Drawings #5 and #6

Making up for lost time here by posting a drawing each from my last two figure-drawing sessions. This one is from this morning. I haven't been so happy with my new pastel paper, so I've been sticking to the pencils lately. We'll see if I can take care of that little problem soon, so you can see some color again. I messed this one up with pastel first, so it was about 20 minutes. Anyway, I used pencils (like I said) and just ate an apple this time around - no Gatorade.



This was a couple days back (Wednesday night). Much the same story as the first, sticking to the pencils. This time no Gatorade, no apple, no nothing - just pencils for 25 minutes. Yup.

Dear Body Worlds 3

Dear Body Worlds 3,

Seeing you today blew my f-ing mind, Body Worlds 3, and so I just had to write you about it to let you know. I'm sure I'm not the first to write a letter to you (and in that, I bet that's actually true - as opposed to some of my other letters), but it had to be done.

For those that don't know what you are, I'm just going to let them do a little bit of research and figure out when you're coming to their town. Any real attempt I make at explaining your exhibit won't wash, anyway. Let's just leave it at human anatomy - the real kind.

My first thought upon returning home from seeing the bodies on display at you was: I'm never going to be able to look at a model during a figure drawing session the same way ever again. When I see them in their poses, I am going to be mentally undressing their already-nude forms to imagine what they would look like UNDER the skin - what are their muscles doing? Their nerves? Their veins? Would they look just like the bodies I saw today, or would they have their own, distinct look? What would they look like sliced into separate sections or with their body cavities exploded to reveal their internal organs?

Right.

People who haven't seen you may very well be disturbed by that last comment (and maybe a few that have), but that is the kind of impression you made on me, Body Worlds 3. From a little over two hours wandering around your halls, reading explanations and examining your plasticized body parts, I learned more about human (and camel) anatomy than I have ever learned - or more importantly, understood - from biology texts or classes. I have read anatomy texts, even own the Anatomy Coloring Book, but I never had a real grasp of how we are put together. Now . . . I most certainly do. Far beyond the understanding that may have even been necessary. Now I can really feel the appreciation the Renaissance masters held for the human body - both outside and within.

And you were satisfying on so many levels. I just mentioned the interest you brought out in me from an artistic viewpoint, but you also appealed to my scientific leanings as well as my interest in athletics. I also got to examine a diverse array of knees in various levels of exposure to try to figure out just what, exactly I did to myself. There were exhibits for every major organ, the nervous system, the skeleton, the muscles, and - most impressive, I thought - the vascular system. There's something eerily thrilling about examining the full plasticized vascular system of a man's arm and then comparing to my own arm and the major veins that pop out when I'm exercising.

And, for the most part, you weren't disturbing at all. Yes, I realize that your displays are just an endless parade of dead bodies, but it's hard to look at it that way. I think the key to that fact is the lack of skin. Had there been more skin on the bodies, I think I would have been disturbed, as they would have more closely represented cadavers. However, as simple displays of everything BELOW skin level, they were simply beautiful and inspiring.

All, of course, except for the fetuses. The fetus collection pulled no punches. From 1 week incrementally to 45, you showed me every little step in the development of human babies in the womb - dead fetus, by tiny dead fetus, preserved in plastic. It was beautiful, in a way, and completely engrossing intellectually, but it also made me greatly reconsider my thoughts on abortion. I'm not going to say any more than that - the rest is for individuals to see and decide for themselves.

Outside your exhibits themselves, I was intrigued by how you brought out the show-off in so many of your visitors. I heard countless conversations (monologues, really) where one person was speaking - in the most condescending of tones - to their partner, lecturing them about the various functions of the body parts they were examining at the moment. Either you are a great draw for doctors and biologists (which is possible), or else seeing the underlying human body brings out the wisdom in all of us.

There were also quite a lot of small children, which I found a little surprising (considering the very graphic nature of your displays). None of them seemed to have an adverse reaction to the bodies, though, and I even heard one little kid say about the plasticized fetuses, "Look at the cute little babies." I bit my tongue and held back a response updating that reference to "cute little DEAD babies."

And on that positive note, I think I will end this particular letter. You were hardly a humorous experience, so I don't really feel the need to end this on anything but a darker note. You were truly inspiring, though, and I am really looking forward to my next figure drawing session to imagine skinless models posing before me. Some people see clothed models and imagine them naked. I just do the equivalent with naked ones . . .

Thanks, Body Worlds 3, for teaching me and changing my perspective a bit. I have a feeling we'll meet again before you leave Portland. Until then, don't change a thing.

Skin-Deep,
CVT

Dear Birthday

Dear Birthday,

Hey Birthday. Nice to see you again. I almost forgot you were coming up so quickly a few days ago, but then my trip back home reminded me. And now today's the day. Very exciting.

For all of those out there who don't talk to me for months at a time, but would use this as an opportunity to call me to wish me my you wishes - too late. I just ruined that whole routine for you by putting it into this blog. Although, I suppose those who generally do that probably wouldn't be reading my blog, anyway - so nevermind.

Now, I've never been a particularly big fan of yours, Birthday. Something about you just reeks of some minor form of dishonesty. Being the misanthrope that I am, I've always used you as an excuse to doubt other people. When people wanted to throw me a special you party, I had a hard time believing that it was really for me, and not just an excuse to throw a party. I mean - when was the last time anybody who knows me well considered me as somebody who wanted to go to a party (let alone host one)? And then, of course, was the previously-mentioned factor of people I would only hear from on my birthday (all at once, really, so I wouldn't have time to talk to any of them). And what usually happens is that, since it's my birthday, I am generally out when those calls come in, and when I call those people back, they don't answer. So all they have to do is leave you wishes on my machine without actually having to talk to me. I think that's part of the plan.

However, all this cynicism being laid on the table, I'm coming around a bit, Birthday. For one, I haven't had those phone calls this time, so I don't have to go through the whole doubting routine. Also, I got to do my home celebration a few days back (and from all the blog letters, you know how well that all went for me). And today is going pretty well.

With my day, I chose to celebrate by being alone. I rode my bike downtown and did my favourite thing in Portland - wandering around aimlessly, stopping in at the library to write a little bit and pick up a Chinese-language book, getting some food to eat, and listening to music while I people-watched. I also stopped in at the Caldera office (the camp I work at) and spent some time looking for glow-in-the-dark facepaint with one of my co-Carnies. How perfect is THAT for my you?

And then, as it began to rain again (of course it rains on my birthday here), I put my bike on the bus and just stared out the window and spaced out all the way home. My perfect Portland day.

So what's the plan for my night? Not much, as usual. My roommate (Matt) is putting together some dinner plans with a few friends. To be honest, I'm really appreciating that right now because I hate having to go through the process of choosing a place to go, rallying other people, choosing a time, etc. So having him do all that for me has been wonderful. If only I could have that every other day.

After that, who knows? Nothing big. The Language Arts teacher at school, Andrea, seemed really upset that I didn't have any big partying plans for tonight. She even warned me that I could become a hermit if I don't do things. That, of course, just goes to show that we need to do some more catching up, as I have been a hermit from birth.

And that's that. That's all there is to it. And you know what? It's perfect. Today's going quite well, Birthday. I've already gotten my big gift (the Free Round-Trip Ticket), so what more can I ask for? I enjoyed myself. I'm on vacation, and I'm not going to do anything more than I want to with it.

So thanks, Birthday. You've been good so far.

And to those that haven't called me/written to me yet but were planning to - don't worry about it. Save that call for a later date, so I can actually catch up. I appreciate that a lot more.

A Little Bit Older,
CVT

Dear MRI

Dear MRI,

I had a you today. So much fun. All the non-movement and fun sounds. In honour of this event (and you, my friend), I shall write the rest of this letter in your own language.

-CLIK!- . . . . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . .. . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . . . .. . . .. . -CLIK!- . . . . . .. . -CLIK!- . . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . .. . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . . . .. . . .. . -CLIK!- . . . . . .. . -CLIK!- . . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . .. . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . . . .. . . .. . -CLIK!- . . . . . .. . -CLIK!- . . . . . .

ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH!ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH! ENGH!

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Tchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchutchu
Brrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrrbrr

OoooEEEEP!

-CLIK!- . . . . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . .. . . . . . -CLIK!- . . . . . . . .


For my Reader, who may not speak MRI (although I think he does), the previous message basically means: "I'm looking at your knee with magnets, just sit still and hang on. Whatever you do, don't move because these huge-ass magnets are doing their thing. Good thing you don't have metal in your eye because my huge magnets would pull those suckers right out - or at least that's what we're going to tell you. I know it sounds like you're getting blasted with repeating laser beams by robots out of the '80s, but it's not true. If you've ever had to go to the optometrist and done that peripheral vision test, I bet my sounds are kind of reminding you of the alarm that goes off when you're finished, but that isn't what's going on. Did I mention that you need to stay still?"

Or something to that effect.

So thanks, MRI, for the interesting afternoon. I hope you have some good news for me.

Trilingual,
CVT

Dear Free Round-Trip Ticket

Dear Free Round-Trip Ticket,

How you doing? I hope you’re doing well, and that you continue to do so, my sweet Free Round-Trip Ticket. You look so good in my pocket, you should invite a few of your friends over, so we can all hang out. I think we’d have some fun.

Seems a little bit silly to be writing this as you sit in my pocket, newly-acquired, but I have some time to blow now, and I am pretty excited about having you, so why not take the time to write a letter making my appreciation known? No reason at all.

And so I sit here in the airport, beaming and writing you a letter. Only a short time ago, as I was listening to my music and writing in my journal, the guy at my gate announced that my flight home was overbooked. As a result, they were offering yous to a few volunteers willing to give up their seats. Anybody giving up their seat on that flight would then get guaranteed seats on the following flight leaving two hours later. So I dropped my journal and flung my earbuds out of my ears and sped-walked up to the Gate.

But – alas – there were already three people ahead of me, trying to take advantage of this ridiculous deal. A two-hour delay for a free ticket anywhere (including flights to Hawaii)? Of course. So I put my name on a list, and the kind man told me that he would call me up if they needed my ticket.

So I sat back down and anxiously waited. I tried to get back into the flow of things and concentrate on the thoughts I was entering into my journal, but I just couldn’t focus. What a great deal. But what if they didn’t need my seat? They already had three in front of me – what were the chances that they had been stupid enough to book FOUR extra passengers on this trip?

The first couple were called up to receive their tickets, and I just stopped faking any journal-writing. Then the guy who had been directly in front of me in line. I was to be next or not at all.

But then they called up four other random people, and I didn’t know what to do. What the Hell? As I settled back down in defeat, they called my name, and I ran (no speed-walking THIS time) back up to the counter.

And then we were together. Sometime in the next year, I shall exchange you for a free round-trip ticket anywhere Alaska Airlines travels – and they just added Hawaii to that list recently. What I really don’t understand is why everybody on that flight didn’t immediately crowd the counter to get their yous. It makes no sense. A flight to Hawaii is $600, at least. A flight of any real distance is $400. Who wouldn’t take $400 - $600 for sitting around in an airport for two extra hours?

I know, I know – how ironic that I say that, considering my recent ode to Flying. But my Reader may have noticed that I didn’t have a whole lot of problem with the actual waiting at the Gate. Sure, I said people weren’t friendly – and they’re not – but it’s not so hard to ignore people that weren’t going to talk to you, anyway. And now, it looks like I have a vacation to Hawaii looming sometime during this next crappy Portland winter.

And, as I write that, I can’t help but refer my Reader to the previous post right before I left for this very airport where I wait right now. That’s right – God loves me. The perfect meal followed by a free plane ticket. It’s as if the Almighty (in whichever form you desire to make it/him/she/shim) has been reading this blog and wanted to reward me. I mean, come on – in one single day: I’ve lived the dream mentioned in some of my earlier food blogs; I’ve been rewarded for putting up with a scourge from another blog (Flying); and I’ve been offered a wonderful respite from another scourge mentioned (the Darkness of Portland winter). Holy crap. Can a man feel more charmed?

At this juncture, I can’t help but expect some beautiful lady to sit down next to me on the plane and offer me money for sex.* Honestly. I’m trying to think of all the other letters I’ve written in this blog and how they might be turned around by I Am to make me feel even more lucky and charmed.

The only bad thing is that now, of course, me dying on my flight WOULD be tragic because then I wouldn’t be able to use my you. Although I’d still die feeling pretty special. So maybe that would be a wash.

Wow. So now I catch my breath a bit and try to settle down to pass some time. Hell – after this writing, I now only have an hour and a half to wait. Since I have my drawing materials, my laptop, and a brand-new book given to me by my best friend, this could even end up being the most productive hour and a half of my life. Maybe I should try to give up my seat on the next flight . . .

Thank you, Free Round-Trip Ticket. You’ve made a great trip even better. I never really believed in birthdays, but maybe I should start feeling differently about that. I can’t wait to use you.

Planning my Vacation,
CVT

*Don't worry Mom and Dad, it didn't happen. But if it had, wouldn't it be better to hear it from me on my blog than from the tabloids?

God Loves Me

I have to head to the airport right this second, but I had to chronicle the event that just transpired, the dinner of all dinners . . . Sashimi-Grade Fish with a dessert of Coconut Cream Pie. If you don't know how overwhelmed I am by the significance of this event, go back to the various blog entries (there are two for each) and read up. After that, you can just imagine . . . If my plane were to go down on my way back right now, it wouldn't be a tragedy at all.

For me.

Obviously, it would be tragic for everybody else, because I doubt they just had the same dinner I did. And neither did you, my Reader, so stay safe.

On a Higher Plane,
CVT

Pie in the Morning: Dear Coconut Cream Pie, Part II

Dear Coconut Cream Pie (again),

I knew the last time was a fluke. I knew it. My oh my have you done me right once again, Coconut Cream Pie. Indeed, you have.

About a half-hour ago, I sat down to breakfast. And what did I have? You, Coconut Cream Pie. I pulled a whole, fresh you out of the refrigerator and sat you down on the kitchen counter and prepared to feast.

But I could not be ready to do so until I had poured myself a good-sized glass of milk. Only then was I ready to enjoy you, my wonderful birthday treat (and no, it's not quite my birthday yet, but it's close - had to celebrate with Gannon last night before I head back tonight).

Oh, God, I don't even know how to begin to describe the joy of eating you this morning. Your perfect blend of creaminess, richness, sweetness, coconutiness, and a little bit of crunch with the toasted coconut shavings on top. With each bite, my senses soar, and I can't help but breathe in deeply, as if I can inhale and absorb the wonder that is you. And then, after I swallow, comes the coup de grace - a mouthful of milk to wash you down. I don't know what it is exactly - it must be some sort of chemical reaction that can only be explained by somebody with the scientific knowledge of my Loyal Reader - but the follow-up gulp of milk is such a perfect, necessary part of the process. The milk blends with the microscopic you remnants in my mouth, swirling them together across my tongue for a refreshing palate-cleanse. And then I cut another piece off with my fork and repeat the whole, glorious process.

I wish I could do you justice. I wish I could impart the wonderful mouth-feel and flavour to my Reader. I wish I could make them as happy and satisfied as I currently am. Like the warm glow that spreads through people when they see an especially-cute baby, I want to send him that feeling from my breakfast of champions. But, unfortunately, it is impossible. And the only way he can really understand is by enjoying a slice of my mother's you, chilled just-right from the refrigerator. And, of course, my Reader doesn't really drink milk, so he can never TRULY understand.

Which is so sad. People the world over think that they know what you taste like, my friend. They go to bakeries or whip up a version at home, only to be duped. What they are eating is not the true you. It is like Plato's famous cave: when other people eat a store-bought or even home-made (but not in MY home) you, they are just tasting shadows of the real thing. Little can they know or understand that the true you, Coconut Cream Pie-NESS, can only be found in my parent's home in California. And how much more delightful and brilliant it is. Put that together with the fact that most people don't drink a glass of milk with you, and you have a really sad state of affairs.

And you know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you, Coconut Cream Pie? You must sing this same song, lamenting the misunderstanding that surrounds the consumption of your shadows. When I wrote my first "Dear Inanimate Object" letter to you, you must have just shaken your head and sighed with regret, for I doubt it was the first time something like that had happened. How could I ever expect that your shadows could taste or satisfy in even a small way like your Truth can? It was ridiculous. It's like expecting all cookies to be as wonderful as a Tuxedo Cookie (and if you don't know what that is, just start thinking of every cookie you've ever eaten as a Platonic shadow).

And so I apologize for doubting you. More accurately, I apologize for holding you accountable for your shadows. It would be unfair, indeed, if somebody came up to me and tried to arrest me because my shadow was trespassing, and that is what I did to you. I hope you can accept this apology. I also want to thank you for going ahead and rewarding me with your True presence in spite of said allegations.

This morning, I ate a quarter of a pie. Which leaves me about six large slices left to eat before I leave for my flight around 5pm. That's roughly five and a half hours. That's a lot of pie to be eaten. I am going to crash so hard over and over again today - hopefully saving my largest crash for when I am on that plane (to avoid all the previously-mentioned horrors of Flying). I just have to be careful not to make that Mother of all Mistakes known as "Eating so Much it Makes Me Want to Puke" and thus not enjoying you, which should be an arrestable offense.

But I will be careful, and prudent. If I must sacrifice portions of this particular you to prevent underappreciation, then I will. You have already filled me with such love and beauty that even losing the rest of you, I would be able to say that you did not get thrown out in vain. You will live forever in my memory (and, like the Phoenix, you shall rise from the pie tray every year for my birthday).

Thank you, Coconut Cream Pie. Thank you for making this morning so wonderfully, funderfully delightful.

Already Getting Drowsy,
CVT

Dear Wicking

Dear Wicking,

As a special, super-duper Conscious Choking Adult Special, I bring you the SECOND blog of this wonderful day, devoted to YOU, Wicking.

As I was driving around running some errands today (buying ribs, in case you were wondering), I was thinking about the current fashion of you-sportswear. Those now omni-present fabrics that pull sweat straight off the skin and into the surrounding air, preventing uncomfortable damp shirts and - so they say - cooling the body.

The thing is, that doesn't seem to make full sense to me. Call me old-fashioned, but I am from a time when we were told that the purpose of perspiration (like the alliterative effect of that last phrase?) was to cool one's body down. I was told that dogs have to pant because they don't sweat. I had a science teacher who was rumored to be incapable of sweating, and thus at higher risk of overheating due to exertion or an extra-warm atmospheric temperature. Call me old-fashioned.

So, being this old-timer that I am, it seems completely counter-intuitive to want to eliminate the dampness caused by said perspiration while exercising. In my head, it would seem like that would be more likely to cause one to become increasingly warm. In fact, I imagine that it would produce one of those also-omni-present "endless cycles" where exercising caused a person to become overheated, thus triggering the sweating response. Then you would kick in, and that sweat would be pulled away from the skin, keeping it from being cooled. This would then cause the body to heat up even more, necessitating more sweat, and the cycle would continue until the athlete died from heat exhaustion.

Of course, last time I checked, this doesn't seem to be the end result. Which then suggests that my little theories are wrong. Which then begs the question: are my old-fashioned beliefs about the Purposeful Perspiration Process (PPP) just plain hog-wash? Or is there something I'm missing?

I would guess that I'm missing something. Probably something that a little bit of time spent at the Internet with Google would provide. But I'm not really willing to spend that time. Why? I don't really know. Maybe I'm just being stubborn. But I'm just not going to do it. Therefore, I am issuing a one-point bulletin to my Reader to answer this question for me.

And don't get me wrong, Wicking, I'm not writing this because I have something against you and want to see you less-present. Not at all. In fact, I generally wear a you-shirt when participating in athletic endeavours. However, I just need to know. It's like fully appreciating the fact that asparagus makes one's pee smell bad, but not knowing WHY it does that. Why does it do that? Why?

So until this mystery is solved, I will continue to make full use of your wonderful - alleged - abilities. With a smile. And once it is solved? I will continue to pee after eating asparagus.

So to speak.

Getting his Greens,
CVT

*Don't forget that this letter is the SECOND letter of the day. Mark this date on your calendar, for it is an historic event. Then enjoy the wonders of . . . Restlessness.

Dear Restlessness

Dear Restlessness,

Hmm . . . Here we are, together again. Although I seldom call you or make plans to see you, you almost always show up when I come back home to California. Why is that, exactly? I suppose that is something I should attempt to answer through this letter.

Right now, I know where you are coming from, Restlessness. The last two days - because of my grandma's memorial service and all my relatives being around - were completely full of activity and social interaction. I had a chance to have real conversations with a number of cousins and aunts and uncles with whom I have never really connected with (due to the fact that I did not have a fully-formed brain the last time I had seen them . . . not to say that my brain is fully-formed now; although, if my brain is always going to be somewhat deficient, then, by definition, it may just be fully-formed - a letter for another day). And then they all left, and I'm still hanging around at home (a side note, my boss once said that where you were raised ceases to be called "home" only when you get married . . . sounds reasonable to me).

And so, when I got up this morning, you were here waiting for me. I thought that it was Boredom, and almost wrote a letter to her, instead, but then I figured it out. Because I'm not exactly BORED. For me, being bored is more a low-energy thing. When I am simply bored, I just feel like lying around, doing absolutely nothing at all. Sort of like how I am throughout the winter.

No, instead, you are in my presence. And the key is in your name - I am relatively RESTed right now. With the kids out of school and summer sun shining, I have energy again. And that is most definitely a double-edged sword. Because when I have energy, I become very much like the kids I teach. Just as the burning of fuels must have a side-effect of lost heat energy, the burning of my restful energy has side-effects - and these are what become the symptoms of you, my friend.

For instance, this last week the kids were gone from school, but I still had to go in and do grades and inventory and a whole lot of administrative-type tasks to close out for this year (and prepare for next year). It seemed like a good deal. I got to sleep in and roll into work whenever I felt like it and leave in the same way. No kids is like no work as far as I'm concerned, so it was "easy." But then you came into town.

It turns out that, if I'm rested, I can't sit still for more than an hour at a time (if that). So I found myself getting all antsy and you after a short amount of time at my desk, and then I was suddenly wandering around the school, coming up with excuses to pop in on the other staff members to see what they were doing, seeing if they wanted to get food. After I had visited each of my co-workers to find them actually working, I would wander to the kitchen and see what was in the refrigerator, pretending I was hungry, so that I would have something a little more active to do. Then I'd go back to my room and try to focus again . . . And within another hour I was back up and roaming.

That's pretty much where I'm at right now. As I type, my legs are bouncing around, and I'm having trouble concentrating. I think this might be why my blog entries have been a little off, lately. I keep getting distracted. I want to look around and see what else is going on; I forget where I was going with my thoughts; a million different topics bounce around my brain, and I have trouble writing more than one coherent paragraph before I just want to get up and see what's going on in some other room of the house (or outside).

And that is the danger of this thing called "Rest," that root of you, mon frere. It fills me with "Middle School Madness" and keeps me from being a productive member of society. It makes me want to touch things, poke them, pick them up, and then leave them in the wrong place as my attention is grabbed by something else. It makes me want to get in trouble or just say ridiculous, inane things just for the sake of saying them.

While I've been writing this, I have looked at everything on the walls and shelves in this room about 10 separate times.

None of this would be that big of a problem if I enjoyed exercise at all. But, as my Reader should know, I hate exercise more than anything else. Not being ACTIVE, but exercise for the sake of exercise. I'm not going to go any further into this, because it seems like a worthy letter topic, but I just wanted to touch on it, so that my Reader could understand my plight. And I know he has a similar problem, as well, from the many times we wander past each other and randomly start wrestling or pushing each other when we're both home at the same time.

All that being said, are you necessarily BAD for me, Restlessness? I think not. You certainly spark some of my more creative (some would call them "creepy" or "strange") endeavours. I certainly would not enjoy confusing people so much without you. I give you most of the credit for the joy I feel when I tell jokes that only I find amusing. And, of course, when you are around, I am the most likely to go out and have some sort of strange, random adventure that never would have occurred to me, otherwise.

And so I will continue wandering around this house, looking in the refrigerator and pantry on each lap. I shall keep poking my head in on my dad to see if he is doing anything interesting (in much the same way as my dog does throughout the day), and I may even end up doing the unthinkable - TWO blog entries in just one single day.

Actually . . . I probably won't do that.

So. Thank you, Restlessness, for always being there for me in the summers. Thanks for fueling my strangeness and enabling me to really understand the kids I teach. And thank you for making me so intimately aware of every little thing in this house. I think we shall be spending a lot of time together this summer, and I'm looking FORWARD to it.

Shaking,
CVT

Dear Flying

Dear Flying,

In a few hours, I'll be you back to California in a lovely little airplane. I'll be dehydrated, and cramped, and alternately too hot or too cold. I'll probably be sitting next to somebody too large for their seat or else a kid too small to be you (and thus crying). I'll probably have to pee about half an hour into the flight but not want to get out of my window seat and climb over the two people between me and the aisle, so I'll try to hold it. An hour into the flight, I'll realize it's a hopeless fight and decide I should just go, but not be able to because the drink cart will be between me and the bathroom. When the cart is finally out of the way, we will probably have begun our landing process, and I'll have to wait until we land.

I'm not going to check any bags, so it's going to drive me crazy when I see thirty people go ahead of me with gigantic rolling luggage, and then I'm told that I need to check my garment bag because they used up all the overhead storage space. I will refuse, and then somebody else will be equally angry that they let me get away with that.

So what's my point, you may ask? Well, I just don't like you very much, Flying. If I could, I would travel for twice the amount of time to get home by train to avoid having to take a plane. It appalls me how the you experience gets worse and worse every time I fly (not that it was ever that great of an experience). They don't even give us food, anymore. And for those out there that know me, I have never met a meal that didn't fill me with joy for the duration of the act of eating, so that was a very big deal to me. Now all I get is my strange cracker-like snacks (honestly - where do they come up with the strange salty snacks they give you with the drinks on a plane?) and a small glass of juice (more ice than liquid, of course). ARGH.

There are so many things that make you so unbearable. First, there's the airport. For whatever reason, people at the airport are never in a good mood. People are stressed out, or sad, or just cranky, and it doesn't make for the best experience. I have always been amazed at how the cheaper the mode of transportation (planes, trains, to buses), the more friendly and patient the passengers are. So strange that bus riders are more cheery than those on the plane, but it's true. Not to say that there aren't friendly flyers, but they seldom reveal that part of themselves before boarding.

Then there's the boarding process. There's something so frustrating about trying to wedge your way down that tiny aisle, knocking people in the face with your carry-on luggage (because the average human being is actually wider than the aisle) to find your seat. And then, of course, there's the battle to find overhead space to stow baggage. Why I always get told that my extra carry-on is too much while other people roll small tanks onto the plane is beyond me.

And then I get in my seat and wait. And wait. There's more waiting on the plane than there is actual you, I think. At least on a short flight (less than two hours). And when you get on the plane, it's always just a little too warm. The air has a thickness to it that reminds me of old people, and I never fail to need to turn on my tiny little air nozzle to get more comfortable. And once I'm comfortable and dozing a bit, that obnoxious attention-signal dinging goes off and they start going over the safety protocol and tell me to turn off my music.

Then there's the actual act of you. The dull throbbing roar of the engines that slowly compacts my head. The constant air-pressure changes. The collective breathing of unhappy, uncomfortable people. Whining kids. Crying babies. Some punk kid kicking the back of my seat. People complaining. The air conditioning kicking in and freezing everybody on board. And no comfortable way to rest my head to nap without pulling a neck muscle because my head keeps flopping all over the place. And then I wake up, completely dehydrated and out of it for the next 12 hours, dreading the return trip.

I think that about sums it up. If I missed anything, I apologize.

This is the thing, Flying - it doesn't have to be this way. Riding the train is so very nice. Why can't you be? It's something I'll never quite understand. You could be something to look forward to. A nice way to relax and see the world from a different angle. But you just aren't, and I don't see that changing anytime soon.

But I suppose I should be more positive going into it. Maybe the more I expect it to be a terrible experience, the more likely it is. I should keep an open mind. Maybe this time won't be so bad.

But I doubt it.

Packing,
CVT

P.S. I didn't even talk about airport security. That's just too easy and played-out. Maybe the people that come up with airport security guidelines are the same ones that come up with teacher professional development trainings.

Dear Barbecue

Dear Barbecue,

Well. Summer is here. How do I know this? Because I just went to a you.

But that's not necessarily a summer-only thing, of course. The reason I know summer is here is because I went to said you wearing just shorts and a t-shirt, and I went home (past dark) in exactly the same clothes. I spent the evening lounging in the grass with no shoes on without getting uncomfortable. Mosquitoes bit me, and it was warm enough that it wasn't worth putting on an extra layer to prevent it. And finally - it was only fully dark about half an hour ago (it's 10:30 right now). That's all just so darn wonderful.

Of course, it makes me a little sad to think that tomorrow is the longest day of the year. Summer finally comes my way, and now days are only going to start getting shorter. There are those out there that would celebrate that tomorrow is going to be the longest day. I happen to be one that laments the shortening of the daylight hours. Pessimist I am.

And with the coming of summer, it seems that my letters are getting worse and worse. I let a few more people in on this little blog "secret" of mine, and now is when I choose to put together some of my worst crap. Is this going to be like the daylight? Are my decent letter-writing days on the way out? That may just be the case.

Not that it really matters, of course, because we all know that my one true Reader is going to continue reading this, either way (thanks, Brother). Everybody else shall do (or has done) exactly as I would do if somebody I knew told me to read their blog. I would read it a couple times (maybe), tell them - oh so politely - that I liked it, and then never read it again. Especially if one of them started out, ostensibly, as a letter to Barbecue, and then proceeded to become a little whine-fest such as this one.

I apologize, Barbecue. What a totally inappropriate way to use my letter-writing time to you. I really do appreciate you, Barbecue, so it's just terrible that I haven't made that clear in this letter. You are a wonderful thing. There's just something so satisfying about putting food items on a slotted grill over hot coals and watching them cook. That sizzling sound when cooking juices spill onto the coals. The pleasure of watching previously-cold coals becoming white hot. Using too much lighter fluid when actually knowing how to grill would prevent that from being necessary . . .

Aaahhhh . . . It's all so indicative of a good time. Sitting around with friends as dark falls, telling stupid stories or playing some sort of ridiculous made-up game (which only seems to happen during yous - people just aren't as creative when hanging out indoors). Yous make people more likely to actually TALK to each other, instead of relying on some sort of peripheral entertainment like dancing, or music, or just focusing on being drunk. You, Barbecue, bring out the best in people. Or at least the best in a GROUP of people.

Because, you see, I am not one to enjoy "parties." Although I'm a 20-something with a mohawk and nobody to call my own, I just don't enjoy "playing the game" of a "party" (but, obviously, I do enjoy playing the game of quotation marks). Call me old-fashioned, but I enjoy having real-live conversations with people. If I'm going to have to meet new people (which I'm not so good at), I best get to actually learn something about them instead of just yelling at them and pretending I heard what they said.

No. Instead, I would rather attend a you every time, Barbecue. There's just less perceived pressure at a you. I'm allowed to just kind of sit back and listen. To observe and throw in my two cents when I feel like it, without feeling like a jerk for sitting back. When you're that guy that's just sitting quietly at a "party," you just come off as an awkward loser. Or at least feel like it. Or maybe just I do. Either way, though, that's what happens for me.

I think I'm treading on old territory (as written in "Dear Fire Pit"), so I'm going to tie it off now. Point being, Barbecue, you are my social savior. You give me the realistic opportunity to socialize with a group of my peers without wanting to run away. And for that, I love you.

Full of Beef,
CVT

Dear Teacher Training

Dear Teacher Training,

So, I went to a you today. A full day of guest speakers and little workshops meant to help teachers become better at what they do. To sum it up, let's just say that the picture(s) posted with this letter are the most productive thing I got out of my day.

Because the thing is this, Teacher Training - you are a spoof. A farce. A joke. It's like some ridiculous satire making fun of the teaching profession and the way in which our public school system chooses to spend its money on "professional development." Granted, a few useful tidbits were gleaned from the whole day, but nothing that I couldn't have gotten from an hour on the internet (or less).

So why am I being so rude to you, my friend? It's not entirely your fault, I guess. But let us allow our Reader to be the judge.

It all begins with PowerPoint presentations. Now, if you've ever sat through one of these (which I hope, for the good of humanity, you have NOT), you would know how ridiculous these things can be. When PowerPoint presentations were first brought unto this planet, they were heralded as a wave of the future. A way to turn lectures into multimedia extravaganzas. And they could still be that way . . . if the people making use of the technology had any creativity whatsoever.

But it turns out they don't. Instead, PowerPoint has been turned into the slideshow of the 21st century. I might as well just sit in on Uncle Herald's hour-long vacation slideshow complete with monotone than believe that a PowerPoint presentation is EVER going to be dynamic. And that is what the ENTIRE DAY consisted of. Hour after long-ass HOUR of PowerPoint slideshows.

Actually, let me backtrack a moment. PowerPoint presentations are actually WORSE than slideshows in terms of creativity and interest. Because the majority of these freaking presentations are actually just bullet-point LISTS of EXACTLY WHAT THE PERSON IS TELLING YOU. Sometimes, it's really just a paragraph that the presenter is reading from. I mean - are you f-ing kidding me? And then they provide you with the slide printout to "read along" with the presentation, effectively eliminating any last vestige of a reason for actually sitting through the whole damn thing. Now do you understand why I call it all a farce?

Okay. I'm settling down again. Anyway. So it's hours of crappy presentations. And that's the beautiful thing. The most fantastically satirical clownish element of the whole joke: this is all happening at a YOU, a TEACHER Training. We go to this thing to learn all about better ways to reach our children and make the classroom a more effective learning environment - and how do they show us? How do they convey this priceless knowledge? With f-ing PowerPoint slideshows and monotonous lectures. There is no DOING. There is no MODELING. There are few real examples (and if there are, we certainly don't get an explanation past seeing it on the screen on PowerPoint). Basically, every piece of common-sense GOOD TEACHING that we know is completely IGNORED as these people tell us how to do our jobs better.

I'm almost choking right now.

Does it move you close to tears, as I am right now? It should. The minds of our futures are in the hands of a system that happily pays out its little money to keep the clowns marching while the elephant pulls the Big Top down on our heads. So, so sad.

So how do I flip this to make it a positive thing, as I am often able to do with these letters? I don't really know. There was ONE good presenter that I saw, who shared in the bashing of PowerPoint and actually conducted real activities and modeled good teaching. That's positive. How many people chose to go to that particular session? Six. Six of us. In a training that was big enough to necessitate renting out the entire Coliseum and its conference rooms, SIX people went to the only workshop that wasn't garbage. At least it existed, though. I commend you, J.J. Isaacson, for being the change I want to see in the world. If only there were more of you in the world of teacher "professional development."

And I suppose your heart is in the right place, Teacher Training. You had something to say. Something that, perhaps, not all teachers are aware of and need to know. I will give you that. But why do you have to do such a piss-poor job of bringing it to the masses? How can you not see that you have allowed yourself to become a joke? Something so ridiculous and unbelievable that it wouldn't be funny in a movie or tv show because nobody would buy it?

Oy vey. I'm going to plotz.

Right. I don't know that there is anything else to say here.

Thanks for the sandwiches and orzo?

Defeated, but not yet Lost,
CVT

*By the way, the drawings are of my bored coworkers having their life essences drawn out of them by the dark forces of PowerPoint. I tried to do something, but by the time I got to them, they were already gone . . .

Dear Mohawk

Dear Mohawk,

Yo. I just have to say that I kind of love you right now. I'm probably going to have to lose you (or at least a large part of you) shortly, but you will always be with me in spirit. We're just too good together to let anything come between us.

Anya once told me how her friend complained that when her boyfriend got himself a you, he suddenly became all cocky and somewhat mean. How he was just "too cool" with the you, and she was against them because of how they changed people. Well, now I kind of understand that.

Because the thing is, you are just too cool. I've never really had any sort of real hairdo before, and it's quite a lot of fun to have one now. There's just something so satisfying about rubbing my hands over my short, buzzed hair and then coming to the middle and playing with this elongated clump of long hair. Right now, as I write, I can see my shadow cast on the wall from my reading light, and you are shown in such beautiful shadowy glory. You're just so wonderful.

And it's interesting how it changes people's reactions to me. Just walking around downtown, I can mostly forget that my hair is anything but normal. However, from time to time, people just start staring at me or even make some comment about my hair. Hipster cashiers who normally never would have exchanged a word with me (because it's just not that "hip" to show interest or even affect about things) now say things like, "I like your hair, man."

And the best part is that - because of my you - I instantly channel a detached hip self that responds with, "Cool. Thanks, man." Wow. It's just so COOL.

So what is this phenomenon all about? Why does this happen? I believe that it all revolves around self-consciousness. When you're running around in public with some sort of ridiculous hairstyle (or piercings, or facial tattoos), you can't help but realize that a lot of the people you walk by are going to notice. A lot of those people that notice are then going to comment on it. Whether it's to make fun of you or not, it's impossible not to be aware of it. And that's what changes your inner core in response.

Because there are only a few real options to this kind of attention (that, of course, most people with yous are looking for): first, you can just totally ignore it and act like it doesn't exist. Second, you can adopt a "hey, f- you if you don't like it" attitude. Third, you can think - in a totally cool and hip way - "yeah, that's right, LOOK at my hair/piercings/facial tattoos."

So let's weight the pros and cons of said attitudes. The first one, of course, is fine, but just not that easy to actually do. When something is happening like that, and you're getting unwanted (or wanted) attention, it's next to impossible to just ignore it. And if you do? You're just faking it, which is even less cool.

The second option depends on your natural disposition. If you adopted the you as a way to go against the establishment, then it's a natural reaction. On the other hand, if you did it because you promised your graduating 8th graders that you would do it for the last day of school, this technique doesn't really fly.

So then there's the third option. This is the one I have chosen for myself. Somebody told me I should dye my you red, like a rooster. And that's about accurate, since no humble, good person would do something as obnoxious with their hair and parade it around without being all cock-sure and full of themselves as a rooster. The funny thing is where this approach can end up leading. For instance, when somebody is looking in my direction, I will find myself thinking, "That's right, LOOK at my you. Like what you see? I bet you do . . ." and then realize that the person was actually looking at the bus schedule behind me (or something similar).

Because the thing is: most people just aren't actually looking at me at all. It's like that age-old problem where guys always think that a girl is into them (and they are wrong), and a girl always thinks a guy isn't interested (and is wrong). Guys are mostly stupid, and a you only makes it worse. Which doesn't totally apply to me because I have the least amount of confidence in the world when it comes to the ladies (but maybe that's because I'm aware of the aforementioned rule). But when I have my you rocking . . . Well, let's just say that I am more apt to think attention is coming my way.

Which it is.

Because my you is so damn cool.

Touching my hair right now,
CVT

Dear Caffeine

Dear Caffeine,

Whoa NELLIE!!! Man - it's been a little while since we've hung out like this, and now I remember why. Something about the semi-anxious-but-out-of-it-while-inspired high that you've induced. Makes me feel a little crazy.

Yup, crazy.

So, earlier today, as I was wandering around downtown with my friend Fred (aka Gate), I made the conscious decision NOT to have you. I thought to myself, "I feel pretty good right now. Do I really need to jack myself up and then crash hard like I know I will if I partake?" The answer (from myself) was no, and so I stayed away from you and felt pretty good about it.

But then I decided to go catch a movie (28 Weeks Later, which, in case you were wondering, makes no sense whatsoever and ends up with less than zero resolution). And I generally like to partake in some sort of caffeinated soda beverage when I watch a movie, and today was no different. And I should have been warned, since there was no Cherry Coke as I usually enjoy at the cineplex. However, in spite of that clear message that I didn't need you today, I ordered a Pepsi and drank that up, instead.

So what happened? This. You are a drug, Caffeine. No question. I came out of the movie feeling all inspired and creative (which is an odd result from watching what amounts to a zombie movie) and just EAGER. Eager to get a-walking. Eager to DO something. Eager to look around. Eager to think. Hey - what's that? Oh, neat. It's nothing. Eager to just BE.

And then I realized that that eagerness was not actually being EAGER (which is a word that keeps getting weirder to me by the minute). No - it was what one might call ANXIETY. Not that I was stressed out or anything, but I just felt this need to DO something without the actual focus and presence of mind to figure out what that might be. So I walked. And walked. And walked.

Until I got home just now. And now that I'm home, I just feel more wired. And not in a good way. You probably can't tell from reading this, but it's taken me about 15 seconds to type this whole thing. Or at least it feels that way. My mind is moving a mile a minute, and it just ain't going to stop anytime soon.

It reminds me a lot of these quasi-hallucinations I used to have as a kid. I used to call them "Night Terrors," but it turns out that those are something different. I don't know what to call them, otherwise. Anyway, it was this strange feeling of everything being speeded up, and there was a governing, palpable BEAT that kept consistent time through the whole process. This strange feeling of people's voices being slowed down in a way, but this BEAT was so insistent that it simultaneously made it feel like things were getting fast and quickly out of control. So impossible to explain in words, but it involved the feeling that EVERYTHING (like the framed view of a movie camera) was sort of BREATHING or pulsing. And, at the same time, everything was being pulled further and further away from me.

Does that make any sense? Probably not. Does it make me seem like I'm crazy? Most likely.

So am I saying any of that is happening right now? No. Not at all. However, I AM strung out on you, Caffeine. You are bad.

And, at times like these, it makes me absolutely astounded that there are people that receive almost no effect at all from you-intake. It shouldn't be surprising, considering my background in bio-psychology, brain biology, and drug addiction (not that I was addicted, but I studied it); but it just seems so strange that people can have such different reactions to chemicals. Another piece of evidence of how people can really get used to ANYTHING at all. Our brains are just so darn adaptable.

Whoo!

So I'm kind of settling down a bit now. Thank goodness. Something about not eating before drinking a you-nated beverage. Not a good idea (for anybody, really, but especially for me).

It's a shame that I chose to have you today because I was all geared up to write a letter about Mohawks and Face Paint, and I think it would have been quite a good one. But, instead, I'm all whacked-out on you, and the only letter I felt capable of writing was to you. Oh, well. At least those close to me know that I'm crazy, now. That's always good.

On that note, I think I shall go. There's got to be some Super-Giant-Slurpee somewhere out there with my name on it, and with school over (in terms of kids, at least), why not just go on a Sugar and you bender.

Whoa,
CVT

Drawing #4

Nothing like drop-in figure-drawing to celebrate the end of the school year. Pink Rain Gatorade and an apple (as always). Pastels. I got me some special "Pastel Paper" this time around (hence the non-white background) which I actually didn't like as much as the generic sketch paper I've been using previously. Oh, well. You win some, you lose some. Enjoy.

CVT

P.S. I have a mohawk now. Not a faux-hawk . . . a real live MO-hawk.

Dear I Did It

Dear I Did It,

You. I made it through Year Two. You!

I should be back to my blogging ways now.

You,
CVT

Dear Fatigue

Dear Fatigue,

12 hours of school (with kids there, at least) left. If you weren't sure if teachers counted down, too, now you know. 12 hours left.

I'm tired. REALLY tired. You, Fatigue, are filling up my evenings and taking away my desire and ability to do the productive things I ought to be doing with my time. Because of you, I almost didn't do any sort of blog entry tonight. And we can't have that, can we?

It would be great if I could just relish these last few days of school and enjoy the children before a lot of them move on to high school and I never see them again - but that just ain't going to happen right now. For these last three days, I'm going to just do what I can to be as rested as possible and push through. Granted, it's nothing like last year, and I know that if I needed to teach for another week or two, I could make it. However, I don't have to, so I'm counting: 12 hours left.

Of course, those aren't the only hours I have to work. Between a final staff meeting, 8th grade promotion, and grades, there's still so much left to do. I ain't going to be making it out of there early any time this week. And that's okay. Because there are 12 hours left of kids at school. I suppose there are a few more if I count the promotion, but I don't want to do that.

12 more hours.

Even though you're with me right now, Fatigue, and it's not necessarily the most pleasant thing in the world, I'm not mad at you. I know that I could push through and do those productive things if I really wanted to. If I was less lazy, or a little more motivated, I would make it happen. I would. And could. But neither of those things are true - and that's nobody's fault but my own.

So even though you greatly contributed to a lousy blog entry tonight - I still did it. And I could do more with this evening in spite of your presence, as well.

I'm just not going to do it.

12 hours left,
CVT

Dear King Burrito

Dear King Burrito,

This letter has been a LONG time coming. If I was trying to do my stomach justice, I would have written it right after my letter to PB & J because I probably eat you the second-most of any food in my life right now. But, for some reason, I just never quite got around to it (although I DID make plenty of references to you in previous blog entries*).

But today, it's time. With only a few more days of school left (23 more hours with kids), our time together is likely going to come to an end for a little while because you are most definitely a school-only association. Not that I don't love you outside of that, but I'm just not going to come all the way up here to eat you without a damn good reason.

But enough of the lead-up. Now is when I'm going to thank you. Thank you for a great year. I don't know how many times a trip to see you and eat your wonderful carnitas burritos with extra avocado and sour cream have bailed me out after a rough day with the kiddies. And if it wasn't the carnitas burrito, it was three carne asada tacos (one of which, actually FROM you, is pictured below).

So many days, the kids were gone, I was hungry and tired, and my co-worker John would give me that look (the "swearing happens when kids go away" look) followed by the words, "Kinging it?" There literally was never a time when I said no.

So we'd go, both of us ordering the exact same thing every time, and we'd just unwind, maybe vent a little bit, but mostly just enjoying the ridiculous tastiness of your food. I don't know what it is, exactly. I'm sure that it has to do with the grease and fat - always tasty, if you ask me - but there must have been MORE. Crack, perhaps? Whatever it is, it made me only too happy to throw my $3.75 down for a gigantic honking burrito or those three tacos (same price). I mean, that's a Hell of a deal!!!

And, of course, there's also the peripheral pleasures you brought me such as PEPSI IN A GLASS BOTTLE!!! And some jewelry from the quarter vending machine in the corner.

And it wasn't just John that enjoyed those visits with me (whatever am I going to do when he's gone next year?). All the rest of the staff ended up at you with me at some point during the year. In fact, all the other teachers from the middle school PLUS teachers from our high school program were all there today. Must be something about the last week before summer that necessitates some heavy-duty refueling. Or maybe it's the crack.

Whatever.

To further the comparison to addictive drugs, there was even a time in which I convinced a kid NOT to stay after school to finish her homework that day because I wanted to get my ass to you, King Burrito. If that isn't a "cry for help" (similar to the one previously mentioned in my "Dear Irony" letter), I don't know what it is. Maybe it's a "cry of love." Yeah . . .

Whatever it is, you make my teaching life better. You help me let it out and recharge before going back to the fray another time. Is that how you spell the kind of fray where it's like a battle (as opposed to what happens to a rope)? Hell - carnitas in my belly, it doesn't even matter.

So thank you, King Burrito. Thank you for the times we've had. Thank you for the support - both mental and physical - that you provide for me. I'm sure we'll see each other at least one more time before I'm officially out for the summer, but I wanted you to have a tangible record of my love in writing. Thank you. Thank you so much.

Just Appreciative,
CVT

*See "Dear Soda in a Glass Bottle" for another you reference. I'm going to have me one of those this week. Maybe Wednesday.

Dear Sashimi-Grade Fish (or Dear Raw Fish, part II)

Dear Sashimi-Grade Fish,

Wow. All I can say is, "Wow."

So, if you've been following this blog for some time, you have read my letter to Raw Fish about how much I loved it and my master plan to get me some slabs of you and just eat 'em up, yum. Well, I did that yesterday. And it was the greatest thing that ever happened.

I went to an "Asian Supermarket" called Uwajimaya down in southwest Portland. Now, if you come from any sort of Asian roots, this supermarket would probably shock the hell out of you because it is very un-Asian in a particular way - it is so clean. And open. Nothing like any real Chinese grocery or market that ever existed. Of course, when I thought about it, I realized that it is a JAPANESE "Asian Supermarket," which is probably a very different thing, indeed. Which is something I should have been very conscious of, considering my aim in going there:

To acquire you, Sashimi-Grade Fish. And, although I was a little disappointed by the rest of the market, the seafood section did not disappoint. Not only did they have all sorts of wonderful fresh fish (and the whole damn fish, too - none of these unidentifiable slabs of flesh that you find in most American markets), but they had what I have been dreaming of for so long: a selection of beautiful you.

Because we've all seen fresh ahi tuna at other markets. And that's great and all. But if you really want to know my honest opinion (which, of course, you do if you're actually still reading this), ahi tuna is just a waste of time. A complete waste. I mean, I'd rather eat a rotisserie chicken than bother with ahi tuna. Ahi is great for you silly folks out there that don't know any better, sure. But I know better. Much better.

And so I was absolutely giddy with excitement when I saw the selection: salmon, blue-fin, and most importantly . . . HAMACHI (also known as "yellowtail" to those of you who would disagree with me about ahi tuna). I didn't want to get my hopes up, of course. I imagined it couldn't possibly be as delicious as the hamachi at a good sushi restaurant, but what if it was close?

I bought a half-pound of hamachi and a half-pound of salmon and eagerly anticipated the moment of ingestion.

So when I unwrapped it and cut a slice off with a nice, sharp knife, I was practically shaking. It looked so freaking beautiful. So smooth and fleshy. I held my little slice in between my fingers and dangled it in front of me: it sure LOOKED like real sashimi. But what would it taste like? I opened my mouth, placed it on my tongue, and bit down.

And tears almost filled my eyes. You, Sashimi-Grade Fish, are no f-ing lie. You were just as good as a good sushi restaurant - in fact, better than the last one I went to. You were delicious. You melted on my tongue while giving me just enough tooth-feel to get the satisfaction of biting flesh. It was the most amazing moment ever.

But that isn't true, exactly, because the most amazing moment ACTUALLY came a few moments later. And that was when I picked that knife back up and cut myself another slice off the hunk of beautiful you that was sitting before me. I can't put the feeling to words - it was like bringing life into the world, having my very own hunk of you that I could cut slices off of and offer to others as if I was a sushi chef with my very own restaurant. It felt somewhat similar to what God must feel like. So wonderful.

And so I spent the rest of the day (yesterday) and today relishing my power. Returning to the fish every now and then to cut another slice and eat it down. It never got old, that's for sure.

And this is the thing - not only are you delicious, Sashimi-Grade Fish, but you are like a drug. I swear you elevated my mood and made me feel downright HIGH. I've heard rumours about "fish oils" being good for depression, but I had always written that off as a hippie thing. However, now, I owe all of hippiedom an apology. My bad.

I am just so very happy right now because I just ate up some more of you for dinner. It was everything I had imagined and more. I just want to keep writing and writing, but there's nothing more to be said about it, really. You are a beautiful thing, Sashimi-Grade Fish.

My new plan is to just buy a pound of hamachi for my birthday and spend the whole day in a you-induced stupor. Some people drink, other's smoke or shoot up, I shall eat YOU.

Thank you so much for making me so very happy.

Eagerly anticipating our next meeting,
CVT

Drawing #3

Did this one yesterday. Drank the pink Gatorade Rain and ate another apple while drawing it. 30 minutes. Pastels (of course). It was pouring rain outside the whole time, which sucked because I was wearing Flip-Flops at the time, and I hate getting my feet all wet and muddy. Yup.

Dear Sugar

Dear Sugar,

I have some sort of interaction with you pretty much every day, and yet I have not written you a letter yet. Sorry about that. Since you're an ingredient that comes in so many different forms and appears in so many different types of foods and drinks, it just always seemed more appropriate to refer to the actualy food itself, instead of really talking about you. However, today that will change.

You're on my mind today because of the donuts. And the result from eating those donuts.

After school today, my fellow staffees got together to construct our school yearbook. As we got together, we were offered a pick from a pink box full of Voodoo Donuts. Now, if you don't know about Voodoo Donuts (which most non-Portlanders won't), it's a donut shop that specializes in off-the-wall, specialty donuts. Their most well-known donut is in the shape of a penis with two balls. They are also known for donuts with crushed Oreo bits on them, or Cap'n Crunch or other you cereals. You get the picture.

Anyway, because the donuts were there, I ended up eating a couple of them. Now, I used to eat donuts quite a lot (specifically, JELLY donuts), but I don't really do that, anymore. The reason? You, Sugar. Because I have the tendency to get a you-rush for a little bit, and then a hard you-CRASH soon after that.

And today was no different. One moment I was exulting in the fact that I had actually gotten enough sleep last night, and that I felt rested for the first time in weeks - the next moment I was feeling drowsy and in desperate need of a nap. And I blame YOU for that, Sugar.

I just can't process you like I used to. The more and more I become a man of moderation, the more various unnaturally refined substances affect me. It's not just you. There's also caffeine and alcohol. These days, I really have to carefully consider even small doses of the aforementioned ingredients because of the resulting crash I get from them. Most of the time, it's not worth it. My body and mind are just too PURE, these days.

And so - even though I got close to TEN hours of sleep last night - I still had to take a nap the second I got home from work today. And worse yet, now that I'm up from said nap, I'm still quite groggy and not feeling my best. And that won't do, because I have me some social plans - and I don't have those all the time! So, Sugar, I would ask if you would kindly back off and leave my system alone for the rest of the evening. I would really appreciate that.

But don't get me wrong, Sugar, I actually enjoy you quite a lot. When those winters hit me hard, there's nothing I crave more than some sort of sweet snack crammed with refined you.

And that's another thing - refined you isn't everything. There are so many ways that I can enjoy a version of you without suffering the ultimate price. For instance, there's the you in fresh fruits. I mean, there's nothing but GOOD in that kind of you. In fact, whenever I get up from a nap such as the one I just took, I like to immediately eat an apple or other you-y fruit to wake me up and give me the little energy-boost that gets me ready to interact with other human beings - and there's no crash from that.

There's also the you that's used in Asian cooking. Although it's generally refined you, it's used in small enough amounts that it only contributes towards excellent taste without bringing me down.

And carbohydrates are a form of you which I could never do without. There are still fools out there "watching their carbs," of course, but I think they're idiots. The carb forms of you are just too terrific. I love bread. I love pasta. Where would my famous PB and J be without carbohydrates? It would be Jelly and Peanut Butter, spread on my freaking HAND. And what kid in their right mind would EVER cherish that?

Ugh. I just had a vision that no teacher should EVER have to have . . . Thank GOD for you, Sugar.

There would be no noodles without carbohydrates. The majority of the foods I eat - and love so very very much - consist of a large portion of carbohydrates. And, of course, without complex carbohydrates, there would be no salty snacks - no Cornnuts or Goldfish or Snyder's of Hanover Hard Pretzels. What the Hell would I do with my life then?

Cry a lot, probably. Eat little chunks of meat while watching sporting events. Slurp worms from a cup of hot broth. Not pretty.

So, you see, Sugar - there are so many ways for me to appreciate you (and so many uncountable others that I haven't yet mentioned). And I most certainly do. It's just that the temptation of donuts was too much, and it felled me this afternoon. That's the only aspect of you that I DON'T like, and it's not even the biggest deal. I'm already becoming more alert. The fog is lifting.

You know what? Even refined you is a good thing, and I appreciate it. So thank you, Sugar, for all the ways that you fill the pyschological hole inside - don't you ever stop doing what you do.

And in your honor, it's time for me to go eat some noodles cooked in Gatorade.

Sweetly salivating,
CVT

Dear Competition

Dear Competition,

Are you healthy? A good thing? Or do you bring out the worst in people? Maybe both.

School is almost out. And as a final fun activity for our kids, we've initiated a school-wide competition running through this week. The competition is between our various Advocate groups (call them our "home rooms") and consists of a few different yous: an overall behavior you where they earn points as a group for attendance, positive behavior, etc.; a Scrabble game where designated students from each group form teams in a tournament; and a Dodgeball tournament. Today, we hosted the Scrabble and Dodgeball tournaments.

And the extent to which our kids are taking these games seriously is something to behold. They are ALL about it. Students who normally have discipline issues in class are more focused because their teammates (classmates) are coaching them up in the middle of class, so that they're team doesn't lose points in the grand you. Students who have never really gotten along have been working together to try to win. They have come together to form Dodgeball strategies and to help each other come up with great words with the letter "q." It's been great to see.

On the other hand, during the actual Dodgeball competition, they were crazy. Accusations of cheating were rife by any of the teams that happened not to win their game(s). Tempers raised. Students getting upset and feeling down when they didn't win the tournaments.

So what are you, Competition? Overall, I'd say, this experiment has been a positive one. Overall, the students have definitely come together over a common goal, and more positive than negative has come out as a result. However, it has exposed some large weaknesses of our kids. And it also sets some of them up for disappointment to some degree (although the flip is that it allows some who would never feel it outside of school to feel a PART of some success).

In the end - no matter what others have said - I think you offer too many positive lessons to be learned to not be a beneficial thing. What better arena is there to learn about how to work together as a team, how to work hard to achieve a specific goal, how to deal with NOT getting what you want, and discipline? Sure, in you, a kid is bound to face disappointment at times. However, what safer place is there for them to feel - and deal with - that disappointment? In MY kids lives, where so much uncontrollable disappointment abounds, learning to accept a loss in a GAME can set up some bigger acceptance in the future.

And without you, Competition, where else can kids learn about the wonders of an upset? Where else can they really be part of a situation in which the odds were stacked against them - and THEY WON? The world is not a fair place. More often than not, odds are too much to overcome. But, in competition, the upset happens. And it happens more often that should be expected. And that is because simple desire and hard work can be enough to flip everything upside-down in the world of you, and that is a HUGE lesson for a child to learn. There's no better way to instill the value of not giving up by having somebody be part of an upset.

And, of course, there's teamwork and sportsmanship. Realizing that you CAN, indeed, work with somebody you don't particularly like in order to achieve a common goal. Realizing that you do HAVE common goals with that person. And sportsmanship - the lesson of running off your mouth and then getting put in your place for it. Or on the flip side - the value and respect given to a gracious winner. The humility of a grace in the face of defeat.

And finally - the enjoyment of a GAME. Learning to realize that, ultimately, it's all just a big game that should just be played and enjoyed. And then extrapolating that realization to the other little games of life.

Yes, there are some ugly things that can come of you, Competition - as with any number of other learning experiences - but I will forever appreciate you and use you as a tool for learning. Not the ONLY tool for learning. But a valuable one, nonetheless.

Thank you for what you've taught me - and what you will teach so many others like me.

Humbly,
CVT

P.S. Oh - want to know why I keep stressing humility and graciousness in defeat? My Advocate is getting hosed in every competition so far . . . We're learning a lot.

Dear Fiction

Dear Fiction,

Consider this a continuation of my "Dear Escapism Pure and True" letter. Because, obviously, Fiction - you are quite instrumental to the very existence of Escapism Pure and True. Because you gave me just such an experience this evening.

Now, if you recall that particular letter, I made a reference to the fact that I had recently reverted to my dorky adolescence by purchasing and reading various comic books from my youth. The particular collection I was referring to was the "X-Men: Age of Apocalypse" epic series. I'm not going to go into detail on this one (I'll save the dorking out for myself and myself alone), but just know that this ain't your movie-version X-Men. This is a whole other ballgame that involves a lot of heroes dying, genocide, and a bunch of other "epic" things.

Anyway, I just finished up the series today, and I just can't get over how thrilling it is to enjoy Fiction like this. There's just something about heroes fighting against almost unlimited physical and mental odds to win out in the end. ESPECIALLY when it involves heroes sacrificing themselves and "dying for the cause." I can't really explain it. Maybe it's just my inner-youth speaking, but it's things like that that turn you into Escapism. The joys of reading stories where good guys consistently win. Where terrible things happen, but justice is always - eventually - served. Where no good person's death occurs without it ACHIEVING something.

And that's why we call it you. It's made up. Because the world isn't really like that. And so it feels so very good to immerse yourself in a world that IS. And there are those out there who would scoff at that claim - call it naive or hiding or even "Escapism" (said with an air of distaste). People who would look down on it for avoiding the "cold realities of life." I call it positive dreaming.

Those who know me would never claim me to be unaware of the "cold realities of life," and yet I absolutely LOVE stories like this. The epic kind where you know Good from Evil just by looking or sniffing. Maybe it's BECAUSE I'm so aware of how it actually is. Thing is, though - these kinds of ridiculous, fantastic stories give me hope. They actually inspire me to a certain degree. Because if there are people out there capable of imagining such things, then who's to say we can't make it happen to some degree?

I know people who derive much more pleasure from reading about "Real-Life Heroes" and look down upon those who might look to made-up stories for similar pleasure or inspiration. But why? Is there any difference? When I read about a "real-life hero" in a book, am I any more connected to that person simply because I know they actually existed? Or do I wonder what the author might be hiding to paint such a perfect picture of a real, flawed human? On the other hand, does it make any difference whether the flawed heroes of my escapist literatures ever actually existed or not? They COULD. Just as much as the real person might not be quite as good as we say.

In the end, it's all made up. Even memoirs are touched-up renditions of reality. Were I to try to write my own memoirs with the goal of adhering to absolute truths, I would fail miserably simply because our minds are too warped and malleable by the limits of memory and opinion. And as so many like to say about you, Fiction - any good story should be inherently true no matter the fantastic situations wrought around it.

When I was a kid, I used to daydream all the time. I'm pretty sure that my parents (and brother, likely) believe that I used to sleep in all the time as a kid. In truth, I was up and at 'em relatively early in the morning, but my most favourite activity was to remain in bed with my eyes closed, imagining myself as a character in the books I was reading. And I wouldn't just ride along as the story remained the same - oh no - my presence in that world would change everything around it. I would spend hours at a time just lying in bed, letting my mind roam free through all the worlds that my body would never be able to enjoy. I got excited for long car trips simply because it allowed me the opportunity to get some good daydreaming in.

And, of course, I stopped doing that as much as I got older. I got distracted by the "real" outside world and left my daydreaming (and fantasy you) behind.

However, in recent years, I have found myself returning to those ways. Not putting myself IN the story so much - but writing new stories in my head as I ride the bus, or fly, or just space out at home. That's why I have such a hard time actually WRITING my stories - because the limits of writing make them so much less than they start out as in my head.

People often refer to growing up as a time in which one's capital "D" Dreams fade and become more realistic. Where "real life" sets in, and one must maturely put them aside for more practical, capital "G" Goals.

Well, I say, "F- THAT!" As I grow older, I return ever more to the big Dreams of my youth. And, some day, I will actually write a full story to pass on to the younger mes out there - my daydreams become tangible and able to be shared. And when that happens, I will thank YOU, Fiction, for making that possible.

And then I will concentrate my forces inward and see if I just can't figure out how to fly.

Ready to Go Out with a Bang,
CVT

Dear Irony

Dear Irony,

Hey man. How's it going? You got put in my mind today, so I thought I'd write you.

On my way home from school every afternoon, I pass two large billboards on the side of the road. For the last month or so, both of those billboards were "Gambling Awareness" type ads, where they showed the face of some kind of cracked-out average-Joes (I actually knew one of the models, oddly enough) with various messages about gambling addiction and a phone number to get help.

Today, however, I noticed that those billboards had been changed over.

To Oregon Lottery "Scratchers" ads. Seems like you thought you'd get up to a few of your tricks, or my name isn't Count von Triloquism (in blog land). The best part is that both of those sets of billboards were paid for by the State government. Quite confusing, really. Which is it going to be? Should I call for help or indulge?

Anyway, I found that mildly amusing, so I figured that would be a good blog topic for today. Of course, now that I've told that story, I have nothing to follow that up with. Which is odd, really, because I feel like I constantly run into similar examples of pretty solid you in this world. Especially as a classroom teacher, where the kids just set themselves up all the time.

Hmmm . . . the other day, when one of the kids was sent home he told the teacher who had sent him (while flustered and angry) "I'm going to poop in the hall." That's not ironic, of course, but it WAS pretty funny. Because he didn't do it. I don't think it would have been so funny if he HAD done it.

The OTHER other day, I ate a piece of cake using only a plastic knife because there was no other cutlery. Again, not ironic, but I was pretty proud of myself, and if you can't share your proudest moments on a blog, where can you share them?

Why have you forsaken me and my blog, Irony? Why, when I need you most, are you totally out of sight and mind? Is that a form of you - that the one time I actually need a collection of instances of you to refer to, I have none? Not really. It's like that f-ing Alanis Morissette song where she lists off a bunch of situations that actually aren't really ironic at all - just crappy. This is like the blog version of that song. Oy.

It's like a guy trying to improve his social skills by reading an internet forum on said topic. This is just sad. My blog is an f-ing DISASTER today.

And I even had a PEPSI IN A GLASS BOTTLE!!!! today. Shouldn't that have made my blog better? Is that a form of you that I had a PEPSI IN A GLASS BOTTLE and still produced a poor thank-you letter?

You have many question, Mr. Sparkle.

Right. I guess I'll just end it here, defeated and alone. Thanks A LOT, Irony.

Broken, but not Shattered,
CVT

Dear Drip Irrigation System

Dear Drip Irrigation System,

I am writing to you now, late at night, as you do your wonderful job in my backyard. That's right, I'm watering my plants as I type. Amazing, you say? Why, yes, it is. Magical, even? No. Not magic. Simply the work of my good friend, Drip Irrigation System.

So I had myself a revelation about a week ago. For the last two or three years, I've been growing herbs and a few other plants in my backyard. For some reason, however, they never really did too well - never growing very big or bushy, seldom supplying enough herbage for me to use on a regular basis. And I just didn't get it. How could my soil be so much worse than other people I knew here in Portland? How could my plants be getting so much less sunlight?

Then the other day rolled around and - as I watered my young plants at the end of another scorching day - I had a revelation:

Plants need water to grow. Lots of it. So maybe watering my plants only once or twice a week (and for a short period of time) during the hot months wasn't really doing the job. The more I thought about it - the more clear it was. Maybe I should WATER my plants REGULARLY. Imagine that. Absolutely revolutionary.

But - in spite of that spurt of genius - I still had a problem: I'm lazy. I don't enjoy standing outside with my thumb on the garden hose spraying down little tiny plants. And since that is something that needs to happen after the sun has gone down, I'm even less inclined to do it. So that causes me to remember to water the plants irregularly. And when I DO remember, I end up getting bored quickly, and I don't water them long enough.

And that's where you come in, Drip Irrigation System. I had ANOTHER flash of genius yesterday afternoon: irrigation. Why don't I go the next step of installing an irrigation system, so that I can just turn on the faucet, go do something for twenty minutes (like write a blog), and then come back out and turn off the faucet and have my plants be thoroughly watered? And how could I do such a thing cheaply and (relatively) easily?

DRIP IRRIGATION SYSTEM!!!

So I went to the hardware store and wandered the plumbing aisles. But everything just seemed way too big and clunky. So I wandered some more, and I found an aisle that had everything I needed: tubing, stoppers, adapters to attach to my garden hose . . . It was amazing. It almost seemed like it was DESIGNED for somebody like me who was trying to figure out a way to cheaply and (relatively) easily install a drip irrigation system. I excitedly threw everything I needed (and more) into my cart and headed to the check-out aisle. On the way there, I noticed the sign for the aisle I had just been in.

It was called "Irrigation." Go figure. I'm not the only one who came to the realization that plants need water to grow.

So I spent this afternoon in my backyard, carefully running black rubber tubing throughout my vegetables and herbs, poking holes in the tubes with a nail. Not the most efficient (or effective) way to do it, but I got the results I was looking for. By the end of it all, I had a you all set up and ready to go. All I had to do was wait until the evening time to turn it on.

And so, when I came home late-ish tonight and wasn't really in the mood to water the plants, I got to put you into play. But what to do while I waited for you to do your job? Ah-ha! PERFECT!!! Write my blog!

As I write, my plants are getting watered. I am killing the proverbial two birds with only one stone. While once I could only write my blog OR water my plants at any one time, I am now capable of multi-tasking. And I'm even using less water to do so. Amazing. Magical, even.

Thank you, Drip Irrigation System, for taking care of my plants and providing them with the water they need to grow, so that I can attend to other things - like writing you a thank-you letter for taking care of my plants and providing them with the water they need to grow, so that I can attend to other things.

Thank you.

Freshly Watered,
CVT