Had a meeting with my new LS Principal today. Yet another administrator worried about band. I soothed her nerves. I think she likes me, in the way that administrators like teachers who don't cause them problems. I think things at the elementary school level are going to be okay.
MS and HS I don't know about yet. I've only met my MS principal once, and it was a short "hihowareya." I haven't met the HS guy yet. I should probably do that.
Gindo and I joined a gym yesterday, and we're going for our first visit tonight. Hopefully it will be awesome, and we will both have the bodies of gods.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Friday, July 4, 2008
From a Friend of a Friend: On Augusta , KS
Sent to me by a friend, who's friend grew up in the aforementioned small KS town. I present "Disgusta," "Disgusta Redoux," and "Disgusta Retoix"...
It was a town like no other. Filled with 7,000 friendly people. People who would give you the shirt off their back, the fists off their arms, and the toes off their boots (after burying them in your ass). People who worked hard every day and never farted. People who would shoot first and ask questions later. If they could think of any questions. A place where a boy could finger-fuck his dachshund without interference from the state. A place where everyone was happy, yet no one was gay. A place where the son of a preacher man could grow up to be King of the Gypsies. A place where the son of a high school guidance counselor could set a path for his youngest son that would lead to fame, joy, and job satisfaction. A place where the son of a refinery worker could grown up to be Satan or Hitler or an odd combination of both. And a place where both those sons could join together to torture a poor, neurotic, fat orphan who came to town in the fourth grade. That was my Augusta, m;y friend. And that ain't the half of it.
Augusta. A place where a boy could slam vokka and snort MDA until his liver popped. A place where everyone was treated with dignity and respect, whether your name was Kootch, or Crazy Suzy, or Booger Red, or Hey Nigger. A place where a well-meaning youth club could teach you how dangerous it was to run cross-country by knocking out a few of your teeth (and isn't that a cheap price for such knowledge?). A place where, if you had a van, you could cut a lot of meat. A place where people never confused the Sex Room with the Slave Room. A place where a Fat Jap could break the limbs off your Dad's new tree, and no one would drop an atom bomb on him. A place where any red-blooded American boy, could be proud to catch Old Joe or Brown Nuts from a skanky slut, knowing he could still cop a script for antibiotics from Dr. Frank, who wouldn't tell your mom like your family doctor would. A place where there were enough blind drunks around that a big girl didn't have to resort to homosexuals for dancing partners. And that, is just a little bit more about my Augusta.
Augusta. It was a town where you did not fush wif Moody. A town where you could pick up an enormous, hissing possum and cradle it like a baby while you tried to punch out the back window of a 1963 Impala. A town full of tater suckers who are not jealous or envious of those with teeth. A town where Snag Burris still rides tall on the street sweeper every summer night, still wondering how a woman could get so mad at him that she'd burn the head of his dick with a lit cigarette. A town where cheese is a verb, not a noun. A town where you could set a man's hair on fire and not feel guilty about it. A town where people were proud of you when you clamped a bottle of whiskey under your car hood and ran a plastic tube from the bottle to the glove compartment so you could take shots on the move without having to worry about the pigs, man. A town with its own bouncing big Buddha boy. A town without shame. A town without dingleberries.
It was a town like no other. Filled with 7,000 friendly people. People who would give you the shirt off their back, the fists off their arms, and the toes off their boots (after burying them in your ass). People who worked hard every day and never farted. People who would shoot first and ask questions later. If they could think of any questions. A place where a boy could finger-fuck his dachshund without interference from the state. A place where everyone was happy, yet no one was gay. A place where the son of a preacher man could grow up to be King of the Gypsies. A place where the son of a high school guidance counselor could set a path for his youngest son that would lead to fame, joy, and job satisfaction. A place where the son of a refinery worker could grown up to be Satan or Hitler or an odd combination of both. And a place where both those sons could join together to torture a poor, neurotic, fat orphan who came to town in the fourth grade. That was my Augusta, m;y friend. And that ain't the half of it.
Augusta. A place where a boy could slam vokka and snort MDA until his liver popped. A place where everyone was treated with dignity and respect, whether your name was Kootch, or Crazy Suzy, or Booger Red, or Hey Nigger. A place where a well-meaning youth club could teach you how dangerous it was to run cross-country by knocking out a few of your teeth (and isn't that a cheap price for such knowledge?). A place where, if you had a van, you could cut a lot of meat. A place where people never confused the Sex Room with the Slave Room. A place where a Fat Jap could break the limbs off your Dad's new tree, and no one would drop an atom bomb on him. A place where any red-blooded American boy, could be proud to catch Old Joe or Brown Nuts from a skanky slut, knowing he could still cop a script for antibiotics from Dr. Frank, who wouldn't tell your mom like your family doctor would. A place where there were enough blind drunks around that a big girl didn't have to resort to homosexuals for dancing partners. And that, is just a little bit more about my Augusta.
Augusta. It was a town where you did not fush wif Moody. A town where you could pick up an enormous, hissing possum and cradle it like a baby while you tried to punch out the back window of a 1963 Impala. A town full of tater suckers who are not jealous or envious of those with teeth. A town where Snag Burris still rides tall on the street sweeper every summer night, still wondering how a woman could get so mad at him that she'd burn the head of his dick with a lit cigarette. A town where cheese is a verb, not a noun. A town where you could set a man's hair on fire and not feel guilty about it. A town where people were proud of you when you clamped a bottle of whiskey under your car hood and ran a plastic tube from the bottle to the glove compartment so you could take shots on the move without having to worry about the pigs, man. A town with its own bouncing big Buddha boy. A town without shame. A town without dingleberries.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Golf (pissed)
That's a pretty reasonable picture of the set of golf clubs I bought three weeks ago. This is how I feel about them now:
And not because I hate golf. No, no. In two weeks, I have snapped the heads off of both the driver and the hybrid. Fucking shit! Guess I figured out why the clubs were on sale. Then I come to find out that RAM has gone out of business. That's why they get the Middle Finger of the Apocalypse.
Bullshit.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Haters
So I got a call from my new boss (one of them, anyway (and yet again, and INTERIM)), telling me that the other teachers just weren't sure about what room I should be in to teach Beginning Band. She went on to tell me that elementary teachers are "very possessive" about their time, and so on and so on and so on...
I could go on. I could send out email after advocacy letter after you-name-it. No one reads them. My best revenge is to make 5th grade band so fucking awesome that finger painting and learning state capitals sucks balls by comparison. And I will. This is for the haters.
Also, my soon-to-be ex-lead-trumpet players calls me on Saturday to tell me he just "doesn't have time to do this one chart, and that if I don't do it, he's just gonna call [the boss] and tell him why it's not getting done." Fucking pussy passive-agressive bullshit. Then, he doesn't show up to load-in last night because the pathetic she-male "hurt his tendonitis in his foot while he was helping his mom weed the garden." Are you fucking kidding me? So, after some begging and pleading from the rest of the band, I knocked out the chart today. Took me 2 1/2 hours, and keep in mind, I stopped in the middle to take a few phone calls, answer an email or two, eat lunch, clean the cat-box, and READ HALF OF A FUCKING BOOK! This guy's only job is teaching trumpet lessons (and being a Jehovah's Witness, and I'm not knocking that, hey, if that's your preferred path to salvation, whatever, I'm not going to shit on anyone's religion BUT HE HAS NO OTHER JOB! Can one be a JW professionally? Does he edit the Watchtower?) and for some reason he doesn't have what should only take him (with his graduate degree and 20+ years of experience) 2 hours TOPS to complete?
This is him. Only, picture a trumpet up his ass.
I could go on. I could send out email after advocacy letter after you-name-it. No one reads them. My best revenge is to make 5th grade band so fucking awesome that finger painting and learning state capitals sucks balls by comparison. And I will. This is for the haters.
Also, my soon-to-be ex-lead-trumpet players calls me on Saturday to tell me he just "doesn't have time to do this one chart, and that if I don't do it, he's just gonna call [the boss] and tell him why it's not getting done." Fucking pussy passive-agressive bullshit. Then, he doesn't show up to load-in last night because the pathetic she-male "hurt his tendonitis in his foot while he was helping his mom weed the garden." Are you fucking kidding me? So, after some begging and pleading from the rest of the band, I knocked out the chart today. Took me 2 1/2 hours, and keep in mind, I stopped in the middle to take a few phone calls, answer an email or two, eat lunch, clean the cat-box, and READ HALF OF A FUCKING BOOK! This guy's only job is teaching trumpet lessons (and being a Jehovah's Witness, and I'm not knocking that, hey, if that's your preferred path to salvation, whatever, I'm not going to shit on anyone's religion BUT HE HAS NO OTHER JOB! Can one be a JW professionally? Does he edit the Watchtower?) and for some reason he doesn't have what should only take him (with his graduate degree and 20+ years of experience) 2 hours TOPS to complete?
This is him. Only, picture a trumpet up his ass.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Lately
Here's what's going on lately:
Why am I the only person who thinks this movie was awesome? As a kid, I always thought this was a better film than Top Gun, and for several reasons:
- No creepy (and pointless) beach volleyball scene, forcing one to confront questions only Stewie Griffin can answer.
- Chappy came home. Goose didn't. Who's would you rather be going into combat with?
- Iron Eagle actually had an antagonist (although they conveniently never say what country said antagonist is from). Top Gun basically had Tom Cruise against Val Kilmer's shark-like snapping teeth (has anyone figured out what that was about?)
- Sound track is way better. Everything you could want in 80's rock.
So, why does no one like this but me?
Next: Only two more weeks of LOTUS remain. I'm really looking forward to weekends off. Just bought myself a set of golf clubs, and played my first round last Friday. WAY more fun than hanging around with drunks in a bar. I've already been approached by other bands, but I'm just not interested. Being home with Gindo or out with her or out with friends is simply more appealing than Brick House.
Next: Got keys for the new job. The guy before me didn't get much end-of-year stuff done, so I've actually got quite a bit to do this summer. Just not quite motivated enough to start working yet. What is it, June 23? Yeah, probably not 'til, oh, say, July 6th. That feels about right.
Why am I the only person who thinks this movie was awesome? As a kid, I always thought this was a better film than Top Gun, and for several reasons:
- No creepy (and pointless) beach volleyball scene, forcing one to confront questions only Stewie Griffin can answer.
- Chappy came home. Goose didn't. Who's would you rather be going into combat with?
- Iron Eagle actually had an antagonist (although they conveniently never say what country said antagonist is from). Top Gun basically had Tom Cruise against Val Kilmer's shark-like snapping teeth (has anyone figured out what that was about?)
- Sound track is way better. Everything you could want in 80's rock.
So, why does no one like this but me?
Next: Only two more weeks of LOTUS remain. I'm really looking forward to weekends off. Just bought myself a set of golf clubs, and played my first round last Friday. WAY more fun than hanging around with drunks in a bar. I've already been approached by other bands, but I'm just not interested. Being home with Gindo or out with her or out with friends is simply more appealing than Brick House.
Next: Got keys for the new job. The guy before me didn't get much end-of-year stuff done, so I've actually got quite a bit to do this summer. Just not quite motivated enough to start working yet. What is it, June 23? Yeah, probably not 'til, oh, say, July 6th. That feels about right.
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