King of Kindergarten?

I've been working a lot with the tiny humans as of late. Last Thursday and Friday I taught the same kindergarten class on consecutive days. They were a handful, but I'd take a borderline crazy group of kidney gardeners over intermediate grade punks 10 times out of 10.

On Monday of this week, I subbed in another kindergarten class at a different school. That group was much more attentive and a fair bit easier to enjoy teaching. (Althought their room did have one of those diminutive johns. I thought about using that one but ultimately decided against it. "...fool me twice...")

This morning, during a super easy half-day of roaming, I spent about 70 minutes working for yet a third kindergarten teacher. The heart of my duties centrally involved putting staples into walls or pulling staples out of them. I also used a nifty cutting contraption to make the words "SOARING HIGH" with construction paper.

Finally, tomorrow I will have another full day with Grade 0. This class is two doors down from the one I was in at the end of last week. This school has 5 kindergarten classes and, after tomorrow, I will have subbed in four of them. That means I've recently spent a lot of time using glue sticks, listening to music designed to spur on gross motor development, and singing the days of the week to the tune of the Adams Family theme.

MMA Takeover

[NOTE: As of March 27, the speculated sale of Pride Fighting Championships to the UFC's parent company, Zuffa L.L.C., is official. In short, UFC owner Lorenzo Ferttitta told Japanese press that Pride FC will continue to function as a separate entity from the UFC. He likened this purchase to the NFC-AFC merger that created the NFL. See the comments section for more of my thoughts and links to other articles.]

The Ultimate Fighting Championship is far and away the top Mixed Martial Arts organization in North America. In fact, American fans identify the UFC so closely with the sport of MMA that the public and media alike often refer to MMA simply as "ultimate fighting." The truth of the matter is that, for the bulk of its existence, the UFC was not even close to being the world's top MMA orginazation. That place of distinction belonged to Pride Fighting Championships.

Based in Japan, Pride FC was the home of most the world's best fighters from roughly 1998 until just recently, when its future was threatened by news of internal corruption and Yakuza (Japanese mob) connections. The most immediate and devastating consequence of these reports was that Pride FC lost its contract with major Japanese television network Fuji TV- a contract the company has tried in vain to secure with another network. To get a sense of how huge a turn of events this was in Japan, imagine if scandal rocked the NFL so thoroughly that it was no longer broadcast on television in America.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, the UFC has been flourishing ever since its reality show on Spike TV (The Ultimate Fighter) has brought it mainstream attention in the U.S. The UFC is run by the company Zuffa L.L.C., which in turn is owned by casino moguls Frank and Lorenzo Fertitta. This morning weeks of speculation was confirmed: the Fertittas (but not the UFC itself, mind you) have purchased Pride FC.

Now there is no relationship in mainstream American sports that parallels the competitive relationship that Pride FC and the UFC have shared for nearly a decade. In American sports culture, there is presently only one major league for each major sport. The best analogy I can think of involves imagining that all the European basketball leagues were one big league and had a total profitability comparable to the NBA. Then NBA stuggles financially and is sold to the owners of the European league and is henceforth run as a European entity. For you pro-wrestling fans, the Fertittas purchasing Pride FC mirrors (to respectable degree, at least) Vince McMahon buying WCW after nearly being put out of business by that company during the Monday Night War.

Here is a link to the online article I read this morning:
http://www.mmaweekly.com/absolutenm/templates/dailynews.asp?articleid=3669&zoneid=2

Any further thoughts I have on this topic will be made in the comments section of this post.

What I Learned Today

Every student is a unique and special flower. My central objective as a substitute teacher should be to facilitate the flourishing of each flower as much as I am capable. All students should be given the space to spread their petals and soak up the greatest amount of sunshine possible. Whenever I may try to discipline them, I should never ever use a stern tone, candidly identify the ways they are misbehaving, or physically infringe upon their personal space. Engaging in such activities accomplishes nothing of worth. It only casts a dark cloud of negativity over a precious plant and robs it of vital sunlight.

Never again will I allow my own sense of self-respect to interfere with my duty of being a good gardener. No matter how many thorns or nettles a flower may boast, it is not my place to judge the flower, let alone to prune its harmful features. Time outs are not punishments, but rather designated times for students to better take command of their own development. Being sent to the office is not to be presented to the student as something negative, but as a positive opportunity to refocus the trajectory of one's flourishing. As a gardener, I am not there to impose my own values of propriety on the children. I am only their to serve each flower's self-driven growth.

Today I spent my first 2 hours of a roaming assignment with some 5th graders. Unfortunately, I had to fill out two Level 2 forms before 10am. One student refused to leave the classroom to serve his time out so I had to call the office to have him removed. The other student, a girl, spoke disrespectfully to me the entire time I was filling out her form and then told me she didn't care if she got in trouble or not. So I gave her a Level 3 immediately and sent her to the office instead of another classroom. I could just have easily filled out forms for at least 3 other students in the class for similar behavior, except for at some point during my stay in that room I actually needed to discuss something resembling academic material.

30 minutes later, I'm the one being talked to by the assistant principal. The two paragraphs of italicized horseshit above expresses the subtext I identified in what this man said to me. Apparently when a kid runs across the classroom and then disrupts the other students by refusing to sit at his desk and work, it is wrong of me to put my face 4 inches from his and tell him his behavior is unacceptable. And after his classmate spends the better part of the morning talking down to me as if I'm nothing, it is wrong of me to tell her that, "It's not part of my job to be publicly disrespected by some punk kid." I was told the student "internalized" my comment and cried upon arriving at the office. Which strikes me as funny (the peculiar "funny") because she was still bragging that she didn't care about what I thought as she walked out the door with her Level 3 form in hand. Mr. Assistant Principal showed me today that when the kids piss in your face, the only appropriate response is to take it without complaining. When the adversarial disposition of his precious flowers created a situation of "students vs. the sub," he took their side.

This is the third time in three weeks I've felt the administrators of the schools I work in have hung me out to dry in a difficult situation. And as my last couple of posts have shown, this state of affairs is taking all the fun out of my job...and my blog. Recently I've been feeling as uncertain about my future as I have in about 15 years, and now my present is becoming an increasingly unpleasant situation. Even my jovial nature is finding it hard to identify something to laugh at in all of this.


...but I'm sure I will quite soon. Like Beyonce, I too am a survivor.

More Ph.D. News

This afternoon I finally received my letter from the Graduate Department of Religion at Vanderbilt. Unfortunately, it was full of condolances rather than congratulations. Towards the end of the letter, there was a statment to the effect that "Due to the great increase in the number of applications we received this year, we have had to deny admission to many well-qualified applicants." My consolation prize is that I am such an applicant.

Of course, I'm disappointed about this. Yet, given the fact that my top choice just shot me down, I'm surprisingly mellow. I haven't felt the temptation to cry, to smash things, or even to feel sorry for myself. I have felt a few pangs of anxiety since I realized that my academic future now rests with Denver and how much financial aid UD/Iliff is willing to offer me. Irrespective of those concerns, being rejected by Vanderbilt does narrow my immediate future down to two general trajectories:

1) I will be moving many, many miles westward and living there for 4 to 7 years.

2) I will face the even scarier situation of either a) going back to the drawing board with my theological career in order plan out how to improve my stock as a Ph.D. hopeful or b) seriously considering my options for an alternative career.

I could say more right now but I feel I should allow more time for the whole situation to sink in.

Damn Those 6th Graders!

It finally happened...

I became so angry with a group of kids that my so-often-repressed Irish temper finally got the better of me (one day before Saint Patty's Day, interestingly enough) and I cursed at my students. It was only one word, and it was merely PG-level profanity, but it was profanity none the less and that violates even the teacher's behavior code.

In retrospect, my great anger began to well up before I'd even started interacting with the students. I had signed up to be a K6 Bitch at Garden City Elementary. Now a lesson I've learned the hard way is that "Roaming Teacher" is a wildcard assignment. A lot of the time, the schools that post this job don't plan on having the sub roam one bit.

They use the job category as a troubleshooting catch-all, which is the reason that the office can place you in an awful room no one wants to be in or drop you in the midst of a classroom where the teacher has just left unexpectedly. When one of these two situations has fallen to me as a roaming sub, only once has it turned out well for me...which makes my overall percentage of enjoyable days that take shape in this manner a meager 20% or less. As I've already made clear, yesterday did not fall into the 20%.

About 2 minutes before students are allowed to begin filtering into the classroom, I was told that a 6th grade class was still without a substitute and that they would need me to fill in there until someone else accepted the listing the secretary had placed on SubFinder. I made it perfectly clear that I despise teaching 6th graders and would prefer to do just about any other task that might need me for than go where they had directed me. But, as a true bitch often must, I had to take a big, fat one up the pooper from the big dogs in administration and do that which I was exceedingly loathe to do.

This 6th grade room was every bit as bad as I had feared. No fights, very little open disrespect towards the teacher, but nearly everything else a class can do wrong went wrong. And the disobedience was incessant. No matter how many incentives or punishments were promised to these shits, their collective behavior never altered.

At the asst. principal's suggestion, I had made a "contract" with the class and posted the details on the chalkboard for the entire school day. If they did three things for me, I would do three things for them. I asked that they not talk out (in the classroom or the hallways), disrespect me or other students, or fail to follow instructions the first time. In return, I would let them have snack time, I would not yell at them, and I would help them work through difficult problems instead of telling them to figure them out on their own. They mostly adhered to my second item in the contract, but the first and third were thoroughly ignored. Most irritating to me was the fact they walked through the hallways like they owned the damn place and didn't have to remain quiet or form a straight line.

When this infraction was performed for the 6th or 7th time that day...that was the straw that finally broke this albino camel's back. Coming back from lunch (a time during which the class had gotten in trouble with the adults on duty), they talked and laughed and meandered through the halls and about a third of the class went to the restroom without asking for permission. The raucous remnant that actually followed me into the classroom were the unlucky souls who got a violent earful. It went something like this:

"That's ENOUGH!!! It's obvious our contract doesn't mean jack crap to you guys, so now it doesn't mean crap to me either. [Some kids are still talking to one another while I'm saying this so now I'm really getting shined on.] SIT DOWN AND SHUT THE HELL UP!!!"

Needless to say, their ears perked up at this moment and they actually shut up...for about 5 seconds.

"Were you talking to me or to the whole class?" asked a particularly obnoxious dunce named Sy.

"What do you think, Sy?" I responded indignantly. "Did I look you straight in the eyes when I said to shut up?" [All the kids who had been silent start laughing again.]
"No."
"Then I must have been talking to the whole class."

At that moment, I realized I had sworn and instantly felt upset with myself for letting a group of 13 year-old assholes get to me so much. "I apologize for swearing at you," I told them. "But you guys should never have made me angry to the point I would use language like that."

"It's OK," Sy chirped in. "It's not like we haven't heard that kind of talk before."

"All of you go to the bathroom. Go!"

I think other adults had heard my initial yell, because one teacher's aide stopped these kids in the hall while they were headed to the restroom. She told them that anyone who was sent out of the room for the rest of the day would have Saturday School the next morning. At this time, another teacher's aide, Ms. Bowen, entered the classroom to find me in a self-imposed time out.

Facing the corner behind the teacher's desk with my hands on the back of my head, I was fuming. The pressure my anger and disgust with this class, with the office, with myself for losing my cool, with the whole damn situation, was so great that tears began running out of my eyes. It wasn't because my feelings were hurt or I was just that embarrassed. Such tears have always been my body's way of letting some of that angry pressure out when I can't otherwise release it.

Ms. Bowen offered to take over the class if I wanted to take a short break. I sure as hell did. I went to the only place in the school where a boy of 25 can have some real privacy: the bathroom. Shutting myself in the corner stall, I pulled some tissue paper off the roll, clenched it in both of my fists, and pushed it against my eye sockets like I was trying to push my hands through the back of my skull. I was seething not sobbing. All I could think about for nearly 5 minutes was marching back into that class and breaking some pubescent asses, then marching downstairs to the administrative offices and breaking an adult ass or two.

When my five minutes of fuming were at there end, I walked around the floor I was on for another five minutes, waiting for the urge to hit someone to subside. Thankfully, it did and I went back into the battle zone. Ms. Bowen was doing an excellent job leading the students through a science lesson, and I had the help of her and other aides for the remaining 90 minutes of the school day. Ten more minutes of the shit I was putting up with yesterday and you would have heard a report on the evening news that went something like...

Our top story this evening involves a shocking and violent incident at a Westside school this afternoon. Three students from Garden City Elementary are dead and seven more are in critical condition. Eye witnesses stated to police that their substitute teacher- Wayne Township employee David Scott -went into an unprovoked rage, first screaming profane language at the class and then physically assaulting many of the children.

Several surviving students claimed to have been paralyzed by horror when they saw their classmates being beaten with their own chairs. The most horrifying part of this crime, police told reporters, came when Scott killed 13 year-old Sydney Owens with a desk. The most brutal of the three murders, Scott cracked Owens' sternum with the desk, spread his ribcage open, and proceeded to beat the boy's internal organs into, what the Marion County coroner's office has already described as, "a gelatinous paste."

Scott, age 25, is presently in the custody of Marion County Police and is facing charges of murder, assault and battery, as well as the newly instituted charge of gratuitous bludgeoning. Surprisingly, Scott has no previous criminal history. We'll have more on this tragic story later in our news cast. Brad.

Thank you, Cindy. Our other top story this evening:

"Bear Fucking" -a potentially fatal hobby for those who practice it. But do gaming commissions have the authority to regulate this dangerous pastime.

Peculiar Dreams

I am presently house sitting for a friend of mine while his family goes on a cruise down Florida way. I've enjoyed my time here overall...they have a flat screen HD TV with digital cable, tasty leftover ribs for me to munch on, as well as a comfortable king-size bed for me to sleep in. One of the only downsides to the whole experience is that I've still not adjusted to the house well enough to sleep soundly in that amply sized bed. Last night I was having especially bizarre dreams. Here are some snippets I can remember, in the order I think I dreamed them:

1) At a pub in Atlanta, Mark Rogers-Berry tells a bartender I offered to pay his tab and then leaves before I can tell the woman he's lying. I only have a twenty dollar bill in my wallet and I just know it's not going to be enough to pay for my beer as well as all MRB's drinks. I'm afraid of what the bartender is going to make me do to square away this money situation.

2) I move a dresser, a bookcase, some of my dumbells, and various other items into one of the rooms in Dana, Beth, and John's apartment (although it didn't actually look too much like the real Apartment K). Based loosely on a conversation I actually did have with those ladies while I was in Atlanta two weeks ago, I assume in my dream that because Dana moves out of her room, I'm next in line to occupy it. After depositing all my stuff in the room, my Atlanta friends as a group are upset with me because that room had actually been promised to the loveable Rohrers. Before I can figure out how to resolve this situation, Dana tells me she's moving back in and now I have to find a place to take the things I just moved in to her "old" space. Even though I have nowhere else to go, I am strangely optimistic that I can remove my possessions from the apartment quickly and easily.

3) Many members from my mom's side of the family are going on vacation together. Whatever long trip we are about to embark on, we've decided that taking Greyhound is the ideal means of travel. The driver of our bus, however is a real jerk. He's saying jerky things over the speaker system from the moment the bus starts rolling. In my distaste for him, I chuck my cell phone at his head as hard as I can. A direct hit!

Expectedly, he's indignant about the whole matter, immediately stops the bus, and demands to know who threw the phone. I don't hessitate to confess. He then steps into the aisle of the bus and tells me, "You're outta here!" (Interestingly, the aisle is on the passenger side of the seats rather than the middle.)

Realizing that I was now going to miss my family's vacation AND I had just forfeited my deposit, I angrily start hitting the driver as hard as I can in the face and chest. I rip off his white shirt and wrap his black tie in my left hand so he is less able to escape my punches. I even grab another person's cell and start hitting him with the antenna end. Bafflingly, none of my blows are really hurting him. He's not enjoying himself but he's not getting injured either. I really don't remember how my mind transitioned out of this part of the dream.




In the final (psycho)analysis, it seems that my subconsious mind is a microcosm of the madness.

I Received a Letter Today

It went something like this:

Dear David, [So given the greeting alone you know it's either an official document or a note from my Grandma.]

I am delighted to inform you that you have been accepted for admission to the Theology, Philosophy and Cultural Theory concentration of the Joint Ph.D. Program in Religious and Theological Studies offered by the University of Denver and the Iliff School of Theology. Congratulations on this achievement! You may begin your studies in the Fall 2007 quarter.
...
We are now beginning to make our financial aid decisions for next year. My goal is to inform you and the other newly admitted applicants of our financial aid offers by no later than March 31, 2007.

We hope that you will be able to accept this invitation to admission...We need to receive your final response to our invitation by April 30, 2007. I look forward to hearing from you and hope to welcome you into the Joint Ph.D. Program this Fall.

Frank Seeburger
Director


One down, one to go. I hope the Graduate Department of Religion at Vanderbilt University will send me a very similar letter in the near future. I would like to throw a very sincere "Thank you, Jesus!" heaven-ward. Someone traditionally considered to be the brother of Jesus once wrote that every good and perfect gift comes down to us from on high. Seeing as I regard this invitation as an exceedingly good blessing, I want to acknowledge its ultimate source as the God with whom I share an intimiate, if not always amicable, relationship.

And, Nick, if you have any wooden shoes left in your arsenal, it looks like you'll have to lob them at the department of financial aid. Apparently the Denver admissions machine is "sabot proof."

Gulliver's Potty

After only one and half days back at work, I already have an entertaining, new tale to share.

On Monday, I picked up a half-day assignment working with Mrs. Ifert's kindergarten class. For the first time in my work as a substitute teacher, I worked a half-day that started in the morning and ended in the middle of the school day. Among other things, this meant that I was in charge when it the time came to take the wee beasties to lunch in the middle of the day.

This was a good group of kids, and they caused me no special problems. When working with 5 and 6 year olds, it's to be expected that at least half the kids suffer from the inability to remain in their seats for more than 60 seconds and that at least four students will be as hyperactive as a hummingbird on amphetamines. And this group certainly sported such individuals. But there were no mean-spirited or abnormally recalcitrant rugrats among them and that state of affairs is a wonderful environment in which to be. Those are the times when you can let your guard down a bit and actually have fun being around a baker's dozen of tiny humans.

(For example, during "carpet time" I was supposed to emphasize the importance of vowels and point out that every word has them. To demonstrate the point, I re-read the morning message their teacher had written for them without any of the vowel sounds. The children enjoyed witnessing an adult speak gibberish for 60 seconds.)

Yet, no matter how well-behaved a kindergarten class may be, the teacher must throw mind-building activities at them with a machine gun-like speed of succession. Otherwise even the most eager student could easily be lured away from their school work by any number of colorful objects present in the room. That means the teacher has little time to attend to matters of self-care; namely, going to the bathroom.

Like most kindergarten classes, this one always took its lunch break at 10:30 in the AM. One thing I love about the school I was working at that day, Garden City Elementary, is that 4 of the 6 kindergarten classes are located right next to the cafeteria. As a double bonus, these classrooms also have a bathroom built in so that you don't have to deal with the potential chaos of taking 12-15 little ones to the potty all at once.

I was especially grateful for these two architectural feature's of Mrs. Ifert's room when 10:25 rolled around. Once my body realized I was about to be free of my instructional responsibilities for thirty minutes, it also realized I had to piss like a Hungarian race horse with a swollen prostate. So after I made the brief jaunt back from the cafeteria, I hastily entered the K5 watercloset to find some relief.

Now this isn't the first time I've been in such a bathroom. In my previous experience, these bathrooms have the same kind of toilet you would find in any other restroom, and a small step stool is placed in front of it to assist the kiddos in their efforts to use an adult-sized commode. Not in this restroom, my friends! This bathroom boasted the tiniest, fully functional toilet I've ever seen in my life. It was practically Lilliputian in its dimensions.

A couple of days later, some quick internet research would inform me that the seat for this toilet is only 10" in length. And like many public toilets, it is moored in one corner of the room with handrails anchored beside and behind it. This situation would create such a tight fit for any adult looking to sit on it that the adult would certainly have to turn their body sideways. Fortunately, I am a man and did not need to go #2, so sitting was not a concern for me.

What did become a concern for me as I began the process of going #1 is that a smaller toilet also has a smaller bowl. That in turn means that a kindergarten crapper is designed to hold a much smaller volume of liquid than your conventional john. To cut to the heart of the matter, my business filled the bowl up to the bottom edge of the rim. If I had been drinking that morning, I probably could have overflowed the darn thing. (There's a pleasant thought, eh?) Thanfully, for the sake of my job and the children, I had not been drinking.

The problem of an embarassing overflow in a children's restroom had been averted. But a different problem immediately presented itself. This toilet did not have a handle. It flushed with the help of one of those new fangled laser systems. I, however, am so much taller than your average kindergartener that the laser passed between my legs. Thus when I stepped away from the commode, the toilet did not flush because my presence before it had never been detected.

Panicing ever so slightly at the thought of my students returning to find their toilet nearly brimming with grown-up pee, I began furiously waving my right hand in front of the laser, hoping to trigger a flush. No dice. After repeating this fruitless exercise for 5-10 seconds, a solution occured to me. Sure enough, after holding my hand still in front of the laser for a little while and then removing it, I heard the welcome "whoosh" of the toilet's contents exiting speedily down the drain. With no urine remaining in the bowl (or having escaped to the floor), my minute and a half of concern proved to be unwarranted. I was able to wash my hands and take my own lunch break without giving any further thought to, what I have since come to refer to as, "Gulliver's potty."

The Natural

Last night I experienced one of the most thrilling moments in all my years of watching professional sports. Almost a month after seeing my Colts win Super Bowl XLI, I got to see Randy Couture, my favorite MMA fighter of all time, win the UFC Heavyweight title for a record-setting 3rd time at UFC 68.






I won't devote an ocean of space to discussing the magnitude of Randy's championship victory (because I know that only a handful of folks who read this blog are interested in this subject matter), but I do want to explain why I found his win so exhilirating.

During the 10 years I've been watching the sport of Mixed Martial Arts, Randy Couture has emerged as my most beloved fighter. And I can sum up in one concise sentence why I and thousands of other fight fans are so amazed with this man: He has continually defied expectations and natural limitations to produce dominant performances at the highest level of competition.

Randy first established himself as a high caliber athlete in the sport of Greco-Roman wrestling. In fact, Randy was already in his mid-30s when he fought in his first MMA bout back in UFC 13. But the man known in the wrestling world as "The Natural" lived up to his moniker in the world of MMA as well. A person who lives to compete against the very best, Randy consistently signed on to fight the most talented and dangerous opponents the UFC could provide him.

In just his fourth fight, Couture won his first heavyweight belt. In his late 30s, he won it a second time. But by the time Randy was almost 40, the challengers to his title had become so much larger than him (often outweighing him by 20 or 30 pounds) that Randy failed to retain/regain his championship against such bigger, comparably skilled adversaries. By the summer of 2003, back-to-back championship losses led even the most sympathetic of fans to suspect Randy's best days were behind him. After all, it's a simple truth that middle-aged men rarely ever achieve great success in combat sports.

Tired of constantly being at a weight disadvantage but not ready to call it quits either, Randy dropped down to the 205-lb Light Heavyweight division. He immediately silenced all the doubters and naysayers by defeating then #1 contender Chuck Liddell and long-time champion Tito Ortiz in consecutive fights to become the first man to hold a belt in two different weight classes. And not only did he defeat these two elite fighters, but he did so in dominating fashion and by beating each man at his own game.

Couture's 2 year run at Light Heavyweight garned him two belts (three if you count the interim title he won by beating Liddell) and solidified him as one of the greatest fighters in the short history of MMA. However, Liddell would return to knock out Couture in their second and third fights. The first loss to Chuck cost Randy his belt; the second led him to announce his retirement in February of 2006.

Nearly a year later, Randy Couture and the UFC announced that The Natural was already set to return to action. And he would be stepping back into the title picture immediately. Yet Randy's return bout would not be in the 205-division he'd most recently competed in but rather the heavyweight division. He would challenge the two-time heavyweight champion Tim Sylvia, a 6'8," 265-lb behemoth known for his potent striking ability. On paper this match-up looked horrible for Randy. Not only was the legend now 43, but he would be giving up 50 or more pounds to the current champ AND his matches with Liddell revealed that a potent striker with a long reach is a poor style match up for Randy. Even with his extensive history of doing the seemingly impossible, it seemed to even the most loyal of Couture supporters (like myself) that Randy was most likely on his way toward receiving a brutal beatdown.

Against all odds, as the cliche goes, Randy Couture once again thrived in the role of heavy underdog and blew the minds of the UFC faithful for the umpteenth time. He absolutely dominated the much larger champion last night. So dominant was his performance that Randy won all five rounds on all three judges scorecards. The fact that Randy is one of the most likeable guys and honorable sportsmen ever to put on a pair of 4-ounce gloves makes his ongoing defiance of time and probability that much sweeter for his supporters. As you should all know by know, I have tremendous love and appreciation for Matt Hughes as a fighter, but my appreciation for Randy goes even deeper than what I have for Matt.

Congratulations to Randy "The Natural" Couture! The only competitor in the history of MMA to win a title 5 times.

My Vacation (Extended Cut)

Greetings Friends!

As many of you know, I have been vacationing in Atlanta for the last week. My original plan was to leave Indianapolis on Thursday, February 22nd (which I did), and return no later than today, March 1st. That plan was coming together excellently until 6:15am when a thunderclap -one that would almost certainly frighten the Most High- woke me from my slumber. This encouraged me to access Yahoo! Weather and look at the forecasts for all four states my journey home would take me through.

The concise summary of my findings is that Mother Nature will be coercing Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Indiana to grab their collective ankles and take it without tenderness for the next 18 hours or so. Tomorrow's weather, on the other hand, is looking to be amicable to travelers. I called Perry at work to seek his opinion on the matter, and he informed me that both he and Susan would feel a lot better if I opted not to drive 550 miles in serious thunderstorms. Thus my stay in Atlanta will be extended one more day, and I will return to Naptown on Friday.

Now remaining in Atlanta another 24 hours is by no means a negative turn of events. For the last week I've been in the company of wonderful friends I had not seen in 8 months or more, enjoying the cuisine of restaurants exclusive to the Atlanta area, sitting in on courses I completed during my time at Candler, and sleeping on one of the most comfortable of couches.

Furthermore, I've spent at least a couple of hours in the presence of nearly every person I had hoped to see while I was in Tha Dirty South and revisited all my old haunts (excluding the two apartments I used to live in, which are now occupied by strangers). I once more experienced the power of potent libations that I am almost never at liberty to consume during the work week. (I am all about the White Russian, my friends. A superb choice, Dude.) All in all, I've met all the personal objectives I set for this trip...save one, and that goal is perpetual anyway.

So, as a closing word to those reading this, I say to my Atlanta friends that I am here another day should you want a little (more) quality time with Dave Scott. And to my Indianapolis friends I say that I will be home soon. I shall not miss UFC 68. :)

My Lenten Commitment 2007

For the fourth consecutive year, I am transcending my low church roots and adopting the long-standing Christian tradition of giving some thing(s) up for Lent. Over the first three years, the scope of my self-denial progressively expanded from reasonable sacrifice to borderline asceticism. Whereas 2004 saw me eschew chocolate and beer, 2006 was the year I crossed the street whenever I saw any desserts, liquor, or fast food.

This time around I'm tapering the self-denial back a couple notches. First off, instead of giving up "all deserts" I'm simply giving up the ones I love the very most:

chocolate
ice cream
cookies

Second, I plan to fully embrace alcoholic beverages this Lenten season. I came to this decision when I realized that today is Ash Wednesday (i.e. the first day of the Church's long, sullen march toward Easter) and tomorrow is the day I make my first trip to Atlanta in nearly 8 months. The chances of me reuniting with Candler friends like Jay, John, Beth, and Dana and not drinking are about as slim as the chances of me being recruited by a lingerie football team to be their tackling dummy. Thus I've decided not to make Jesus cry by adopting a commitment I'm certain to break.

Third, last year I resolved to deny myself fast food during Lent. Unfortunately, I did not define "fast food" prior to Ash Wednesday so I spent nearly all of that holy season debating with myself and others about what restaurants I could patronize with a clear conscience. This year I'm eliminating hermeneutical conundrums by simply naming specific restaurant chains I will not eat at until Jesus once again rises from his tomb. Those establishments are:

McDonald's
Wendy's
Arby's
Burger King
Hardee's
Rally's
Taco Bell
Pizza Hut
Domino's
Noble Roman's
Donato's
Pizza King
Steak 'n' Shake
White Castle
King Gyros
Denny's
KFC

This list represents places in Central Indiana or Atlanta that I am likely to buy from if given the option. These places serve cheap, often-less-than-nutritious food that I am prone to eat too often and in excessive quantity. Those who are eager to keep me accountable for this resolution should therefore chastise me only if they discover I've patronized one of the above restaurants. So if you see me eating a Chipotle burrito or Mellow Mushroom pizza, don't criticize me because you'll lack the proper grounds.

Here's to a successful season of Lenten commitment. It won't be easy, but it'll be a heckuva lot easier than being betrayed by your friends and suffering an agonizing execution.

The Sisyphean Assignment of Shoveling Incessant Snow

"Know your role and shut your mouth." This is the lesson that the figure of Sisyphus personifies within Greek mythology. The proud king/founder of Corinth, Sisyphus achieved his high earthly status through his great skills of craftiness and trickery. So great was his hubris that this mortal monarch began to think of himself as possessing stature and nobility which approached divinity. Behaving as though he were a peer to the gods, Sisyphus overstepped his bounds as a human being when he (among other things) volunteered information on Zeus' sexual escapades to another deity.

His punishment? Zeus condemned Sisyphus to spend eternity in the Underworld performing a most ungratifying sort of labor. Sisyphus had to roll a massive rock to the top of a steep hill. But every time he would near the apex, the rock would escape his grasp and return to the base. Thus Sisyphus would forever be humbled by this difficult and fruitless task.

I've recently received a tiny taste of the Sisyphean experience. As many of you already know, Indiana has been receiving a large amount of winter precipitation during the last 24 hours. Now the total accumulation of snow and sleet is nowhere near what folks in Denver and Buffalo have been dealing with recently, but it has been enough to close down the schools and leave me more or less trapped in my house.

Now when weather like this sets in around the homestead, the task usually falls to Dave Scott to shovel all this accumulated precipitation off of the driveway. I don't mind the chore really. After all, I am the strongest, able-bodied person in our immediate family. And, at the present time, performing this service is a good way for me to demonstrate my gratitude to my aunt and uncle for letting me live here rent free for the past 8 months. It's also the closest thing to cardiovascular exercise my big ass is willing to engage in these days.

Of course, weather forecasts are always changing and reports vary from one meteorologist to another. But the consensus as I understand it is that Indianapolis will have received 11 or more inches of materials from the sky by the time this winter storm has finished bombarding our collective ass. The kicker is that the precipitation is accumulating relatively slowly over a 36-48 hour period.

The first major wave of snow hit last night while most folks were asleep. Not at all keen on the idea of shoveling snow that's sleet-encrusted and piled a foot high, I decided to head outside at 9am and clear away the 4"-5" that was already there this morning. I'm proud to say that I was able to shovel the entire driveway (as well as the sidewalk that leads to our front door) in a little over an hour. That pride was quickly squashed. By 4pm, nearly all the space I cleared out was filled back in with sleet and snow. Tomorrow morning I will have to head out again and relocate even more material than I tossed around the first time.

During several brief moments of self-pity, I amused myself with the thought that the God of Abraham was playing the role of Zeus to my Sisyphus. Instead of rolling a bolder to a hilltop, my incompletable task is to clear off a drive way that will be continuously rained, snowed, and sleeted upon. In my book, either punishment is far better than the one given to Prometheus for sharing fire with humanity: being chained to a rock and having his liver eaten out by birds every day.

I had a foretaste of this experience last week when 4" of powdery snow greeted me at 3pm when I returned home from work. After I cleared off the last corner of the driveway, I turned around to see that another inch-and-a-half had built up where I had just shoveled less than 60 minutes earlier. Therefore, I had to shovel my entire drive way two consecutive times before I could consider my task completed.

Here's hoping tomorrow's stage of my ongoing shoveling duties isn't too exhausting. In the final analysis, I'm not complaining about my Sisyphean challenge. Just reporting the details.

The Cold and the Son: Two Brief Conversations

Today I subbed at Westlake Elementary. The woman I filled in for is essentially in charge of getting students off the buses in the morning and getting them on the buses in the afternoon. That means I was technically in charge of this ominous task. (I say "technically" because the assistant principal was present both times, and he was clearly the one actually in charge.)

If any of my fellow Hoosiers were outside this morning, then you boys and girls know it was ridiculously cold. It was the kind of weather my venerable grandfather Richard Scott would describe as "colder than a witch's tittie." Now I personally have never felt a witch's breast, but if it is even half as face-numbingly cold as the climate I experienced at 7:45am, then I shant be touching such a breast any time soon.

Even still, in spite of both the bitter morning chill and all common sense, there were several students getting off the buses with no hat on, with their coat wide open, or even with their coat stored uselessly under their arm. Mostly in vain, I petitioned several students to rectify their situations and thereby spare themselves some unnecessary discomfort.

I recognized one of the students with an open coat and without a hat as a kindergartener named Brian. Now I'm not inclinded to say a kidneygardner lacks common sense (seeing as this age group is still jumping through the requisite hoops of enculturation), but I will say that this one seems to lack the survival instinct that God gave goats. Brian is an especially friendly Hispanic lad who clocks in at the tender age of six. But, for all his positive qualities, Brian's powers of concentration are sorely lacking.


Mr. Scott: Good morning, Brian. It's freezing cold out here, friend. Why don't you put your hat on?

Brian: Hellllloooooo!
Mr. Scott: Hi, Brian. Put your hat on, okay?

Brian: Hey! [short pause] I have a dog. Heeeeee's big and he runs fast!
Mr. Scott: No kidding? Where's your hat, buddy? [At this point, Mr. Scott notices that Brian isn't wearing a coat but a lined jacket on top of a hooded fleece.]

Brian: My dog has big eyes. [Mr. Scott puts Brian's hood on for him as the boy continues to speak.] And he's furry. And he has hard teeth. [Brian uses his index fingers to mimic his dog's upper canines.] And he runs fast!

Mr. Scott: He runs fast, huh?
Brian: Yah.
Mr. Scott: Cool. Now go to your class Brian.

Brian enters the school building through the east entrance, thrilled that an adult has acknowledged his existence.



The second conversation I would like to document took place during lunch. The conversants were Mrs. Patterson, a white woman in her late 40's, and Ms. Glenn, a black woman in her mid 30's.

Mrs. Patterson: Ms. Glenn, could you help me with this can? I can't seem to get this lid off. [Ms. Glenn immediately pops the lid off on her first attempt.] How did you do that so fast?

Ms. Glenn: I just pulled where it said, "Pull Back Here."
Mrs. Patterson: Really? Jesus Christ! I mean, "Cheese and Rice." That's what I said, "Cheese and rice."

Ms. Glenn: That's not what you said. You called on the Lord's Name. I heard ya.




I throughly enjoyed witnessing that exchange.

"You called on the Lord's Name." That was classic black woman.

Booyah!

The Indianapolis Colts are World Champions!!!

Peyton Manning can't win the Big One. A Tony Dungy team will never make it to the Super Bowl. The Colts are a finesse team...a soft team...a dome team that can't handle the elements. This is the kind of media-hype bull crap that Colts fans have been listening to for years now.

[Earmuffs, children.]

Fuck all that shit! The Colts just defeated the Chicago Bears 29-17 on the NFL's grandest stage, and Peyton Manning is your Super Bowl XLI Most Valuable Player.

I have to admit it. When the Colts defense gave up 375 yards rushing to the Jacksonville Jaguars in Week 14 of the regular season, I nearly lost all hope that the Colts could win an NFL championship. When a loss to the Houston Texans in Week 16 cost us a first round bye, my foremost wish became that we would simply not embarrass ourselves in the playoffs...that we would do something respectable like making it to at least the divisional round before LaDanian Tomlinson or Corey Dillon gouged us to death on a national stage.

But after the Indianapolis Colts defeated the Baltimore Ravens in Baltimore, I started to believe again. I was optimistic, even though still gut-wrenchingly nervous, going into the AFC title game against the New England Patriots. When the Colts came back from 18 points down to Brady & Co. to secure their bid for the Big One, I began to feel something like confidence in the fact that Indianapolis was about to win a world championship.

To be perfectly honest, I wasn't as elated by yesterday's Super Bowl victory as I was with the triumph over the Pats. Vanquishing our bitter rival in the most dramatic of fashions when it mattered most gave me the highest high I've ever experienced as a sports fan. To borrow a few words from my friend and fellow Colts enthusiast Aaron Homoya: After we won the AFC Conference Championship, I pretty much felt we were entitled to a Super Bowl championship as well.

Watching the Colts win the Super Bowl was a dynamic and ultimately enjoyable experience. I yelled, sighed, complained, screamed, cheered, and even threatend to shove sharp sticks into a sensitive area of Bears players' bodies. But, at the end of the game, I didn't feel nearly as ecstatic as I did after the AFC title game.

What I felt most was an overwhelming sense of relief. The pressure that all those aforementioned naysayings create weighs heavily on the fans as well as the players. The mighty pessimist I am could not shake the fear that the Colts might exorcise all their demons this postseason save the most important one: winning a league championship. Devon Hestor's opening kickoff return did nothing to alleviate that fear. Neither did Muhsin Muhammad's touchdown reception in the 1st quarter. But when my home town boys turned things around and outscored Da Bears 23-3 the rest of the way, they cast out that final demon with extreme prejudice.

As the final second ticked off the game clock, I yelled in adulation. Then I immediately collapsed back into my seat and let the sweet, sweet feeling of total, unadulterated relief wash over me. "Even if we go 4-12 every season from here on out, they can't take this one away from us," I proclaimed to those around me. I would now add that even if Peyton Manning never reaches another Super Bowl, no sane or credible human being can deny that he won this Super Bowl. He has now undeniably surpassed greats such as Dan Marino and Jim Kelly. He is now at least as stellar a quarterback as Steve Young or Brett Favre. All of you in the media who have been riding Peyton so very hard these past 9-13 years may now begin apologizing profusely.

In closing, I would like to make sure that I am being crystal clear on something: It is my quarterback, my coach, and my team who are the 2006 Champions of the National Football League. And just who does that team happen to be?


The Colts, bitches. The Colts.

Dollars and Scents

Until two weeks ago, I often bore the pleasant smell of Vurt- the brand of men's cologne sold at Pacific Sun. Sadly, the bottle I received for Christmas 2005 has finally run dry. I am now without a fragrance to enhance my aesthetic appeal, and I am debating whether I should buy a new bottle of Vurt or dare to take on a new scent.

I am seeking input on this matter. I think the perfect cologne for me would be a) affordable, b) manly enough to never be confused with perfume and, c) loved by most lady folk between the ages of 19 and 35. I would appreciate any and all help I can get.

WOW!!!

Last night I had the greatest, most dramatic sports experience of my entire existence. And that's no exaggeration.

Close to halftime of the Colts-Patriots game, I felt about as sick as I ever have watching a game. Indianapolis was down 21-3 to its top rival and seemed to be on the verge of losing a playoff showdown to New England for the third time in 4 years. I was already promising those around me that I wouldn't watch the Super Bowl if the Colts failed to bounce back because I couldn't stand watching the Patriots win another NFL championship. But a phone conversation at halftime with Aaron Homoya convinced me that there was still grounds for hope, if not optimism.



What I witnessed in the second half was the single greatest comeback in NFL conference championship history. Previously, 7 points was the largest halftime deficit any team had been able to overcome in the history of such a contest. The Colts managed to overcome a margin double that much en route to sending Tom Brady and company back to Foxboro losers.

Joseph Addai's 3-yd TD run with 1:00 remaining in the 4th quarter

gave the victorious Colts their first and only lead of the game.

I'm going to take a week to let the joy of this accomplishment really sink in before I begin to worry about the upcoming I-65 Super Bowl, which will feature the Colts taking on the Chicago Bears. What a fantastic accomplishment for our guys. Here's to one more win!

The Time Approaches

The next chapter in a storied rivalry is about to be written.

This time around, many important elements remain the same...

...Others are new to the playoff equation...

...And some have changed dramatically.

But for the first time in a long time,

the confrontation will go down on Indy's turf- literally.

I finally bought my colors yesterday, and I will be wearing them this evening. (Who would've thought that #88's jersey came in XXL?) I haven't had this much invested in a football game in nearly a decade. I will be agonizing over every down and hopefully rejoicing over the final score. GO COLTS!!!

Made It!

A Pants Explosion

I've a had a little bit of bad luck with pants this semester.

Since I've become a substitute teacher, I've had to purchase some business/casual pants to ensure that my wardrobe complies with the schools' dress code. I came into contact with the St. John's Bay brand of clothing and found its Worry Free Pant to be everything I was looking for: comfortable, fashionable without being trendy, wrinkle resistant, and things of this nature. What this particular line of clothing might lack, however, is durability.

I have had two pairs of these pants rip on me in the last three months. The first time it happened during a day in Developmental Kindergarten, so it was no big deal. The situation I had yesterday was a much bigger problem.

On Tuesday, I was in charge of a room of first graders. I was wearing my black SJB slacks and a rather flattering sweater. The ensemble was getting me through the day just fine until about 11:30am. When I half-bent/half leaned forward to pick something up off of the floor, I thought I heard something like the soft purr of stiching giving way. "Was that my pants?" I wondered. So when it seemed no students were looking, I slipped a quick hand along the back side and inseam of my trousers. No tactile evidence of rippage presented itself so I assumed I was fine.

And I may very well have been at the time. But later, right after the students returned from lunch, I sat down in the teacher's chair and lifted my right leg so that I might cross it over my left. At that moment I heard the unmistakable sound of fabric being pulled asunder.

"Shit!" I thought the word so emphatically I think a few kids in the first row actually heard it themselves. I knew this one was for real because I could already feel the a cool flow of air upon the back of my thigh where the tear had occured. "What am I gonna do about this? If a room full of six year-olds see my boxers through my ripped pants, I'm in for some Grade A embarrassment."

The good news was that the kids were due to have art class in about 15 minutes, during which I would have a half hour break. I instantly hatched a scheme. I would walk the kids to art...praying the entire time that my wardrobe malfunction wouldn't be detected...drop them off and then immediately dart into the nearby restroom where I could do some repairs on my pants. Thankfully, it is common for teachers of the youngest students to walk backwards in hallways so that they can continually monitor how the kids behave in line. I could do this while simply trusting that the rip was small enough that those passing us in the halls wouldn't catch a glimpse of it either.

Right before leaving the room for art class, I grabbed a mini-clip from the regular teacher's desk...you know, the ones that you squeeze open like a clothespin and have the metal arms that you flip down once the clip has clamped. Amazingly, I got the kids to the other classroom without being called out and made it into the nearby bathroom as I had planned. I shut myself inside a stall for added privacy.

To do the job I had to remove my pants, and to do that, I had to first remove my shoes. So there I was, standing in a public elementary school restroom in my socks and boxer shorts, attempting to clip shut the new window to my uber-pale thigh. The second I saw the damage, I knew my first suspicion had been correct: I had two disinct tears in my pants. The first ran right alongside the inseam of my pants. It was still small enough and deep enough in the crotchal region that I could have gone all day without anyone seeing that my pants were damaged. The more recent rip was worse. It went about a fifth of the way across the back of my right leg. It was probably about 3 inches in length, and looked like someone had literally crotch chopped me between the legs with an ax. I used my meager clip to close the opening as best I could but the clip popped off as soon as I slip my pants back on. A Plan B immediately came to me: "Staples! I need me some staples."

The teacher I was subbing for keeps her stapler right by the front door. I was able to make it back to home room without running into anyone else in the halls. I walked through the doorway, put the stapler in my left pocket, pulled the hem of my sweater as far down as I could to cover up this new, sizeable bulge on my hip, and walked across the hallway to the nearest boys room. Very soon, I was once again in my socks and boxers with my pants hanging half inside out from the coat hook of a stall door. It took about five staples to seal the more noticable opening. Then I added about 3 extras for added support. (I wasn't about to go through this whole ordeal a third time.)

My bootlegged solution got me through the end of the day just fine. I didn't bend at the knees or sit down for almost three hours, but I considered that a small price to pay to avoid embarrassment. It turns out, I made a wise choice. When I sat into the driver's seat of my car to go home that afternoon, every single staple tore out and the total length of the aformentioned second rip increased a little bit more.

As soon as I reached home, I got on JC Penney. com and bought myself three new pairs of pants. (I'd yet to replace the previous pair that exploded nearly 10 weeks prior.) I hope to have a mint condition set of black slacks arrive in the mail sometime in the next week or so.

Completion

I've managed to complete a number of things this week. On Monday, I FedEx-ed the last of my application materials to Denver, which means I am completely finished with all that Ph.D. stuff. This fact comes as a huge relief to me personally because this task has been hanging over my head pretty much since I graduated from Candler in May.

At about 2am that same morning, I finished my reading of Stephen King's Cell. The book was much less freaky for it's last 100 pages than it was during the portion I previously discussed. All in all, it was a good read and a fine Christmas present.

I also finished watching 24 Season 2 yesterday. I finally saw an even numbered season! Whoohoo! Because I wasn't able to secure a sub position until today, I've had plenty of time to enjoy many consecutive hours of Jack Bauer power. That's really all I did on Tuesday. Now all I need is to watch Season 4 and I will have seen every episode that's been aired to date.

But with recent endings also come new beginnings...

I need to schedule campus visits for the two Ph.D. programs I've applied to. My hope is that I can coordinate my visit to Nashville, TN with a return trip to the ATL. I'll have to talk to the admissions office at Vandy as well as Dana and Beth to see if I can make this happen.

I need to keep reading. Nick and I have been discussing reading through two books together...books of the theological variety. And now that I've been able to put my academic/super-nerd persona aside for nearly 8 months now, I think I've finally rested long enough to reassume it. I think that next I'll bust into a volume on God and time I received for Christmas about 4 years ago.

And, finally, Season 6 of 24 starts Sunday. I'm so stoked, man! Although, it will be fairly strange to re-enter Jack's world after so many old school characters were killed off last time around. I'm also not too terribly hot on the idea of Wayne Palmer being president or the fact that Kumar has been added to the cast of the uber-drama. However, the additions of Farmer Hoggett as Jack's dad and Curly Bill as the VP should more than compensate for less promising changes.

2007 is starting out quite nicely for this guy.