Used to be greatkicks

Let me tell you a little about the past year and my new boat

2007-01-15T18:43:00.000-08:00

I just logged onto to my account to write a new post and ended up reading a post written a little over a year ago and cried. That’s not what I intended to do when I logged on, but the whole crying thing just snuck up on me. It was the last sentence. I had completely forgotten about being in the church that day.

While my life has changed dramatically the past year with the birth of my son and all the happiness and work that comes with having a child, not much else has. I still went to the Mummer’s parade and drank beer on the street, the Eagles are still not in the Super Bowl, the Flyers still bum me out, and the summer and baseball still feel like ages away. And of course, I still adore my wife, who is hot and loves me back.

But, I do have a new sailboat. And if it didn’t need so much work, the summer and sailing would feel like an eternity away. The boat is a 17’ VandeStadt and McGruer made Siren with a cabin big enough to accommodate two for a weekend.

She needs some work though and all I’ve done so far is back her into my garage and hang the mast from the ceiling. Thursday my sister’s boyfriend is going to come over and give me a hand. I’m taking the triage approach in refurbishing this boat. Now that I’m a dad, I can’t fuck around for hours like I did back in the day. Here is the list of what absolutely must happen between now and May 1 when I move her to the Chesapeake for the summer.
1. Remove deck hardware, clean off old sealant, and if time allows do minor deck repairs. If not, reinstall hardware with new sealant. The deck leaks even in a light drizzle.
2. Remove keel swing bolt and keel locking bolt and reinstall with new watertight seals. Don’t know exactly what I have to do here yet. These two bolts are below the waterline and the seals have totally given out. On my trial sail I took on over a gallon of water in an hour.
3. Repair hull damage. There are a few small dings and scratches that go below the gelcoat that need repair.
4. Make two new handrails for the cabin top. The old ones were in bad shape. One was destroyed beyond repair, the other won’t last the season. These things are critical as you need something to grab onto when you move forward to work the sails while underway. Also, I don’t have lifelines on the boat so you’re really close to going in the water once you leave the cockpit even with the handrails.

Other than to buy a reliable outboard, that’s it for the list of things that must be done. As for the work I’d like to do – there isn’t enough time tonight to write.

Sailing a small wooden boat you build yourself

2006-10-02T07:52:00.000-07:00

I built a small wooden sailboat a number of years ago. The design name is Teal, by Bolger and Payson. Here's a post from the message board I frequent on how to sail a boat you've built.

I've gotten good at sailing my teal. I've gotten even better at knowing when and where not to sail my teal. I don't have jib, just a single unstayed main, but some of what I write will apply to those with bigger boats who do.

First off, after several initial unintentional jibes, I don't ever jibe in my teal intentionally unless I need to and I've never needed to. If I'm heading downwind, like on a broad reach or run, I'll tack the 290 or whatever degrees rather than jibe. Even in calm winds. Just a practice I follow.

As for how much wind is too much wind? I find 10 mph makes things interesting, as I approach 15 things get frustrating. For instance, since I can't reef the main I heel too much. When I heel too much, I ease the sheet out a little to dump some air, but the result of that is you lessen your heel but your sail luffs and slats and makes a lot of noise. This is bad for the sail. Also, I don't have any blocks or tackle so the sheet is difficult to hang on to because the big sail really pulls. If you don't ease the sheet you heel too much and make very little forward progress. It's frustrating to be in that much wind and moving sideways rather than forward.

When I run in this much wind the boat surfs and that's a lot of fun, but I also don't feel like I'm in control. Actually, I'm in very little control when there's that much wind at my back.

It also makes a difference where you sail. A 12 mph wind on a local lake is much more sailable than the same wind coming up Barnegat Bay. Let me tell you, that was a frustrating hour not made any simpler by the personal water craft morons. The worst thing about those crafts is they are inherently boring unless you do dangerous things on them, like ride in circles to jump your own wake. Back to sailing, on a bay or bigger body of water, white caps pop up and they're really difficult for small, light crafts like ours to tack through. As you luff to move through the eye of the wind the bow just keeps getting pushed back. So, you end up having to resume your previous course, pick up more speed, and anticipate the water.

In medium airs though, I really love my teal. The only thing I wish I had done is build a kick up rudder. I say that every time I sail. Anyway, when tacking, I found the best way to get through the eye of the wind is to commit to the tack and really push that rudder over. The authoritive push gives the bow that little extra something to make it through the eye w/o stalling. I've done the backwards sail myself more than once. In subtle ways the sailing performance of these flat bottom little boats is unlike their fiberglass counterparts. But you pick up on it. Like the rudder push. It take a little more to get my boat through the eye of the wind, I guess because I don't have a curved hull. There is very little of my boat's hull under the water. It wasn't until I started thinking of that in relation to how I sail my boat that I started to get good at sailing my boat.

I also have become better at learning of the shape of my sail. Like, how much should I ease the sheet, how close should I pull it in? The way I learned is by picking a nonmoving target on shore or in the water, like a flagpole or buoy. I pick a target then sail for it. That's a really important thing to do that sailing books don't advise learners to try. Pick a place and sail for it. Now, after you pick a target and start sailing for it, then play with your sails. Let the sheet out too much to see what that looks and feels like, then bring the sheet in too much, see what that looks and feels like. Then, keep going back and forth trying to find the place where the sail and boat are happiest. All the while make sure to stay on course. For me, my sail has this little bubble near the luff (front edge along the mast) when I've got the sail set right. It happily pops in and out saying, "Hi, how are you, I'm a content little sail."

Beyond Boat Building

2006-02-08T18:10:00.000-08:00

I work with a small population of special ed kids labeled as having emotional disorders: depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, ADHD etc. I've got a great amount of freedom in what I teach. Right now I'm teaching Social Studies, Art and PE, but I'd rather build boats with my kids. I've got to figure out a way to sell it to the district because I'll need a lot of money to get the project off the ground. We don't have a shop area in the school so I'd pretty much be starting from scratch.

What I'm looking for is this:

How do I sell it to the higher powers? I can't just call it "Boat building." That really lacks practicality in my district of high earning professionals. What I need to do is incorporate lots of edu-speak into my proposal. Like, "applied this," "integrated that," and "practical such and such."

Here are the points I'm looking at expanding in my proposal:
cooperative learning
practical problem solving
team building
applied math
integrated studies
therapeutic creativity
interdisciplinary learning

Help me out. Please add to my list in the comments section.

I wanna piss on you

2006-02-01T19:02:00.000-08:00

This is how you know a kid belongs in your emotional support program. This is how you know a kid isn’t misdiagnosed. As I’ve written before, I teach emotionally disturbed high school kids in an affluent Philadelphia suburb on the other side of the river. It’s the type of town you’d move to if you were Donovan McNabb. The type of high school where cars in the student lot are more expensive, exotic and infinitely faster than those in the teacher lot. But, that doesn’t mean the rich don’t suffer too. In their own ways, the rich suffer.

This girl walks into my homeroom, on time for a change, but boobs heaving out of her shirt as usual. “My dad’s a fucking asshole,” she exclaims to the only other kid in the room --the kid who waits outside my locked classroom door before even I arrive because he’s petrified of the crowded halls. No one but he is ever punctual. But today this chick is here and spitting fire. “What happened?” this boy is forced to ask because I don't. She spills all over the place, “He woke me up early. He woke me up at 6am! I don’t wake up at 6am. I wake up at 6:15.” My timid boy reasons, “You should thank him. You’re here on time and no detention.” But she yells, “I should piss on him. I’m so mad I could piss on him!”

In my you’ve crossed that line voice request, “Please, don’t say that ever again.” But she says it again. She looks right at me, puts both her hands around an imaginary jar then lowers it past her groin and says slowly, “I could piss in this jar and throw it all over his face is how mad I am.”

I say nothing, but immediately think that someday, because of her heaving bosom, a chronic masturbator with low self-esteem, a man much like my only punctual to homeroom boy, will make the biggest mistake of his life and marry her.

Follow me down to the Mummer's parade

2006-01-02T08:43:00.000-08:00

I woke up around 11, made coffee, fired up the wood burning stove, brushed my teeth then took the train down to the parade. It was a drunk train. I got to the station about five minutes before the train and the platform was packed with people drinking or already drunk wearing either Eagles jerseys or mummery. I had in my backpack a bottle of wine and a bottle of scotch. The whiskey was a present for Jack. The wine was for us to drink at the parade. I opened it on the train and took a few pulls. Happy 2006 I said to the drunks next to me. They raised their cups and said, “Rabble, rabble, rabble!” and we drank to the New Year and I recorked the bottle and stuffed it back into the bag. As soon as I got off the train I bought a hotdog and ate breakfast on a bench.

I met up with Jack and his wife at the 13^th Street subway stop after eating a second dog with mustard and kraut. I was happy to see the two and immediately opened my backpack to give him his gift. It gives me great pleasure to give gifts. He loved it. He loves whiskey. Then he gave me my gift, a small box of fine cigars. I never expected a gift from him. It was touching. Jack’s mom died Tuesday and was buried Friday. When the hell did he have time to go out and pick me up a gift? But now that I think about it, maybe his wife did the shopping. I’m starting to think she’s really thoughtful, but quiet and doesn’t let on about much. At the funeral I overheard two women I didn’t know talking about how Jack’s new wife went out and bought everyone presents so there would be Christmas at the house on Christmas morning.

I can’t imagine the sadness they all must be feeling. There is so much about her death that breaks my heart. And me, I’m just a guy who only knew her for a long time. I think about my friend Jack, and his brother, and his sister, and his sister’s kid, and especially Jack’s father who lost a wife he loved a great deal. Everyone else has someone else, but Jack’s dad is now alone. I shudder when I think of the new emptiness in his life. I also think of my family, of my mother whose death I can’t comprehend, of my father who would be crushed, just like Jack’s dad, if my mother were to suffer and die in a few short months. I also think of my wife and how I don’t ever want to lose her and be alone.

This summer, before any of us, other than Jack’s mom I can only assume now, knew the cancer had returned a third time, I saw her at Jack’s wedding and thought it amazing that someone who had been so sick and stared death so closely in the eye twice before could look so beautiful. I remember the exact moment that thought came into my mind. I was sitting at my table, sipping a gin and tonic, watching her smile and dance with Jack’s dad to Sinatra. This time I really thought she would do it again. I thought, just like the other two times, she’d come out alive. But she died in five swift months. That last time I saw her my wife was two months pregnant and morning sick for weeks on end. She told my wife about how sick she would get when she got pregnant. And now she’s dead and my wife is still pregnant and will be pregnant for another two months.

The day of the funeral was one of those late December days where the sun shines brightly but never makes it far over the horizon. By mid-afternoon the temperature peaked at 45 and long shadows were cast across the cemetery. Preceding the long procession to the cemetery the funeral mass lasted a little over an hour. It took place in the church where I was baptized, in a church where I experienced happy events, and remember sad moments, but not any as sad as this. These days I don’t care much for church, I find it tedious and uninspiring, but her mass was beautiful. The church was packed, maybe three hundred people, we sat in the second to last pew, and at the end of the mass, before the men of the family wheeled her coffin out of the church Jack’s dad spoke a few soft words. Over his words you could hear the muffled sounds of three hundred people quietly weeping.

Divine Intervention

2005-06-09T19:57:00.000-07:00

This summer my wife and I are selling the two houses we own and buying one big house. Everything about it is good except that we have to cancel the first week of our three-week vacation on Chincoteague Island. I called the Chincoteague rental agency and got "the new guy" who told me call back in an hour and, "Ask for Jen or Angel." So, I checked my voicemail. Eddy’s mom left a message for me to call her back. I did. Figured that was a good way to eat up some time. This woman’s been calling me with the same problems since September. I don’t like this woman. Not because she has lots of hair on her chin, or because she hasn’t worked in 16 years, but because she’s an ineffective mom. Her kid never comes to school. He can’t get out of bed because he stays up all night on the computer playing games. And, he hasn’t been to a dentist since he was seven. And, he suffers from severe depression which mom can’t even fucking comprehend. Mom usually calls and is like, “I don’t know what to do? He won’t get out of bed. He was up all night last night on the computer.” I always suggest, “Take the mouse and keyboard. Give ‘em back when he comes to school for three days in a row.” She argues, “But he’ll get mad,” and does nothing.

Turns out the reason she called was that the thunderstorm last night served a devastating blow to Ed’s computer and X-box, rendering them lifeless. "What's a surge protector?" mom asks.

Anyway, mom continues, "I was calling to see if the school provides computers to families in need? I just thought if there was any program to get computers for kids who don't have a lot of money…" I told her there was no such program at the high school, but to call Sarah Abovebeyond, the district social worker, because she might be able to help. I told her this knowing full well she wouldn’t call the social worker because the only thing that this poor person hates more than work, is social workers.

Reader, I shit you not. The computer blows up, and she wants the district to give him a new one! This is as close to divine intervention as it gets. I mean, you'd think this woman would be dancing in the streets because the HEAVENS opened up and removed the biggest material obstacle her kid faces in getting to school. Her kid was late or absent over 100 days this year because of that machine. God killed the computer. WITH A BOLT OF LIGHTNING! And she's focusing her energy on trying to get someone to give him a new one. The woman hotly rejected the free mental health services we struggled to arrange for her kid and now this, a godsend, is what she thinks is a need. This is her advocating for her son.

Which is why I lied and told her there was no such program that provides computers to families in need.

The night before my wedding

2005-03-18T19:53:00.000-08:00

I’m listening to bluegrass music and drinking a small glass of whiskey. Girlfriend, soon to be wife, is out for a walk with E. She has more sense and therefore more stress than I. The walk with E will calm her. This time tomorrow we'll be in a black car heading south to the airport.

Getting married is this thing that I always wanted, but could never imagine happening. A few months ago I asked the woman I love, “Will you marry me?” She said yes, and tomorrow we will be married and she will be my wife and I her husband. To sit here and know that I want nothing more than to be married at the end of the day and for the rest of my life is the most calming feeling I’ve experienced. Seldom are things this clear. Rarely do I know precisely what I want. Even less frequently do I experience absolute fulfillment. I love her. I love her now. I’ll love her forever.

This is the beginning of the longest part of my life. When I close my eyes I see the years to come stretched before me. The years are like a map holding all the possibilities that I sought as a kid when I spent hours pouring over road atlases spread across the kitchen table dreaming of the day I’d leave home. Even though I left home years ago and followed the lines on the maps across this country and then across several others, tonight I feel the greatest excitement. Tonight I am happy before leaving home and tomorrow will be an explosion of ecstasy. I can't wait to enjoy every minute of it.

Where have all the hookers gone?

2005-02-01T19:39:00.000-08:00

Even as I sit here drinking Grand Marnier my body is like, “Yo, lets go ice skating tomorrow. Running aint enough. We should play hockey. Call that Polish friend.” 40 degrees is the perfect temperature to run. All you need is a pair of pants and a hooded sweatshirt. I could run a marathon in 40 degree weather, just so long as it’s not raining or sleeting. But, since there are no January marathons and I'm really lazy, I should run a spring or fall half-marathon. My body wants to exercise more. My body loves to be in motion.

After a long day at work I spent some time in traffic, scored a prime parking spot then strapped on my running shoes. I ran along the Schuylkill River, not down Kelly Drive but on the trail between Spring Garden and Walnut Streets. The trail that never used to be there. Milder weather is melting the ice that has covered the river all week. As I ran I heard the sheets of ice cracking and watched them drift toward the Delaware.

In addition to the Eagles playing in the Super Bowl in 116 hours and two minutes, Philly is really changing for the better. It used to be that the only people you’d see beside a brave jogger or lone mountain biker on this trail were junkies and hookers. Three years ago I ran past one man sucking another mans dick right on the trail. In their defense, it was nearly dark and anyone who wasn’t homeless, an addict, a dealer or looking to catch HIV had no right to be in that part of the city in those days. They were expecting more privacy. It was before the city paved or lit the trail. Now the blacktopped trail is an extension of the Kelly Dr. and West River Dr. trails, which you can ride, run or skate all the way to Valley Forge. Even in the January weather I passed several other runners. But where have all the hookers gone? The excess brush has been cleared and there’s a fence separating the tracks from the trail and river. Construction trailers and equipment have taken the place of the vagrants, junkies and prostitutes.

All we need now is a Super Bowl win.

Four Years

2005-01-23T20:29:00.001-08:00

I spent the morning on edge. I finished shoveling out the two cars by noon, looked at my watch and commented to my neighbor, “We’ve still got three hours.” He responded, “Whatever happens, I’m ready for it. I’ve got everything I need. It’s only a matter of killing time.” I did not feel prepared.

It’s close to midnight and I’m only now beginning to feel normal. It’s over and I’m home and the past four painful years are behind me. They’re behind all of us and it’s a relief. I know that whatever happens tomorrow or in the next two weeks, it will be tolerable because for as long as I can remember, since I was a small boy throwing a football in the street with my brother, I’ve been waiting for the Eagles to go to the Super Bowl.

The important things to know are that at kickoff time the sky was clear blue. Yesterday a foot of snow fell, but today the field was clear. After sunset a nearly full moon rose. The temperature never climbed above the teens. The wind gusts neared 40 mph and the wind-chill registered in the single digits. Atlanta’s Vick got sacked 4 times. He lost more yards getting sacked than he gained on his infamous runs. McNabb threw for two touchdowns, Levens was shoved into the end zone for one touchdown and Akers kicked two perfect field goals with and against the wind.

This is a city with abysmally low self-esteem, yet tonight Philadelphians feels good. I watched the game at a friend’s in Old City. We walked to a corner bar to celebrate after the win and watch the next game to see whether New England or Pittsburgh would be our rivals on February 6. I left the bar after half time. Pittsburgh wasn’t climbing out of the hole they began digging last week against the Jets. I walked up Market to Broad. An impromptu rally amassed around city hall. I sang along as I trudged through the snow on my long walk home, “Fly Eagles fly, on the road to victory / Fight, Eagles fight, score a touchdown one, two three…”

Dick and I discuss sailing our small boats into the wind

2005-01-18T20:33:00.000-08:00

I sail. I sail a small wooden boat I built in my garage. People who sail always make a muddle out of explaining how to do it. My friend Dick Bell noticed that his boat sails into the wind better than with the wind pushing from behind. He asked if that was normal. He doesn't think it makes any sense. I answered, “Yes, Dick, most boats don’t sail downwind well, small or large. I’ve never been on a boat that sailed more effectively with the wind from behind. Many people will agree that a larger boat, 22’-40,’ is sluggish and unresponsive when sailing with a following wind.” Dick replied, “Go on.”

I know it seems surprising but sailing downwind, on a run, is the least efficient way of moving over water under sail power. I’ve never read a good explanation of why, so I’ll attempt to write one. Someone, please let me know how good of a job I do. When I explained this to Dick he responded, “I’ve never heard someone make so much sense in such a short amount of time.” But my friend Dick possesses a sarcastic proclivity.

Here it goes: When you sail with the wind from behind the wind pushes the boat forward and the sail is close to perpendicular in relation to the hull. So, while the wind fills the sail and moves the boat forward, at the same time the entire area of the wind filled sail pushes forward, creating resistance and slowing the actual onward progress.

When sailing with the wind coming over the side of the boat, the sail is close to parallel to the overall length of the hull. This is called a beam reach. In that instance, the wind is actually pushing the boat sideways. So you might ask, then why do I move forward?

The reason is the centerboard. It’s a thin piece of wood or fiberglass extending into the water two to three feet below the bottom of the center of the boat. If you kept the sail parallel to the length of the hull and lifted up your centerboard you would move sideways rather than forward. If we were on a barstool I’d draw a picture on a napkin.

The reason your boat moves forward when the wind is coming over the side is because the centerboard digs into the water. With the submerged centerboard your boat is no longer simply resting on the surface of the water. You’ve got like three feet of resistance below the surface of the water. This resistance transfers the sideways motion of the wind into forward motion.

The centerboard alone won’t move you forward; you need a rudder to extend almost as deep as the leeboard. While the leeboard digs into the water and helps the boat move forward, the wind still does move the boat sideways, just not as dramatically. The rudder keeps the boat steering into the wind and maintains the delicate wind, sail, hull moving forward balance. You’ll notice when you’re sailing with the wind coming over the left (port) side the tiller, stick that you steer the rudder with, is never aligned with the middle of the boat if you want to sail straight. Rather the tiller will be pushed toward the right (starboard) side, which means you’re steering back towards the left to compensate for the sideways pushing of your boat. The same principal applies when the wind comes from the starboard side. You’ll also notice that you’re never holding the tiller and sheet, rope that moves the sail, in the same location. There’s a constant fiddling that keeps everything working well and the boat moving where you want her to go.

What I’ve written above holds true for sailing when the wind is from any other direction other than directly behind. When the wind is coming from directly behind (which we agreed isn’t the best way to sail) you don’t even need the leeboard. You can lift it up and rely on the rudder alone to steer and keep you moving straight. I’ve done it for kicks. If you had a GPS device you’d see a slight increase in speed, but who cares when you’re me and sail to kill time and not distance.

As further proof of all I’ve written above, when you’re on a run with the wind directly behind you, the centerboard almost pops out of the water. You can hear it vibrate a little when you’re on a run. The centerboard is not doing anything. Just give the board a tug and it floats right up.

Conversely, when sailing with the wind from any other direction, the centerboard won’t budge unless you struggle with it because there is so much sideways force acting upon the submerged leeboard pinching it into place.

I learned about this pinching effect the hard way last fall when returning to shore on a small lake with a bid wind.

What I do when launching is get out a few feet and quickly drop the centerboard and rudder. When returning I pull up the board and rudder at the last minute and slide onto the tiny sandy launch area on either side of the concrete boat ramp. I could row. Rowing would eliminate some problems, but that’s lame.

I guess the first few times I returned the wind was at my back. But this time, the wind was directly at the beam and I was cruising for shore with a great big smile on my face. God, I love to sail. There exists a very small window to get this right: if you pull too early you lose the momentum and have to come about and start all over again. Or row. But rowing a sailboat is lame. Pull too late and you crash.

So I’m cruising into shore, wind over the side, loving life, and at that critical point I yank the centerboard and it doesn’t move. I yank again. It’s still stuck and while both hands pulled on the board there came that dreadful sound wood makes when splintering. Too late.

If it wasn’t for crashing my boat into the shore, I don’t know that I would have ever figured out the physics of sailing.

Retards like the zoo

2005-01-12T20:45:00.000-08:00

Wednesday is fieldtrip day. Every week I plan something fun, engaging and possibly even educational for 15 whiny, depressed, bipolar teenagers. It’s sounds great to take kids on fieldtrips once a week, but it’s January and I’ve run out of museums and food banks. We’re unsuccessful in our community service endeavors. Each time I phone an organization to arrange a second visit, no one returns my calls. Last week we went roller-skating, on the paperwork I rationalized, “In compliance with state physical education standards….”

Yesterday I was discussing upcoming fieldtrips with my science teacher friend Dick Bell, who thinks it’s terrific I get to take my sped kids on fieldtrips once a week. I said, “Dick, I’m out of ideas. What the hell should I do with these kids?” Dick told me, “Take ‘em to the zoo. Retards like the zoo.”

I say, “Dick, I don’t teach retards.” He says, “I know, but it’s funny. Retards like the zoo.” I agree, it is funny, for two reasons: one, because it’s true and two, it’s a line from Rocky.

But I didn’t take them to the zoo. We didn’t really go on a fieldtrip this week. Next Wednesday midterms begin and my depressed bipolar kids have fallen behind on their work in regular ed. classes. Thus, we remained at school so they could complete some assignments and possibly pass a few classes. Teenagers are easily quelled by the prospect of a saltlick and bucket of partially hydrogenated vegetable oil. To prevent a rebellion my compromise was going to the mall food court for lunch. I ate at the Asian Cajun BBQ.

A grandmother's love

2005-01-11T18:21:00.000-08:00

I taught English at a school serving Philadelphia's male juvenile delinquents for six years. Humans become desensitized quickly to even to the most wretched conditions as a result of constant exposure. When this happened, it was a day just like any other. Now I work in the suburbs and I'm rapidly forgetting the children of the ghetto. Soon it will all be gone.

After reading the final page of the novel we closed our books with conviction and the conversation turned to death. Joey White Shoes put his head down on the table and closed his eyes. Tony spoke at great length. When he tells us what his grandmother says he mimics her high-pitched Northeast Philly whinge.

My granda tells me, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” and I think I might, but I doubt it. She’s mean as shit. No man, don’t look at me like that. She is. Like, I tell my grandma, “Good night, I love you, grandma,” and she says, “Drop dead.” Really, she tells me to drop dead like once or twice a day. I count.

She comes back from grocery shopping and I say, “You need help with that grandma?” and she says, “Go to hell. You don’t mean it.”

I take a bath and my grandma says, “Wash out that fucking tub. No one wants to be showing with their feet in your scum. Fucking sissy. Even my 87 year old mom don’t take a bath.” But, I gotta take a bath to relax. Man, I’m like totally stressed out by the end of the day.

I say, “Grandma, what’s for dinner?” and she tells me, “Shut the fuck up.” I say I’m going out and I’ll be back later and she says, “Thank god. The sooner you leave and the later you come back the better.” But if I’m even one second late she screams at me, “You’re fucking late!” and then calls my social worker and probation officer. She leaves insane messages like three minutes after midnight telling them how much of a prick I am. Then she grounds me for a week.

This summer I made her a jewelry box in shop and when I gave it to her she told me, “Shove it up your ass. My birthday was a month ago and you spelled my fucking name wrong.” Which was true, but like how am I supposed to know that “Deloris” has only one “l” and no “u”? Like, I totally sounded it out and I thought I heard the short “u” sound. Like, can't you hear the "uh"?

The other day was the first time I was allowed out to see my friends in a week. I was leaving out the house without no jacket on and she stood in front of the door, the top of her head only comes up to my shoulders. She’s blocking my way with her arms and shouts in my face, “You ain’t leaving this house without no goddamn jacket.” I asked, “Why you care?” She told me, “I don’t like you, but somebody gotta make sure you don’t die before you’re 18. So shut up, put on your jacket and get out of my house.”

Ya know, it’s like, I hate coming to school. But it’s like the only place I can go where adults aren’t always telling me, “Shut the fuck up, go to hell, drop dead, shove it up your ass.”

I mean, but yea, I guess I’ll miss her when she dies cause it’s like she always tells me, “You got shit for brains and can’t remember nothing.”

Tony took a deep breath. I looked at Jackson who looked at me then looked at Tony who smiled and looked at the floor. The weight of the world hung above the table. An eternity of silence filled the space below. The smile faded from Tony’s face until there was nothing. Jackson spoke, “Yo, it’s not cause you got shit between your ears that you’ll miss her. It cause you love her and she loves you. But dawg, truly you do be forgetting some stupid ass shit.”

Jackson smiled. He possesses brilliant white teeth. Tony laughed, "Right on. She's my grandma." The bell rang. Joey White Shoes lifted his large head from the table, jolted into consciousness eyes wide and yellow as the moon. I watched him figure out where he was and then he too wasn't afraid.

But, I didn't get caught

2005-01-10T16:45:00.000-08:00

One of the more fascinating but lesser known characteristics of children with autism is their difficulty processing emotion. The nuances that pervade our speech and everyday expressions possess little meaning for the autistic child. I teach no autistic children yet several of my emotional support special education students exhibit similar behaviors. They possess average to above average intelligences but demonstrate little interest in understanding their own feelings or those of other people. Several are wholly incapable of introspection. I don’t think they’ll ever be able to examine their own behaviors. They are solitary and detached individuals. It’s the rest of the world pitted against them. When they do the wrong thing and get caught they don’t acknowledge they’ve done the wrong thing. They only know they shouldn’t have done what they did because a negative consequence immediately followed.

Take Caplan, she’s a rude, overweight, manic-depressive senior. Last year her dad went through her room and found coke. He took away her car, called some counselors at school and sought a rehab program. The kid broke some stuff then disappeared for a few days. “How dare he come into my room.” No adult would side with her.

Later dad came home from work to see his bedroom trashed. He thought she broke in to steal cash or jewelry but all that was missing was his porn. After dark sirens split the posh suburban night. The police blotter in the local newspaper reported:
Police and fire personnel reported to a criminal trash can fire in Manchester Park Wednesday night. When authorities arrived five-foot flames shot above the rim. The blaze was quickly extinguished. Investigators found an empty bottle of butane along with numerous smoldering pornographic magazines and melted videotapes inside the destroyed receptacle. Anyone with information is asked to contact the police department.

Although the taped police blotter on the inside of her binder and another inside her locker made her a prime suspect, no arrest followed and the case remains unsolved. In the months leading up to her summer in rehab, which was the ultimatum her father set for not going to the police, she believed herself a champion of women’s rights. She fought a lone battle against perverts and female exploitation that she believed should have been rewarded rather than castigated by weekly locker searches.

“Setting that fire was wrong and dangerous, Caplan.”
“I didn’t get caught did I?”

She still brags to anyone who will listen, which isn’t many people these days because not many will have much to do with an overweight rude girl who doesn’t do coke anymore. Before Christmas she was sad one day and asked to have lunch in my room. I thought she wanted to talk or at least have someone take notice of her usual litany of grievances. But she didn’t. She drank her soda and ate her bucket of fries on the opposite side of the room and thwarted my attempts to converse. Halfway through the period she moved to a computer and clicked around until the bell rang. She threw away her trash and walked toward the door. I said, “Goodbye, Caplan” but she never looked back. She never said a word.

My friend Dick Bell

2005-01-07T17:10:00.000-08:00

My buddy Dick Bell

My buddy, fellow teacher, neighbor and running partner Dick Bell (remember, on this site I’m using everybody’s real name so I truly have a friend named Dick Bell) phoned me tonight (Sunday January 2, 20005) at 10 after being M.I.A. for over a week to tell me, “I’m fucked.” I responded, “Me to buddy.” We haven’t been to work since December 22, 2004. Tomorrow, actually, seven hours from now is our first day back and I realize as I type after midnight with a glass of wine by my side that I’m even more fucked now than I was fucked then when he phoned two hours ago. I’ve gotta be up in six hours, at work in seven and dealing with emotionally disabled children in 7.5. Of course I’m not prepared. But that doesn't matter. Do you know how hard it is to fire a public high school teacher? Very difficult I assure you.

Along with telling me, “I’m fucked,” Dick apologized for not calling me back the past week. A college girlfriend whose step dad owns a chalet in Vermont called him Christmas night to see if he wanted to go skiing for the week. He left the next day at noon and returned late last night. Bad for me. Good for Dick. I had no idea what happened to this guy. I called three times over break. Nothing. Monday before Christmas we sat at the bar and laid out our strict regiment for the break. We planned on going running all this week. We’ve run before. He’s a good partner. Monday - to Penn’s Landing and back. Tuesday - University City and back. Wednesday- along Forbidden Dr. and so on until at last we were on our fourth pint and estimated a total of 49.5 running miles, hitting the street each day but Christmas Eve, Christmas, and New Years Day. I thought maybe I’d offended him last time we were drinking because I was like, “Man, who named you Dick?”

But that’s not the case. He went skiing. I stayed in Philly the entire 10 days, most of them going to parties. I actually averaged 1.10 parties a day. Every time I turned around someone was sticking a beer in one hand and a meatball in another. I’m really gassy as a result. I feel like a fat shit. Tomorrow I’m going to feel like a fat, hung over piece of shit. I gotta stop writing. I’m going to go see if my girlfriend wants to have sex with me.