The Modern Man: Walking the Dog

Before I begin this post, I need to tell you I saw something so amazingly mind boggling that I had to share it. After a long day at school, a student was scampering down the hall at a relatively fast pace.

Okay, he was running.

As I wondered whether I should try to catch up to him, or pretend there was something in my eye that would allow me to head back into my office, I saw something relatively disturbing.

His pants were beginning to slide down his butt, or as we in teacher world are forced to say, "His gluteous maximus." (Remember, 95% of all students have seen every uncut American Pie or Saw DVD, yet parents freak out if we swear, or try to show a movie like Saving Private Ryan or Glory).

Now this pants thing isn't so surprising. The new school uniform is pants with belts fastened at what might call, the "junk" area, or as we are forced to call due to current abstinence education rules, the "you'll go to hell" stick or the shame cave. This is covered by a long tee-shirt if you're a boy, or tee shirt or camisole that is 3 sizes too small if you're a girl.

Now as he is running, and I'm rubbing my eye and shoving as much lint into it as possible, I noticed his shirt, which is a large Under Armor form fitting piece, is creeping up as his pants are creeping down.

I'm now waiting for the natural consequence. I'm waiting for the pants to hit the knee area and watch as he falls, hopefully screeching to a halt as the skin on his thighs brings him to a sudden halt.

Then I would stand there, washing out my eye and thinking smugly to myself, "That will teach him!" (Forgetting temporarily, that middle schoolers really don't learn anything the first time, or tenth time, or, wait, I'm getting depressed.)

Then I see him reaching down and I'm thinking, "He's going to pull his pants up! For the first time in a year, his underwear won't be showing! This is a remarkable day at our school!"

I was also thinking that if my shoe was untied, I'd tie it. If my hair (I mean that in the singular) was messy, I'd brush it. If my pants were falling down, I'd pull them up. It's just a natural reaction when disorder occurs to re-order it. Millions of years of evolution have made these reactions almost automatic.

But then he did something unexpected. What he did made me wonder about which direction this evolution thing is heading.

As his pants continued to head south, he PULLED HIS SHIRT DOWN.

Yep, he continued to run uncomfortably with his pants now at mid-thigh height and PULLED HIS SHIRT DOWN to cover his pant line (and not get in trouble for dress code violations).

As he disappeared down the hallway, I realized life had passed me by. I'd no longer be demographic that Hollywood movies or TV shows are aimed at. I'd preface conversations at school meetings with "When I was a kid..."

I'd maybe even start to use the term "Whipper Snapper."

But is it too late for me? Should I purchase baggy pants and pull my underwear out, or maybe get those shorts that really come down to just above the socks (I call them Manpris, a male version of the capri)? Should I wear my hat sideways?

Quite honestly, there is only one thing I can really do now. That's go to the nurse to get my eye washed out. Now if I can only avoid the whipper snappers on the way down.


(Looks like I'll have to address the largest crisis in America in my next blog: Grown Men Walking Small dogs)

More Quick Hits: Nicknames, At, and Uranus

Quick Hit 1:

I've always been a fan of nicknames. They can often be a window to your very soul. You don't get to pick them, so the names are a total reflection of how others see you. You've got your serious nicknames: The Hammer (Hank Arron), The Gipper, and The Decider mostly bring about positive reflections of that person (Hey, Meatloaf once said, "Two out of three ain't bad").

Another use of the nickname are ones that are meant to be insults. When I was a young lad, before cell phones and reality TV, the top three students on the honor roll (me being one) would call each other nicknames like Brain when we were upset with one or the other, which quickly devolved into Half-a-brain, quarter of a brain, brain cell, and my personal favorite, which was often directed at me by the smartest girl in the class in a manner such as this: "Hey, "Quarter of a brain cell on a stick", stop answering all the teacher's questions." It's perfect, because it fit my nerdy nature and my body type. On a side note, my favorite nickname was a combination of insult and pride: Toto the Baton Wacker. It combined a negative nickname (Toto) with an incident in which I got into a fight with a track coach from SUNY Buffalo during the race. Ah, racing, tripping, punching and relay batons. What great memories....

My favorite nicknames use Big in the title like Big Kahuna, Big Cheese, Big Bob, or Big Tuna. Having "Big" in your name is usually very positive, unless the "Big" attached to parts of your body or the F word.

Where is this banter leading? Well, I went to the Colorado Caucuses and I was elected to be the leader of the caucus. Although I never requested people call me this, I had the overwhelming urge to have people call me by a cool nickname that you can only get as the leader of a Caucus. Since I didn't use it there, I think I could still slip the nickname into my regular life. Yep, you've got it. From now on, I should be called:

The Big Cauc.


(By the way, if there is just 1 good thing GWB has done in 8 years, it is making people realize that if you don't vote or participate in the process, you could easily find yourself more screwed than the characters on late night Cinemax. Thanks GWB for getting people to vote!)

Quick Hit 2:

On another note, I've noticed that there are universal things people will laugh at. Things such as bodily noises, groin punches, and Dane Cook get laughed at regularly. Now, I can't figure out the Dane Cook thing, but who hasn't laughed at the other stuff.




In a school setting, this is especially true. A quick burp, toot, or human development lesson can cause snickering, laughing, and general classroom chaos.

But there is another things that can happen. That would be a lesson on Uranus. Both boys, girls, and uncomfortable parents will giggle at the mere mention of the planet. This has become worse now that we've found out that Uranus is a gaseous planet. So as a teacher, you need to either clamp down on the class and let them snicker inside, or get it over with early, so that they aren't uncontrolably laughing under their breaths for the entire class. So I suggest the following ice breakers to get the laughing out of the way early, when teaching about Uranus. Or, if you're trying to break your class and want to write someone up for acting inappropriately, these would work as well. You'll have a kid out of control pretty quickly.

Uranus is gassy.
Uranus is blue.
Uranus is a gas giant.
Uranus is huge.
Due to the gasses on Uranus, if we were there we would find that Uranus stinks.
Because Uranus is a gas giant, we can never land on it. That means that we'll never be able to touch Uranus.

Don't tell me your aren't kind of laughing, at least inside. Now imagine that with middle school kids. You can forget about teaching for at least 10 minutes.

Quick hit 3:

Finally, what's the deal with the sudden ending of sentences with AT? I hear from loud cell phone talkers and even my wife when asking the location of the person they are talking to, "Where you at?" I mean, it's may be worse than "Where you be?" or anyone that uses "Seen" after the pronouns I and We.

Now, I'm no language snob. Well, maybe I am, but that's beside the point. I don't care that it's improper English. I care that it takes away from Blazing Saddles, one of the funniest movies of all time. When Cleavon Little (the sherrif) shouts 'Where the white women at?' out in front of the racist gang, it's funny for many reasons, including the "at" at the end. Now when young people watch the movie, they don't know why that lines funny since everyone uses "at" at the end of sentences now.

Hold on: My wife is informing me right now that the whole movie isn't funny and no one will understand the previous paragraph. I think I might have to sick Mongo on her. For like Mongo, I am "Only a pawn in game of life."

Now because of all this "Where you at?" and "Where they at?" "at" is no longer funny. It's just bad English that no one knows is bad English. Alas, time has passed me by. It's so depressing. Maybe some caffine will help my mood. Now, where's my Mountain Dew at?

The Modern Man is Getting Waisted

There are watershed moments in one's life. One's first kiss, a run in with a bully, meeting with someone who changes the direction of your life, your first date with your future ex-husband/wife and other moments that take one's life and throw it in a different direction. We can then look back at these moments, either celebrating the way our life went or cursing the day everything went to Hades in a handbasket.

Either way, it's a watershed, or in many cases, a Waterloo.

An event recently happened to me that has definately changed my outlook on life. It has headed me down a different path, nay a different aisle. A change so monumentous, it had to happen slowly and slither up on me like a giant blood thirsty snarling sneaking up thingy. Sorry, I was never good with similes.

So here is the huge watershed moment:

My waist size has increased.

I've literally gotten waisted.

I got a few Christmas gifts in the pantelones catagory that I couldn't fit into unless I sucked my stomach in like middle aged guys at the beach. I tried everything, even crying, hoping the loss of body fluid would lead to a slimmer waist line.

But no, nothing happened. I'm now a solid 34. After being a 32 in my 20's, a 33 in my 30's, I'm now a 34 in my second go at the age of 20. If you plug these numbers into the quadradic formula, carry the 3, then find the derivative, and graph the results, my waist size will be a 94 before my 60 birthday.

I may need my own zip code.

Hopefully by then we can all float around with futuristic anti-gravity devices, and I won't be forced to drive one of those mini-scooter things though the aisles of Walmart, as long as I'm under the weight limit. (Which, noting the expanding American belly, will be about 1500 pounds)

What has made is worse is that I actually work out. The lower graph doesn't fit what is occuring to me.

I remember laughing when Seindfeld changed his pants' labels to a 31 when he became a 32. I mean, how vain can one man get?

That's not a judgement, that's my current New Years resolution.

I'm now a full 2 inches wider than Seinfeld. I'm not laughing now, because if I do, I'm afraid my belly will have that movement like a bowl full of jelly. (Now that's a good simile)

A whole new world of questions has been opened to me. Will I be able to fit through turnstiles? How soon will it be before I'm asked to purchase an extra seat on an airplane? Will I now be a more dangerous dancer? Will I soon hear catcalls of "Shake it, don't break it?" When am I going to have to pull my pants up to my chest and start wearing stretchy pastel fabrics while I drink coffee with my AARP friends at McDonalds? Am I going to need a Manzier? And dear Lord, am I going to be literally putting the "middle" in middle age?

I know, it's not that bad now, but I hear everything from this age out goes down hill like a graph at a GW Bush polling convention. (Now that's a nice Simile!)

I guess I just have to stop whining and suck it up, while I suck it in.

So, goodbye 33's! We hardly knew ye. What's that? My nose is going to start drooping?

(Insert curse word here)

The Modern Man is feeling guilty

I noticed today that I put on socks with a matching pattern so I thought I was stylish and in vogue. Yet when I saw them in the light of day, one was black and the other was blue. Although Black and Blue is an excellent song by Van Halen, it's not necessarily what I need during my busy work day. I mean, I know that no one else will figure it out, but every time I've seen my feet today, it's thrown off my ju-ju. On top of that, I got in my car in the afternoon and was cursing it under the impression that the air conditioner had broken since heat was pouring into the vehicle and making me sweat like a Bush press secretary. However, I suddenly realized I was still had the heater on and it was running at the same time as the air conditioner. (Colorado is great for 35 degree morning and 75 degree afternoons.) I never said I wasn't an idiot. Now, if you throw in a two hour missing backpack search for a student, some seriously dubious student parenting leading to poor grades, poor work habits, and possible future incarceration, I'm having a bad day. Now throw in the fact the last song I heard today was the Pina Colada Song and it's been in my head for 7 hours now it's pretty obvious it's time to write a new blog.

Guilt.


I was raised well. That means that I have a lot of guilt about a lot of things. Without guilt, what's going to keep you from doing the wrong thing? If there is no guilt floating about you have no reason to ever think about your actions. People without guilt can do amaziningly horrific things, and not even bat an eyelash. This, I'm completely positive, is why our current administration (and much of big business) can get away with what they do. They have no internal parent telling them they could possibly be hurting someone or actually wrong about something.

However, being without guilt did seem to work for OJ, at least for a while.

However, I'm not big business and I'm definately not OJ, so let's delve into some current guilty feelings:

First, I saw Superbad the other day and feel slightly guilty about it. I mean, I really enjoyed it even if it was totally inappropriate. (Hence the guilt. Should I enjoy inappropriate things?) If you're a male and were not the richest, coolest, or most attractive member of your high school class, this movie is for you. Most women won't like the male-centric plot, but let's just say that it is about friendship, the quest to "get with" a girl, the crusade to purchase alcohol as a minor, and a lot of inappropriate jokes about the male and female groin area. In other words, it's pretty hilarious. Plus, it helped change my perspective on how to handle stressful situations. For instance, I've decided that in any stressful situation I'm going to replace my usual mantra: SERENITY NOW! with a loud shout out, "I am Mclovin!"

Speaking of that, I am Mclovin the idea that my son will soon enjoy video games. However, this fills me with guilt as well. One of these days, one of the grand parents will break down and purchase an expensive system for him and I'll get to play it. I really have not been able to play video games since my son was born. Should I feel guilty about this future windfall? Should I ignore the Madden 2014 sitting in front of the TV? Should I try not to look at Halo 8? Should I pre-file for divorce, since that is probably going to happen if I start playing video games again ten years from now? I guess the answer to all these questions is YES, but I'm thinking NO. OHHH, the horrible guilt.

Also, should I feel guilty if I go fishing on Sunday instead of going to church? I mean, most of Jesus's crew were fisherman, so fishing is technically a religious experience. However, PETA says that fishing is evil because it hurts the fish. Does that mean PETA is evil since the disciples were fishermen and they were good Christians? So, if PETA is evil and GW Bush is Christian and a leader of the USA (which I keep hearing is a Christian nation with a Christian Constitution), than logically speaking that means that if I don't fish and I listen to PETA, I'm being evil and un-American at the same time. That might make me an enemy combatant of some kind. I don't want to go to Abu Ghraib for not fishing. Do I want to anger the church by not going or anger our wonderful country by not fishing? It's all so confusing. Hence, the guilt. Hence the reason I will be fishing this weekend. It's really the most religious thing I can do.

I'm also feeling guilty about supporting Boston fans for all their underdog years. However, that will be a blog of its own. Sorry Rockies, I wore my team hat by accident and cursed the team.

Talk about guilt.

The Modern Man and Fantasy Football

The Modern Man has been on a long hiatus, but he is back. For those of you who don't know what 'hiatus' means , I've provided three examples of its use in every day language using a common teaching practice:

1) I drafted John Kitna for my fantasy team, and realized that the Lions have been on a hiatus from football since 1954.

2) I was running down the first baseline when I suddenly pulled my hiatus. (I was quickly arrested and charged with lewd conduct right afterwards.)

3) The nuclear (*pronounced "nuke you ler") leak created a huge, genetic freak out of our dog Hi, and unfortunately, Hiatus.

This type of teaching come from the ancient Romans and is highly effective in working with middle school students. The technique is called, vocabularus desperatus, meaning, "We ain't gonna learn it if the word has more than one syllable, and you're pulling our haituses is you think we care."

So I've been talked into playing fantasy football. When you put fantasy and football together, I envisioned me being tackled by eleven scantily clad Victoria's Secret models. However, much to my disappointment, this is not the case.

To start off, if gambling were legal, I would have had to plunk down $30 to join a fantasy league with a group of nice church going people who seem to feel that gambling is okay, but swearing and drinking is not. This is too bad, because quite honestly, I'd rather swear and drink. I mean, for @#$# sakes, I can brew 5 gallons of beer for $30 and I can @#@ing swear for free.

But, I digress.

Fantasy football. It's hugely popular. It brings millions of dollars to websites across the country. Manly men with enormous HD televisions, large cable bills, officially licensed NFL paraphernalia (not to be confused with the single and lonely phernalia), and WAAAAAAAAY to much time on their hands play this game weekly, spending hours setting up their teams and worrying about their player's production.

For this game, we were to be given $100 dollars in pretend money (which is a pretty good return on investment, if gambling were legal) and we were to bid on our players in auction format and these players would be imported into a team which will score points against other pretend teams. Now, I thought the trafficking in humans for profit was made illegal in this country after the Civil War, but I guess I'm wrong. I bid on many players and I am now an official fantasy owner, or as I would rather be called, an official fantasy pimp.

Why pimp? Well, I can play my best people and "cut" the ones I'm unhappy with. Hey, it isn't fair, but that's life on the fantasy street.

The unfortunate thing was that I actually had to do research on my players to find out who I should draft. I probably spent over an hour finding information on who I should take. I was glued to the computer screen, leaky pen in hand, going over data no one really understands. I crunched the numbers, came up with a plan, then did more research. Do you know what that makes me? I'll get to that in a moment.

When I entered the basement of a neighbors house to make my draft picks, I was surrounded by affable gentlemen (and one lady) who all joked, had fun, and bid on illegal human traffic. I looked at those around me. They all gripped their fantasy magazines (not a naked picture in any of them), checked their fantasy lists, and eyed their newly acquired players with a fondness only a fantasy pimp can have. But as I joined in, a quote from a bygone era came quickly into my head. The quote, from the Alpha-Betas still resonates today as it did years ago as it was shouted to the Lambda Lambda Lambdas by the various members of the fraternity.

"NERDS!" they shouted. Yep, it seemed to me that every one of these people was a nerd, but didn't know it.

You can be the toughest man in the world, but if you're taking more than 5 minutes a week thinking about fantasy football, the fact is, you're a nerd.

You're not even a fantasy nerd, just a nerd.

For years I've been trying to rehabilitate my nerdy nature, but it's come back to haunt me.

You know what they say, when you point, three fingers are pointing back at you. At least that is what teachers say, so that's what I'm sticking to at this point. As I pointed at the 'big board' with my current fantasy picks, and pointed towards the nerds around me, those three fingers were pointing right back at me and the cold hard truth sunk in.

My God, I'm a nerd, too.

But, I'll be a successful FANTASY nerd if I win my league. However, my quarterback is John Kitna.

Looks like I'll be taking it up the hiatus this year.