe in has recently shifted. A schema shift, if you will.

I've known for a long time that I'm more like my mom than my dad. My dad was absent when I was growing up. he cared more about his friends and his friends' kids than his own family. And it's not a bad thing that I ended up like my mom. She's is one of the most selfless, caring, nurturing and independent people I know.
But the other day, after an upset at home with Dustin's kids (suffice to say, Dustin and his ex-wife have a smile on the face, knife behind the back relationship) when his 12 y/o daughter decided she wanted to move back to her mom's place. (a house that's as white-trash as they come... and a husband who at least has all his tattoos spelled right but can't keep a job.)

I get along great with his 14 y/o daughter. She's laid back, does what she's asked without attitude and is an awesome clarinetist.

His 12 y/o wants to be a princess. She doesn't want to work. She has no passions in her life beyond watching T.V. and has more attitude than I've ever seen.

And the other day I caught myself thinking, "why can't you be like my students?"
And I stopped. dead in my tracks.

It was my dad coming through. I found myself wanting to be around my students more than her. And I about lost it. I couldn't believe that trait had been passed to me.

Mind you, I had, at one point, wanted kids of my own. If only because that what society had told me I need to do. And because I knew my mom would make an awesome grandma.

But after I came out, I realized that I didn't want kids. I didn't want to bring a child into an already burgeoning world. I found I fit in best taking care of the kids that were already here.

With Dustin, though, I was thrown into a situation where I had no choice. His kids were young, but not so young as I could have much influence over them. They had lived with their lazy ass mom for most of their lives and had recently moved in with their dad when I came along. And the last 4 years has been spent deprogramming everything their mom had done. Such as expecting that someone else will always take care of you. someone else will always give you money. You don't have to work a day in your life if you don't want to. It's ok to sit on your ass and let the world go by. Grades aren't that important. School's not that important. And lastly, your parents are your friends, not your parents.

All that shit had to go.

Augh. At least I recognized what had happened. A trait of my mom is to over analyze. And that's well engrained. So hopefully I can catch all those traits of my dad that need to be weeded out still.

I don't have contact with him. He doesn't try to contact me. And it works. I'll probably see him this weekend though. Going to St. Louis to see my sister's gay-band concert. He usually goes.

One of these days I'll learn the art of thrift. But till then, thanks for reading.

DIVA

By far and away the one thing that has taken up the majority of my time (and a bit of my sanity) has been this latest opera, "The Merry Widow" in Kansas City. Now, mind you, I'm just a chorus member. But staging took 3 weeks in the rehearsal hall. About a week per act. And then the final week was spent polishing the show on the stage.

And for some reason, I get the impression from folks who I talk with that they put the Lyric Opera of Kansas City on par with small town local theatre production. And bless those small town theatre houses (they're where I got my start), putting it mildly, they pale in comparison to what the Lyric Opera puts on.

I suppose that since it's not the Met in New York or the Lyric in Chicago, or some other huge city opera like Dallas, Huston, or L.A. that most folks would dismiss Kansas City as small town. And for the opera snobs out there who are used to the "A" house productions, they might rightly so.

Just like there are "A" list celebrities, there are "A" list opera companies (mentioned above.) And in fact, opera houses openly admit their status on this list. "A" houses are those with HUGE budgets and who can get in the biggest name singers. "B" houses have smaller budgets, but can pack a punch. "C" houses are much closer to the small town stuff you're thinking.

Kansas City is a B house with a $4 million budget, owns it's own theatre, (the fabulous 1927 Lyric Theatre in Kansas city) with a professional in-house chorus (yup, I get paid pretty well. It has to be worth my while to drive a hour), uses the KC symphony in the pit, is a union house (I have to pay those damn union dues to AGMA) and occasionally gets big names in.
The average principal singer at the Lyric gets around $6000 PER PERFORMANCE. So that means that the leading lady in this show is making around $30,000 for a months work. New York Met pays around $20,000 PER PERFORMANCE.

So there. Not small town opera.

Here's a couple pics from the production. You can see me in a white suit in the picture of the lady in the blue dress. I'm fuzzy, but I'm there. Behind her to her right.

And here's the review in the KC paper.

LET'S PLAY

Alright folks. For some reason, ya'll aren't commenting anymore. Have ya stopped reading?

I figured that I'm not all the interesting of a writer. Once in a great while, my brain ceases just long enough to spit out something smart sounding. So instead, I'll do what I do best, ask questions. One question per post. And you may feel free to use all 4000 character spaces to answer. No simple Yes or No answers accepted. Explanations are a must.

Question #1: (I'll start easy on ya with the first one)

Evolution, creationism or Intelligent Design? If you subscribe to the Darwin theory, do you believe civilization has effectively ended "survival of the fittest" with modern medicine? If you subscribe to creationism and/or Intelligent design, who or what do you believe created/designed the universe?

COMMENT AWAY!

3rd shift

I hope that one day people might look back on my life and say "That guy had a good life." And I hope that maybe I could pass something onto them. I hope they don't see what I did as ordinary or mundane. I hope they can see the bigger picture that I couldn't.

I think back to a play we did in high school. Of those four, somewhat unnoteworthy, years (which I mostly filled doing musicals, tending an herb garden, cooking and trying to make myself as GAY as possible) the play "Our Town" stands out as an anomaly in what would generally be considered an uncultured and boorish community. It wasn't the best production, and by far not the most popular. If I can remember correct, between the three performances, there were a total of around 100 poor souls who braved the performance. To this day I believe that if you're going to subject yourself to the work of small town public high school drama clubs you have to have some inexplicable desire for self-torture.

But the themes that this beautiful piece of theatre put forth where out of kilter with the, loosely termed, ideology that this school purported. In the kindest words, this school lacked vision. Like a good majority of rural high schools, this institution's priorities were firmly mislaid. The poor feeble administrators, most of who had lost the ability to dream the moment they found out they were working in a school district of 1000 students, saw details. They saw the minor things. They saw truancy, tardies, test scores and tenure. The idea that maybe they weren't giving students the things they need, such as the ability to think for themselves and be allowed to express themselves, never entered their minds. They failed to see the bigger picture.
Which is why this play set itself in such juxtaposition from what I was used to being exposed to. From the point of view of the characters in "Our Town, their lives are very plain and unimportant. They seem to wander through life, from birth to death, not knowing the greater impact their existence has. Only the audience sees what they couldn't: that there is nothing that is unimportant; that it is the ordinary things that are truly extraordinary. And that it is what we DO NOT do that can have the greater impact on the world.
Last night, after bullshitting with Joe for a while and he had headed to bed to work the next morning, my brain was still teaming and I needed some kind of human interaction. But there's little to find in the way of interaction at 11:00 p.m. on Friday unless you want to spend it in a bar yelling at each other over the music. So I headed to the local Happy Chef around 11:30.

To this day, I feel sorry for the man or woman who has to put "coined name of 'Happy Chef'" on his or her resume. They probably wouldn't be my top pick for an ad or marketing exec.

I was planning on getting Take-out but once I got there, for some reason, I decided to stay. I ordered some pancakes and got a pot of coffee. I sat at the breakfast bar with several older gentlemen. There were about 15 or so college kids spread over the booths and tables sucking down coffee and cramming knowledge into their heads.

I had what I like to think of as a typical 3rd shift waitress: 30 something, slim with bad posture, graying hair, pleasant, friendly smile and sad, but very kind, eyes. She didn't put you on a level somewhere other than her's by calling you "sir" or "ma'am." No, to her you are a "hon," or "sweetie." If you looked particularly distinguished you might be a "young man" or "young lady." And even the young fellow bussing tables put down his formality. To him you were a "Mister" or "Miss." If he felt some connection, you could be his "buddy." Perhaps if the right lady walked in he would throw in a "ma'am." But "ma'ams" don't seem to frequent restaurants this late at night.

The air inside was thick with the smell of stale cigarette smoke, grease, and coffee. I loved it. It felt like any coffee shop you could walk into anywhere across the United States. It could have been a coffee shop in New York.... or even New Baden. It had a familiarity to it that made you feel at ease. Places like this are what help bond us together as a nation. It gives us all reference points that lead to the greater discovery that people in general are more similar than anyone would ever care to admit.

But this homing device of sorts is also a cause, or incubator, of that issue. The issue that we don't know how very un-alone we are. This is one of the few places were you can be surrounded by so many people and still be very very alone. The very best example of this scenario is the TV. Never in history has one device allowed so many people to share an experience yet remain completely isolated and alone.
Here I sat in this restaurant... in the company of 20 or so people, and yet... alone. I could have gone and sat next to one of those older gentlemen, but I didn't. I argued that they probably wanted to be alone.
And then something said, "Maybe they don't want to be alone, but they don't know how 'not' to be alone." And I could have helped that.

I became very angry with myself as I left an hour after I arrived. Here I had a great opportunity to connect myself with the world and probably learn something in the process and I didn't take it.
No, these people are probably not the most intriguing humans you'll ever meet. Their stories are probably no different than yours or mine.

But, then again, that's exactly why I should have talked to them.

88

Usually I don't pay much attention to folks who put "88", "white power" or "skinhead" in their profile. But last night a guy was pushing me on the issue.

Granted, he was hot, so I didn't want to NOT chat because of a little issue. But he kept bringing up the whole 88 and white power thing and typed 'Oi" way too much for my comfort.

So here's my take. First, if you want to get into all that as a form of sexual power play and bedroom fun, no problem. I'm not about to judge anyone by what they do in their own bedrooms/dungeons.

But I'm starting to think there are gay guys out there who take this shit pretty damn seriously and I just don't get it. Not in the freakin least.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm prejudiced. I have stereotypes I hold against people just by the color of their skin or their ethnic background.

HOWEVER, I do not believe that anyone is mentally inferior because of race or that America is best ruled by white middle aged men (wait a sec... isn't it already??)

So let me take this point by point.

88= Heil Hitler. Seriously guys. Don't you realize Hitler would have had you gassed for sucking dick? Supporting Hitler makes as much sense to me as some of these gay conservative christian fundamentalists. Don't they realize they're part of an organization that thinks they are living in sin or that they can be cured? Don't they know they support a president who thinks they are living in sin and are, for all intents and purposes, the scourge of our society? Don't they know they're part of a political party that doesn't even want their money because they're so scared of you??

The Hitler thing makes NO sense. Guys, he wanted us dead. Plain and simple. Would you support your own murderer?

White Power: Again, what the hell. The big toot by white-power folks is that America needs to be restored to it's "White" roots. Well, guys, don't you realize it was WHITE folks who brought Africans here in the first place? Do you SERIOUSLY believe that blacks should move to Africa? It's not a matter for "going back" to Africa. The blacks alive today here in America have NO connection to Africa. YOUR ancestors brought them here. Now YOU need to deal with it. And having rallies in white robes does nothing for the racial issues our nation faces. For a comparison in terms they might understand, let's say that your family breeds dogs. They CHOSE to get the dogs, they WANTED them in their world. Probably for hunting for something. Well, let's say that a few generations go by and you get a dog who won't fetch when you tell it to. You can't send it back to the pound. It didn't come from the pound. It came from something you wanted. And now that it's not doing what you want it to do, instead of working with the issue, you dance around the dog and throw stones at it and burn doggie treats, which, honestly, it just going to piss it off more.

NOTE: I'm NOT in any way saying black folks are dogs.

Skinheads: Again, a product of the Hitler camp. And again, skinheads would rather see you dead. You are a flaw in their perfect white world. Skinheads need straight, white Anglo-Saxons to breed MORE white Anglo-Saxons. You, as a gay man, have nothing for them and, in their belief, you are genetically flawed and should be eliminated, otherwise, you are going against the natural laws of selection.
I realized very early-on in college that people need three things: To feel loved, to feel useful and to feel appreciated. And I also figured out, (WAY before that fuckhead Dr. Phil made his fat-ass splash on TV) that all the issues and problems in our lives will typically boil down to one or more of those three needs. So, once again, I think we've failed as a society because, I believe, these guys identify with these groups because they want to feel loved, they want to feel useful and appreciated and they haven't been able to find it elsewhere in our society because they're told from a young age that what they are is NOT cool and there’s no where good for you to go.

But a short history lesson will tell them that these groups they try to "feel the love" from have nothing but hate for them because of the one thing they're trying to run from.

OK, off my soapbox. I got a little worked up over this on the ride to work today and I tend to use more curse words than usual then I get worked up. Sorry about that.

From here to there

Let me start by saying that finally, today, I think I'm officially over my cold. (knock on wood.) I didn't realize how sick I was until I walked into the office this morning and, after saying "Good morning" to the secretary she replied, "It's so good to see you're feeling better, Kevin." Apparently I was a real grouch last week. There was no fever, just lots of sinus headaches and worn-down body issues. But I had to keep teaching so I stayed doped-up on day-quil and saline nasal spray just to get through the day.

You never appreciate your health until you don't have it. And how appropriate that today is a warm and sunny day after a weekend of clouds.

I'm amazed that anyone reads my blog. I don't have anything earthshaking to reveal or any brilliant ideas on how to save the planet. It's really just me sharing various thoughts that could just as easily go in a private journal. Perhaps it's the exhibitionist in me that chooses to share. Or maybe it's in the vain hope that someone out there might have the exact same thoughts I do and therefore making my feelings that much more validated.

And perhaps it’s the voyeur in other folks that make them read this junk. Since I have nothing to hide, I have no problem in allowing them into my world as far as they care to read.
More than one person has privately e-mailed and asked how the hell I ended up in Topeka, KS. So I thought, since I don't have much else on my mind today, that I'd give a short run down. (with links to relevant sites and photos to make it that less boring a read)

After graduating from Wartburg in May of 2000, I was all but convinced that I'd never teach. But I knew that the loan companies didn't care what I did, as long as I repaid them for the money the gave me so I could get an education so I could be a teacher. So I enlisted in the Army. Uncle Sam had promised that if I enlisted for four short years (and who the hell could have guessed in 2000 where we’d be in 2004) they’d pay off my students loans in full. So I signed up for the easiest job I could imagine… 71L… an administrative specialist. Plus I got the bonus of enlisting as an E-4, a Specialist, and not a Private since I had 4 years of college.
Long story short, I only last 8-9 weeks. I broke my foot in basic and instead of recuperating and getting back into basic, the 3 weeks in the hospital gave me way too much time to reconsider and sort out some things in my life I hadn't really given much thought to. I discovered that music really IS that important to me and, maybe more importantly, I'm gay.

After leaving the Army, I took a month to get back into life before deciding my future. I took a long road trip to Colorado to visit my aunt who was dying of cancer and spent a few weeks with her. Then decided to head back to Iowa. I moved in with two guys I had lived with during my summers in college while doing concrete construction and landscaping in Cedar Falls. They were both straight. And one, in particular, was a redneck. Ironically, it was while living in that situation I could finally look in the mirror and say, "I'm gay." I remember the mirror with the crack through it. I remember the bathtub with impenetrable stains and the hole in the bathroom floor. It was that big of a moment.

I worked at a department store through the winter and spring, keeping my sexuality a secret from them, but still getting my first b/f, a swimmer from the university of Iowa, and after breaking up with him, going through my sluttish phase.

It was about March of 2001 that I decided I needed to do something. Anything. As long as I got out of Iowa. My good friend Jill from college (also my only girlfriend, ever, and the first person I came out to) lived in Kansas City. She convinced me to move down there. I planned to go to grad school at the Conservatory in Kansas City, but it was too late to apply for Fall 2001. So I moved down there and skipped around from job to job until I met a guy named Charlie. He lived 30 miles west of Kansas City in Lawrence. For that summer, I visited him a lot.

Lots of folks ask why I ended up with Charlie. And the simplest explanation is that he gave me attention in a town of non-attention giving men. (even when I wore my tightest t-shirt over my ripped abs, I STILL couldn’t get guys to buy me a drink… pricks.)

But I was Charlie’s first b/f. I knew pretty quickly that it was my destiny, as is the destiny of every first b/f, to break Charlie’s heart, the same way Patrick, the swimmer, broke mine. But I also made the mistake of signing a joint lease which made sure that we’d be together at least a year.

I got my first teaching job in Olathe (pronounced oh-LAY-tha), KS, a suburb of Kansas City. It was a SWEET job and I loved every minute of it. I was commuting the 45 minutes from Lawrence to Olathe because I had gotten the job just two weeks after I signed the lease in Lawrence and saw no way of getting out of it.
But I discovered pretty quickly that I have a knack for teaching elementary kids. I loved them, they loved me. The teachers loved me, the parents loved me, the principal even loved me. But I didn’t love me because I was stuck with Charlie.

I was lucky enough to meet a swell guy named Ted that summer of 2001 in Lawrence. He is, by far and away, turned out to be my dearest and most trusted friend. And I’m quite proud that we’re both gay men, who were both attracted to each other, and have NEVER slept together. (on a side note, it saddens me beyond belief that Ted is moving this summer to the pacific NW).

Ted helped me through that year I was stuck with Charlie. I finally had the gumption to break up with him in May of 2002, and I promptly moved to a rockin’ apartment in Olathe. It was a killer find. It was 1000 sq ft, two bedrooms, a huge living room with wood burning fireplace and a large private patio for only $450/mo. I loved it more than I can tell you. And that summer of 2002 saw the return of sluttish Kevin.

Charlie and I tried to stay “friends,” but the guy was everything I wasn’t. His only passion in life is video games and Buffy. Two things I couldn’t stand. He had no social life and hated his job but had no dreams of anything better. My most vivid memory of the relationship is me playing the role of activities director with him. It was always my job to think of something to do. And since my idea of fun usually involved leaving the apartment, he usually wasn’t game.

But Charlie was heartbroken and he usually cried when I saw him. Because I felt so bad for him I told him we’d give it another go. But this time, I didn’t move back in. He was in Lawrence, I was in Olathe. And I admit, I wasn’t faithful… by any stretch of the imagination.

We went to a Christmas party hosted by an acquaintance of his in Topeka, 70 miles west of Kansas City. At that party I met a guy named Dustin. And then and there I decided it was time to trade Charlie for a nicer model of a boyfriend. (I usually make the comparison of trading up on a vehicle, but that’s a bit demeaning… but somehow true. I liked Charlie, but I liked Dustin a WHOLE lot more.)

So I broke up with Charlie in and after Christmas, started dating Dustin.  He was a go getter, he had dreams and did not play video games or watch Buffy. Plus he was a Dad. And from what I could tell, a very good Dad. And I can’t tell you how much respect you get from me when I see you’ve raised well-adjusted children. Edit: That's until I discovered he was a sociopath and literally none of that was true. 

I stayed in Olathe until my lease was up that next summer in 2003 and then decided to move in with Dustin and his daughter that summer. But I kept my job in Olathe.

For one year I made the commute from Topeka to Olathe because I loved that job so much. But the 140 miles every day wore on my psyche. And with great pain, I quit Olathe and got a teaching job in Lawrence… a very sub-standard school district compared to Olathe. Olathe had money, Lawrence does not. Olathe had administrative support, Lawrence does not. Olathe had real classrooms, Lawrence has portables. But I only have a 25 mile commute now.

I miss Olathe almost everyday. But I still love teaching. And I honestly hate living in Topeka.

Now, if you’re straight, married, have children and attend church every Sunday, you’ll LOVE Topeka. You’ll especially love it if you’re a blue-collar guy. LOTS of factory jobs in Topeka.

And you can get a really big, really inexpensive house there. But if you’re a gay atheist artist… good luck.
We’d love to move to Lawrence. It’s a very blue dot in a very red state. All the liberals and artists in Kansas seem to flock to Lawrence. And because of that, it’s pushed housing prices WAY above state averages so we are a bit stuck in Topeka right now.

So there. THAT’S how I landed in Topeka. Will we be there forever. Heaven’s no. Thank-god Dustin has ambitions beyond the Good Year tire plant. And Thank-god he’s working to get there. EDIT:  Again, untrue.  He was/is a sociopath who lies to get what and who he wanted. 

Again, congrats if you actually made it through this somewhat boring post. 

100 things

100 Things about Kevin

1. I was born in Belleville, IL, but have never lived there.
2. I grew up in New Baden and lived there for 18 years, same house, same room and have only been back for extended stays, the longest being 2 months between my freshman and sophomore years in college. Also received my one and only job firing that summer because I was “not Houllihan material.”
3. I went to Wartburg College in Waverly, Iowa. Named for the Wartburg Castle in Eisenach, Germany where Martin Luther sought refuge during the stormy days of the reformation. It’s a college of the ELCA.
4. It was those fours years of Lutheran college that convinced me that religion is a destructive and mind-numbing mythology and you don’t have to follow religion to be a “good” person.
5. It was those four years that also helped to keep me in the closet as long as I was.
6. I have been attracted to other guys since I was a little kid which was odd, because as a toddler I had a fascination with breasts. Freud would have a field day.
7. I thought my attraction was due to the fact that I wanted to look like the other guys.
8. I was a skinny kid until I turned 10. You can clearly see the fattening of Kevin in my school pictures.
9. I stayed fat until I was 19 when suddenly I developed a penchant for jogging and working out.
10. It was the same year I developed that jogging obsession that A) I found out both my sister and my childhood pastor were gay, B) my one and only girl friend broke up with me and C)My parents got a divorce. Running was cheaper than therapy.
11. That attraction for guys didn’t go away after even after I “looked” like the guys I had admired for so long.
12. I have loved cooking and serving 7 course dinners from the time I was 12.
13. I had a fully functional theatre in the garage (complete with light boards, sound system, a proscenium that could be raised in the rafters and a working curtain) which provided post-meal entertainment for those dinners.
14. I built an herb garden to supply the dinners with fresh flavors when I was 14.
15. I stole bricks kept in heaps in other people’s yards to build that garden.
16. I redecorated my room when I was 16 in a tasteful, low-key country style.
17. At the age of seven I took up the violin after seeing a performance of “Peter and the Wolf” where a young lady stood up and did a violin solo.
18. Later that year (on my aunt's birthday) I was diagnosed with Acute Lyphocytic Lukemia (ALL) and gave up the violin shortly thereafter.
19. I found a new passion when I first heard the Vienna Choir Boys.
20. I joined the Masterworks Children’s Choir in Belleville, IL when I was 10.
21. That same year I finished treatment for ALL.
22. I stayed with the choir for 2 years until my voice changed.
23. Then I tried to form my own boys’ choir in New Baden. I was miffed when no one showed up for the auditions.
24. Growing up, I never got along with kids my own age. I always felt more comfortable around adults or folks older than myself in general.
25. That pretty much held true until recently when I discovered that there are people out there around my age that have actually begun living their lives.
26. There’s plenty of other guys (and gals) out there that I still can’t get along with solely because they have no life experiences and no passions.
27. My passion is music. Specifically, children singing.
28. When given the choice of music to listen to, even as a toddler, I always chose classical music over anything else. My mom, grandma and cousin started giving me my own classical records when I was 6.
29. I completely missed out on popular music growing up and have no recollection of what the hit songs were through my adolescence and teen years.
30. For that matter, I have no idea what the popular music was in college or at present.
31. I’ve had a few friends make mix tapes for me of “cool music.” Beyond those tapes, I’ve only bought, at most, 10 CDs of non-classical or jazz/big band music.
32. I teach elementary vocal music now.
33. But I’m not a typical music teacher in the sense that I’m not a music or education snob and I don’t think myself all that odd.
34. I like to laugh and like to make my students laugh.
35. There are very few things I take seriously enough that I won’t laugh at it.
36. I don’t understand, and can not relate to, people who do not have a passion for something.
37. While I respect people with a passion for gaming, I have nothing to talk to them about.
38. I also don’t understand people who do not have a dream job. Winning the lottery and doing nothing is not a dream job.
39. Curtains and blinds should be open during the day. Especially sunny days. If it’s summer, closing the sheers is appropriate, but the house should never be dark during the day.
40. I can’t watch TV in the dark or sit in dark rooms. It’s depressing to me. I have no problem paying a higher electricity bill if it means I can live in a bright home.
41. Though I'm not obsessed about it, I like a clean home. Cleaning does NOT mean piling everything up and putting it where you can’t see it.
42. As my mom said, “everything has a place and everything goes in it’s place.” Believe it or not, this makes for a very happy home.
43. I hate clutter and because of this, I do not collect anything. Magazines are promptly recycled after they’ve been read and books are donated to the library.
44. Memorabilia from places and things I’ve actually done are the only things I keep.
45. I’m a big procrastinator when it comes to big projects.
46. I make my bed every day.
47. I visit the dentist every six months and so should you.
48. I haven’t had a new cavity since I was in High School.
49. The only two car accidents I’ve had were also in High School.
50. Since infancy, I’ve been a sickly person. I seem to catch everything that blows in the wind and am at the doctor at least 4 times a year getting treated for something.
51. I’ve had tubes in my ears 4 times. I’ve had a lump and three moles removed from my body. I had my tonsils out at age 26 and one other surgery I’d rather not mention.
52. Medicine is our friend. When you get sick, go to the doctor, get something and get better. And if it’s not that bad, there’s no shame in Nyquil. And I don’t understand people who think there is. I hope in the next 100 years we will be able to shed that machismo bullcrap from our societal brains.
53. Plants, like people and animals, need to be cared for and loved. Even if this means talking to them occasionally.
54. I have little need for heavy metal, rap and most rock.
55. I enjoy music that can actually make a cloudy sky appear serenely beautiful.
56. For me, this mostly means classical, opera, and some alternative music.
57. New age music is too monotonous and repetitive for my tastes.
58. I’m a very unpicky eater.
59. But I don’t like brussels sprouts or lima beans.
60. There is no room in my life for passive-aggressive people.
61. If I feel something or believe something, I have no problem telling you.
62. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” … is passive aggressive.
63. I don’t shy away from an argument or discussion and I will not leave the room until it’s resolved.
64. In social or work settings, I tend to use humor to work through issues.
65. I often use humor to mask my true emotions. Always unconsciously.
66. There are two very distinct sides to my personality. One is sexual, one is not and I struggle daily to reconcile the two.
67. I’m most attracted to blue-collar type men.
68. I am a decidedly well-educated, white-collar guy.
69. Nothing brings a smile to my face faster than hearing children sing or getting a hug from a kindergartner.
70. Almost daily, someone tells me how good a job I do as a music teacher. I don’t know how to respond to these compliments. Honestly, I love my job and put little thought into how I do it. Teaching music to children is such a natural and easy fit, most days I don’t feel as if I’ve worked.
71. Except the days I have to work with a group of 6th grade girls who’ve all gotten on the same cycle.
72. My dream job would be directing a children’s choir full-time.
73. My tastes in clothes, food and style do not match my meager teacher's salary.
74. This issue has caused me many credit problems in the past. They’re since been resolved and never happened again.
75. I could not date a person who has a great deal of credit card debt.
76. I’ve always believed that you need to pay your debt off before you pay yourself.
77. I don’t include car and house debt in that maxim.
78. Because a good part of my childhood was spent in illness, I think of myself more a kid now than I ever did when I was a kid.
79. I love miniature golf, ping pong, bowling, bad-mitten, and hide and seek.
80. Besides those sports and a few others, I’ve never been a sports person.
81. Except when I played t-ball as a very young kid. And then in Junior High tried to play basketball, but was so terrible, I was told I had a choice: Either I could sit on the bench the rest of the season or just not show up anymore. I just stopped showing up.
82. To this day, I find no enjoyment in watching sports outside of the Olympics.
83. Ironically, anything that involved balls scared me as a kid. Again, Freud would love this.
84. Otherwise, I’m VERY easily entertained. It doesn’t take much to make me like a movie.
85. I laugh, a lot, at children’s jokes.
86. If I have the choice, the TV stays off. There are very few shows I watch religiously. Project runway and Desperate Housewives are about it.
87. I have no time for most other reality shows. If the TV is on, I mostly watch comedy shows and documentaries or almost anything on the history channel.
88. If I hadn’t done something with music I would have either been a chef, or a history teacher or some kind of interior designer.
89. I was enrolled in the New England Culinary institute before I changed my mind and went to Wartburg to be a music teacher.
90. There is a fine, but definite, line between sarcasm and wit. I’ll take wit any day. I often get sick of all the sarcasm in the world.
91. I’m not a democrat or a republican. I am a social liberal but a fiscal conservative.
92. I get along very easily in crowds of people I don’t know.
93. I hate admitting it, but I’m very good at small talk. But if there isn’t substance or chemistry, small talk is as good as it gets with me.
94. I don’t understand people who are rude or inconsiderate.
95. This includes people who litter or don’t put their shopping cart back in the carrel.
96. I’m more of a dog than cat person. And I prefer dogs that don’t shed.
97. I have many acquaintances but few real friends. But those friendships are very close and intense. It takes quite awhile to become my friend.
98. I have never made a real friend by chatting or e-mailing online. Part of me gets tired of the effort I have to put forth not only in writing and responding, but in deciphering the tone of the e-mail and chat.
99. I have one addiction. And no, it's not drugs or alcohol.
100. If I have my choice, I do not hang out with smokers and would not date a smoker. Especially if he smokes in his house.