From my little corner on the southwestern side of campus, I see the world through rose-colored glasses.
It's not optimism this year, as it was in years past when I stood at the door anxiously greeting the wide-eyed ninth graders newly shocked by their new beginnings. I'm not in the corner shoving spoonfuls of sugar into my medicine, convincing myself I'll herd cats or change minds or mold maniacs. It's actual happiness.
For the sake of saying it, being labeled a braggart, and moving on, I'll mention that in this, my fifth year of teaching, I'm working with two groups of seniors and one a group of twenty in an elective course. An elective course I was fortunate enough to design, by the way.
Without getting into the minutia of the Woodland Joint Unified School District, this opportunity first blesses me with far less paperwork than that demanded by curricula for freshmen (and sophomores). Secondly, most of the attitudes, habits, and behaviors unfit for the classroom have been abandoned, redirected, or escorted out. This translates into civil conversations, agreeable requests, and a continual show of faith in the educational process.
I do not yet know the evolving symptoms of senioritis, when it will strike, and how I will combat it.
I do know that I no longer preoccupy myself with policing cellular phones or iPods because I no longer feel like I'm dealing with children. If they can master the etiquette of technology use in social settings, they deserve a green light to continue navigating.
For now, though, the architecture of my lessons do not hinge on gimmicks, buy-in activities, or acting. I begin with questions and ask them to respond. I make them argue and support, read, and discuss. We write about our thoughts and feelings because, well, they're able to write about their thoughts and feelings. It's glorious.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Desire is a fickle old mistress.
When I initially mentioned a backpacking trip to my newly retired father, I did so for selfish reasons. Really, I wanted him to assume at least a semi-active lifestyle since his days no longer included being bounced around on bulldozers. I've implied similar notions in the past, using suggestive birthday gifts (bicycling gloves, hiking packs, Nalgene bottles) with moderate success, so I figured I'd at least have a pestering point with which to nudge him in the direction of the door.
But like a newly planted seed, he let the idea take roots. He fed it, nurtured it, and it quickly grew into a full-fledged plan. No longer dependent on weekends for free time, he conspired a mid-week, three-day trek into a section of the Mokelumne Wilderness. The distance, he said, was only about three miles, a perfect amount for someone eager to ease back into the lifestyle. The fishing on the north fork of the Mokelumne River, he told me, would be epic. Thirty years prior, he and his brother and their father could barely get their lines in the water. Each day they caught their limit before lunch, he recalled, and the river's meandering through granite and continual pooling gave anyone with a pole and a plan free reign on the trout.
He spread his excitement across the family like dandelion spores in the wind. Soon he was telling everyone about our return to the Mokelumne. He spent a good portion of my brother's wedding jawing with his brother and step-brother, beaming at his idea, his plan, and his new freedom. Most phone calls I made to him inevitably succumbed to preparations. Did I have utensils? he wondered; What food items did I plan to bring? The trip became a focal point between father and son; it was his pestering point, a countdown-worthy calendar item, the linchpin of my summer vacation that made all the trips before it merely warm-ups.
Day 1:
The trail head sits at Hermit Valley on Highway 4, just west of Ebbetts Pass. From there, it's four miles down the canyon to a spot named Monty Wolf's upper cabin site. The plan, my father said, was to go about three miles and stop near the inlet of a runoff creek labeled on our map.
We began at exactly 10:00 a.m. The trail skirted the north side of the river, then bent away from the water, dropping into a meadow formed by lightning strike and subsequent fire. The decrease in elevation seemed, at the time, undramatic, and my father continually plotted points on his mental and literal map. He pointed out hillsides where, according to him, the landscape would morph from thick trees to open granite. We trudged on through the timber, eager to find the place where the scenery opened and the river began falling into the aforementioned pools.
Could this be his last smile of the trip?
From time to time we rested, hydrated, and consulted the map. We ambled in and out of conversations, sharing both new stories and familiar memories, offering new analysis and previously unmentioned perspectives on the latter.
We crossed the Deer Creek inlet on a log and stopped for a meager lunch of dried fruit. We met two men--the only people we saw on the trip--who confirmed our location and the distance to Monty Wolf's upper cabin site. We passed beautiful campsites in the timber, both feeling headstrong and able, both certain we'd reach the vast rock slabs beyond.
Crossing a swiftly moving Deer Creek inlet on a log.
About a mile below our lunch spot, we veered from the trail and hopped up and down rugged boulders in search of a place to camp. The cross-country search proved the killer. Dad grew increasingly tired; the heat of the sun and the fifty-plus pound pack grew more and more oppressive. We eventually rested in a shady spot, removed the bags, and walked toward the river hoping to find a suitable clearing.
Nothing.
We packed up again and started trudging down the trail, eventually stumbling upon the same two men, shirtless, drinking from tall cans, and enjoying the shade. "You made it," one said, confirming we had in fact walked all four miles to the upper cabin site. My father's heart sank. Exhausted, suffering from a self-diagnosed condition called "rubber legs," and feeling lightheaded in the altitude, he felt his plan had tumbled out of control. There were a few so-so camp spots, one man told us, but nothing like what we'd passed after lunch, a mile or so back up the hill. We turned and, in small steps, made our way back up the small incline to find a place to quit.
Citing "something like claustrophobia," my dad desperately sought an escape from his pack and, eventually, being upright altogether. We ended up back in the shady spot, where I quickly threw together a fire pit while Dad rested. It was nearly 3:30. We'd misfired, bitten off more than we could chew, and had to establish a camp nearly four-hundred feet from the river. It was our only option.
The shady spot, looking back toward the trail.
A clearing, converted for camping.
Days 2 and 3:
Suffice it to say, the trip didn't go according to plan. The details stuck to my father's memory couldn't compete with the reality we'd found. The fishing was, as you might imagine at this point, terrible. I landed two tiny ones on worms Tuesday morning. Other than that, there was nary a hit. My father's attempts with a fly pole went as swimmingly, and we felt thankful we'd packed in sufficient food just in case the fishing stunk.
Catching rays (and not fish).
Both Monday and Tuesday included naps, as well as pre-twilight bedtimes in preparation for Wednesday's uphill trek. The downtime proved vital for us both, as the exodus from the canyon seemed one huge climb after another--something we'd each failed to consider on our optimistic walk in. Somewhere near the location of the lightning strike, Dad reminded me it was his birthday. I realized that he's scripted fifty-four years' worth of evidence that suggest a young mind and stout heart might satisfy your soul, but they'll break your body.
The chair I made for the aged one.
Looking up, the only direction to go from here.
Safely home and rested, I can easily imagine that the older one gets, the more the pleasure is worth the pain. And so I'll think fondly of our misadventure, fish be damned.
But like a newly planted seed, he let the idea take roots. He fed it, nurtured it, and it quickly grew into a full-fledged plan. No longer dependent on weekends for free time, he conspired a mid-week, three-day trek into a section of the Mokelumne Wilderness. The distance, he said, was only about three miles, a perfect amount for someone eager to ease back into the lifestyle. The fishing on the north fork of the Mokelumne River, he told me, would be epic. Thirty years prior, he and his brother and their father could barely get their lines in the water. Each day they caught their limit before lunch, he recalled, and the river's meandering through granite and continual pooling gave anyone with a pole and a plan free reign on the trout.
He spread his excitement across the family like dandelion spores in the wind. Soon he was telling everyone about our return to the Mokelumne. He spent a good portion of my brother's wedding jawing with his brother and step-brother, beaming at his idea, his plan, and his new freedom. Most phone calls I made to him inevitably succumbed to preparations. Did I have utensils? he wondered; What food items did I plan to bring? The trip became a focal point between father and son; it was his pestering point, a countdown-worthy calendar item, the linchpin of my summer vacation that made all the trips before it merely warm-ups.
Day 1:
The trail head sits at Hermit Valley on Highway 4, just west of Ebbetts Pass. From there, it's four miles down the canyon to a spot named Monty Wolf's upper cabin site. The plan, my father said, was to go about three miles and stop near the inlet of a runoff creek labeled on our map.
We began at exactly 10:00 a.m. The trail skirted the north side of the river, then bent away from the water, dropping into a meadow formed by lightning strike and subsequent fire. The decrease in elevation seemed, at the time, undramatic, and my father continually plotted points on his mental and literal map. He pointed out hillsides where, according to him, the landscape would morph from thick trees to open granite. We trudged on through the timber, eager to find the place where the scenery opened and the river began falling into the aforementioned pools.
Could this be his last smile of the trip?From time to time we rested, hydrated, and consulted the map. We ambled in and out of conversations, sharing both new stories and familiar memories, offering new analysis and previously unmentioned perspectives on the latter.
We crossed the Deer Creek inlet on a log and stopped for a meager lunch of dried fruit. We met two men--the only people we saw on the trip--who confirmed our location and the distance to Monty Wolf's upper cabin site. We passed beautiful campsites in the timber, both feeling headstrong and able, both certain we'd reach the vast rock slabs beyond.
Crossing a swiftly moving Deer Creek inlet on a log.About a mile below our lunch spot, we veered from the trail and hopped up and down rugged boulders in search of a place to camp. The cross-country search proved the killer. Dad grew increasingly tired; the heat of the sun and the fifty-plus pound pack grew more and more oppressive. We eventually rested in a shady spot, removed the bags, and walked toward the river hoping to find a suitable clearing.
Nothing.
We packed up again and started trudging down the trail, eventually stumbling upon the same two men, shirtless, drinking from tall cans, and enjoying the shade. "You made it," one said, confirming we had in fact walked all four miles to the upper cabin site. My father's heart sank. Exhausted, suffering from a self-diagnosed condition called "rubber legs," and feeling lightheaded in the altitude, he felt his plan had tumbled out of control. There were a few so-so camp spots, one man told us, but nothing like what we'd passed after lunch, a mile or so back up the hill. We turned and, in small steps, made our way back up the small incline to find a place to quit.
Citing "something like claustrophobia," my dad desperately sought an escape from his pack and, eventually, being upright altogether. We ended up back in the shady spot, where I quickly threw together a fire pit while Dad rested. It was nearly 3:30. We'd misfired, bitten off more than we could chew, and had to establish a camp nearly four-hundred feet from the river. It was our only option.
The shady spot, looking back toward the trail.
A clearing, converted for camping.Days 2 and 3:
Suffice it to say, the trip didn't go according to plan. The details stuck to my father's memory couldn't compete with the reality we'd found. The fishing was, as you might imagine at this point, terrible. I landed two tiny ones on worms Tuesday morning. Other than that, there was nary a hit. My father's attempts with a fly pole went as swimmingly, and we felt thankful we'd packed in sufficient food just in case the fishing stunk.
Catching rays (and not fish).Both Monday and Tuesday included naps, as well as pre-twilight bedtimes in preparation for Wednesday's uphill trek. The downtime proved vital for us both, as the exodus from the canyon seemed one huge climb after another--something we'd each failed to consider on our optimistic walk in. Somewhere near the location of the lightning strike, Dad reminded me it was his birthday. I realized that he's scripted fifty-four years' worth of evidence that suggest a young mind and stout heart might satisfy your soul, but they'll break your body.
The chair I made for the aged one.
Looking up, the only direction to go from here.Safely home and rested, I can easily imagine that the older one gets, the more the pleasure is worth the pain. And so I'll think fondly of our misadventure, fish be damned.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
"Taste the sugar with the salt," and other cliches to live by.
You've got to roll with the punches.
Life has its ups and downs.
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
Any number of mind-numbing cliches remind me that the lives we lead (or march within, rather) are anything but static entities. The plateaus, as my mind concocts them, range in distance and elevation, and then at times fail to exist at all. And while I find little to complain about in my life at this particular moment, I can't help but comment on the dichotomous nature of the happenings of these past few weeks.
The first story comes on the heels of the last blog in which I detailed the playful extravagance of the Zook-Petty anniversary trip in Las Vegas. Near the moment our marriage entered its second year (somewhere in a Las Vegas airport terminal), I received word that another marriage, one I'd attended just 5 years back, had crumbled. But, you've got to take the change-ups with the fastballs. You put the good on hold; you fortify, shield, and steel the ones you love against the bad. I offered up condolences and comforts. I adhered to the bifurcated view of the world I'd created. I tried to balance these conflicting emotions.
From this, though, I realized the foolish absolutism I employed to view this separation. From the surface, divorce of course appears an end, a tragic splintering of a family unit. The more I spoke to my friend, the more I realized that his voice possessed a clarity, an intentionality, and a strength I thought he'd lost. Marriage was his sacrifice, not his haven. He'd buried away the truest version of himself as a byproduct of the assumption that it would ensure his partner's happiness. I realized, in hearing him speak so candidly, that I wasn't balancing emotions so much as juggling my skewed perception of them.
On the home front (and unfortunately on the road as well), the private sector has slammed my wife against the wall and demanded she jump higher, run faster, and sweat harder. Unable to combat the threat of an unpaid mortgage and unwilling to promote even the inkling that any task is impossible for her, she's stayed late, gone in early, and found ways to perform even in the smallest of moments between living. She hacked away at keys until impossible hours in a hotel room last weekend, then rose at 7:00, worked until 9:45, and attended a wedding, after which she drove nearly three hours to return, yes, to work.
All this, while I enjoyed the twilight of my summer vacation by fraternizing with family and friends at Chris and Katy's destination wedding, where I imbibed in excess, and let a permanent state of relaxation and irresponsibility carve an increasingly deep smile on my face. Stephanie tells me that someone needs to enjoy the fruits of such hard work--or that teachers earn their summers, but as the contrasts between our roles shows its late-summer clarity, I wonder how my meandering through grocery stores, experiments in the kitchen, and afternoons in the garden compare with her obligation to seek out and account for billable hours.
This wonder didn't impede my indulgence at the wedding. And while I had my share of fun, I took it as my personal duty to make sure my brother and his new wife remained unfazed by the pressures of planning and carrying out this union. This emphasis on de-stressing the bride and groom, the parents, even the photographers, couldn't quell my own reactions to the state of the setting around me. The wedding, a prototypical "new beginning," seemed, at times, offset by the disrepair of an aging, dated Tahoe region. The glitz of State Line, the rustic charm of the condominiums, and the lure of the casino all seemed stained by smoke, chipped paint, and shoddy construction. The lake itself, the resurgence of the pine forests in the valley, and the eastern ridge-top views of the Carson Valley below managed to sustain the mountain charm the new couple likely envisioned for their special moment. The other elements, however, screamed, "RECESSION."
Though I gave myself wholeheartedly to this wedding, I kept track of Owen Britton's development at every opportunity. Pregnancy, childbirth, and parenthood all possess positive, at times even flowery connotations, and to consider that people must embark on parenting with anything less than unfettered joy remains difficult to comprehend. But on this roller coaster of emotions, I can't shake the thought that expectation, hope, and reality have tugged at Chris, Chelsea, and their families. The feelings obfuscate my own naive understandings of their positions, for they have endured so many complex emotions in such a short window of time that my outside perspective of their situation makes the big picture difficult to digest, or even recognize.
Is there a point to this, I wonder? As I try to make sense of things, I'm not so sure. I think now what I'm faced with is a reminder that the big picture is far too impractical to take at face value. My perception of the "known" is comprised of so many facets, features, and lineaments of uncertainty--of particulates and unknowns, really--that I just have to live in the moment, take life as it comes, and accept the good with the bad.
Sure. That'll be easy.
Life has its ups and downs.
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
Any number of mind-numbing cliches remind me that the lives we lead (or march within, rather) are anything but static entities. The plateaus, as my mind concocts them, range in distance and elevation, and then at times fail to exist at all. And while I find little to complain about in my life at this particular moment, I can't help but comment on the dichotomous nature of the happenings of these past few weeks.
The first story comes on the heels of the last blog in which I detailed the playful extravagance of the Zook-Petty anniversary trip in Las Vegas. Near the moment our marriage entered its second year (somewhere in a Las Vegas airport terminal), I received word that another marriage, one I'd attended just 5 years back, had crumbled. But, you've got to take the change-ups with the fastballs. You put the good on hold; you fortify, shield, and steel the ones you love against the bad. I offered up condolences and comforts. I adhered to the bifurcated view of the world I'd created. I tried to balance these conflicting emotions.
From this, though, I realized the foolish absolutism I employed to view this separation. From the surface, divorce of course appears an end, a tragic splintering of a family unit. The more I spoke to my friend, the more I realized that his voice possessed a clarity, an intentionality, and a strength I thought he'd lost. Marriage was his sacrifice, not his haven. He'd buried away the truest version of himself as a byproduct of the assumption that it would ensure his partner's happiness. I realized, in hearing him speak so candidly, that I wasn't balancing emotions so much as juggling my skewed perception of them.
On the home front (and unfortunately on the road as well), the private sector has slammed my wife against the wall and demanded she jump higher, run faster, and sweat harder. Unable to combat the threat of an unpaid mortgage and unwilling to promote even the inkling that any task is impossible for her, she's stayed late, gone in early, and found ways to perform even in the smallest of moments between living. She hacked away at keys until impossible hours in a hotel room last weekend, then rose at 7:00, worked until 9:45, and attended a wedding, after which she drove nearly three hours to return, yes, to work.
All this, while I enjoyed the twilight of my summer vacation by fraternizing with family and friends at Chris and Katy's destination wedding, where I imbibed in excess, and let a permanent state of relaxation and irresponsibility carve an increasingly deep smile on my face. Stephanie tells me that someone needs to enjoy the fruits of such hard work--or that teachers earn their summers, but as the contrasts between our roles shows its late-summer clarity, I wonder how my meandering through grocery stores, experiments in the kitchen, and afternoons in the garden compare with her obligation to seek out and account for billable hours.
This wonder didn't impede my indulgence at the wedding. And while I had my share of fun, I took it as my personal duty to make sure my brother and his new wife remained unfazed by the pressures of planning and carrying out this union. This emphasis on de-stressing the bride and groom, the parents, even the photographers, couldn't quell my own reactions to the state of the setting around me. The wedding, a prototypical "new beginning," seemed, at times, offset by the disrepair of an aging, dated Tahoe region. The glitz of State Line, the rustic charm of the condominiums, and the lure of the casino all seemed stained by smoke, chipped paint, and shoddy construction. The lake itself, the resurgence of the pine forests in the valley, and the eastern ridge-top views of the Carson Valley below managed to sustain the mountain charm the new couple likely envisioned for their special moment. The other elements, however, screamed, "RECESSION."
Though I gave myself wholeheartedly to this wedding, I kept track of Owen Britton's development at every opportunity. Pregnancy, childbirth, and parenthood all possess positive, at times even flowery connotations, and to consider that people must embark on parenting with anything less than unfettered joy remains difficult to comprehend. But on this roller coaster of emotions, I can't shake the thought that expectation, hope, and reality have tugged at Chris, Chelsea, and their families. The feelings obfuscate my own naive understandings of their positions, for they have endured so many complex emotions in such a short window of time that my outside perspective of their situation makes the big picture difficult to digest, or even recognize.
Is there a point to this, I wonder? As I try to make sense of things, I'm not so sure. I think now what I'm faced with is a reminder that the big picture is far too impractical to take at face value. My perception of the "known" is comprised of so many facets, features, and lineaments of uncertainty--of particulates and unknowns, really--that I just have to live in the moment, take life as it comes, and accept the good with the bad.
Sure. That'll be easy.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
New Things
Without the supporting cast of African stories and global football, I return to the blogosphere in hopes that my readers possess an attention span capable of indulging lackluster updates from a regular ol' life.
Around me, though, lives seem busier than martini shakers during happy hour.
I returned from the World Cup to attend my brother's bachelor party weekend at Silver Lake, south of Lake Tahoe. Thanks to Alex, we had a place to crash, fish, and relax. None of us struck out at the lake, pulling in a haul of rainbow and brown trout from a small aluminum boat and skinny dock. The late winter provided high water and cool weather for the weekend. We were able to catch the final games of the World Cup tournament down the road at the Kirkwood Inn.
Next on the news list is the first Zook/Petty anniversary celebration. To commemorate the big day, Stephanie and I put a mature mark on Sin City this past weekend. We arrived around 10 on Friday night, checked into our suite at the Venetian, and caught a late-night (for us) drink on the edge of the casino floor. We enjoyed the cover band, its indecent groupies, and an over served, over weight congregation of tourists.
On Saturday morning I enjoyed some strong coffee and a USA Today, then rousted my bride for a trip down to Bouchon for brunch. I went for the quiche and a bloody, while Stephanie chose a salmon baguette and a bellini. We then set out in the 113 degree heat for the Bellagio to find Le Cirque, the location of our anniversary dinner that evening. In the process of backtracking to our hotel, we walked the Forum Shoppes at Caesar's Palace, viewing the goods at Nike and Apple, then returned to the Venetian for a quick trip poolside.
The anniversary, somewhat appropriately, coincided with the NBA's annual Las Vegas Summer League, an arrangement of newly-signed draft picks and young representatives from certain teams vying to make impressions (and for some, make the team). It's a nice arrangement for the host UNLV, whose two joining arenas provide fans easy transition between games, teams, and players. The summer league also brings out coaches, veterans, and retired greats affiliated with either the league, particular organizations, or media covering the events. Some highlights for Stephanie and I include seeing Gary Payton, former Magic Dennis Scott, the entire Maloof family, Tyreke Evans and Jason Thompson, coach Paul Westphal, and assumed frenemies Vlade Divac and Rick Fox. I also bumped into Vinnie Del Negro in the elevator at the hotel, where I shook his hand and wished him luck on his new endeavor in Los Angeles. Another former great, Warrior Chris Mullin, casually strolled through the Southwest terminal while we waited for our departing flight on Sunday.
We watched an entertaining game in which the Kings fought back from a 16-point deficit to beat the Bulls by a point. The game included an Omri Casspi half court shot, an exciting moment that tied the game at the end of the third quarter. The game also led to my second televised appearance at a sporting event this summer.
If you can't tell from our attire, we left the game and went directly to our 8:30 reservations at Le Cirque. To kill 20 minutes, we sat down at the only slot machines Stephanie will play, "Deal or No Deal."
Our meals were amazing! Stephanie decided on the truffle risotto and the sea bass, while I picked the lobster risotto and a Chilean sea bass. We were extremely impressed with the experience, which we paired with a bottle of Rombauer chardonnay. For dessert, Stephanie (the baker) ordered/admired the Grand Marnier souffle, while I seized the opportunity to eat a tarte tartin with a glass of Hennessy VSOP. It was a lavish, indulgent, romantic experience we topped off with a walk down the strip, sharing barbs and jokes about our observations in the restaurant.
Though it happened from afar, we also welcomed my newest friend Owen August, the first child wrought by my dear friends Chris and Chelsea. Chris stands as my oldest school chum, and this experience has given me the opportunity to view the progression toward fatherhood through an entirely new lens. He and Chelse (whom I've also known since the early teenage years) have been insightful resources. Their humor and wit provide a uniquely humanistic perspective I've seemingly lost with others in the wash of small talk, baby-book jargon, or greeting card well-wishing.
They're facing the challenges posed by Ebstein's Anomaly, a condition they're carefully monitoring regularly. In addition to sending them our positive thoughts and best wishes, I'm adding some much needed excitement. I can't wait to meet this kid and watch yet another set of my mates raise a child.
The summer rolls on this upcoming weekend as my brother and his fiance give me one final opportunity to deliver a best man speech. Stay tuned for more reports on this occasion, my reconnection with my old friend Bill, and details on what I do with my rapidly shrinking summer vacation.
Around me, though, lives seem busier than martini shakers during happy hour.
I returned from the World Cup to attend my brother's bachelor party weekend at Silver Lake, south of Lake Tahoe. Thanks to Alex, we had a place to crash, fish, and relax. None of us struck out at the lake, pulling in a haul of rainbow and brown trout from a small aluminum boat and skinny dock. The late winter provided high water and cool weather for the weekend. We were able to catch the final games of the World Cup tournament down the road at the Kirkwood Inn.
Next on the news list is the first Zook/Petty anniversary celebration. To commemorate the big day, Stephanie and I put a mature mark on Sin City this past weekend. We arrived around 10 on Friday night, checked into our suite at the Venetian, and caught a late-night (for us) drink on the edge of the casino floor. We enjoyed the cover band, its indecent groupies, and an over served, over weight congregation of tourists.
On Saturday morning I enjoyed some strong coffee and a USA Today, then rousted my bride for a trip down to Bouchon for brunch. I went for the quiche and a bloody, while Stephanie chose a salmon baguette and a bellini. We then set out in the 113 degree heat for the Bellagio to find Le Cirque, the location of our anniversary dinner that evening. In the process of backtracking to our hotel, we walked the Forum Shoppes at Caesar's Palace, viewing the goods at Nike and Apple, then returned to the Venetian for a quick trip poolside.
The anniversary, somewhat appropriately, coincided with the NBA's annual Las Vegas Summer League, an arrangement of newly-signed draft picks and young representatives from certain teams vying to make impressions (and for some, make the team). It's a nice arrangement for the host UNLV, whose two joining arenas provide fans easy transition between games, teams, and players. The summer league also brings out coaches, veterans, and retired greats affiliated with either the league, particular organizations, or media covering the events. Some highlights for Stephanie and I include seeing Gary Payton, former Magic Dennis Scott, the entire Maloof family, Tyreke Evans and Jason Thompson, coach Paul Westphal, and assumed frenemies Vlade Divac and Rick Fox. I also bumped into Vinnie Del Negro in the elevator at the hotel, where I shook his hand and wished him luck on his new endeavor in Los Angeles. Another former great, Warrior Chris Mullin, casually strolled through the Southwest terminal while we waited for our departing flight on Sunday.
We watched an entertaining game in which the Kings fought back from a 16-point deficit to beat the Bulls by a point. The game included an Omri Casspi half court shot, an exciting moment that tied the game at the end of the third quarter. The game also led to my second televised appearance at a sporting event this summer.
If you can't tell from our attire, we left the game and went directly to our 8:30 reservations at Le Cirque. To kill 20 minutes, we sat down at the only slot machines Stephanie will play, "Deal or No Deal."
Our meals were amazing! Stephanie decided on the truffle risotto and the sea bass, while I picked the lobster risotto and a Chilean sea bass. We were extremely impressed with the experience, which we paired with a bottle of Rombauer chardonnay. For dessert, Stephanie (the baker) ordered/admired the Grand Marnier souffle, while I seized the opportunity to eat a tarte tartin with a glass of Hennessy VSOP. It was a lavish, indulgent, romantic experience we topped off with a walk down the strip, sharing barbs and jokes about our observations in the restaurant.
Though it happened from afar, we also welcomed my newest friend Owen August, the first child wrought by my dear friends Chris and Chelsea. Chris stands as my oldest school chum, and this experience has given me the opportunity to view the progression toward fatherhood through an entirely new lens. He and Chelse (whom I've also known since the early teenage years) have been insightful resources. Their humor and wit provide a uniquely humanistic perspective I've seemingly lost with others in the wash of small talk, baby-book jargon, or greeting card well-wishing.
They're facing the challenges posed by Ebstein's Anomaly, a condition they're carefully monitoring regularly. In addition to sending them our positive thoughts and best wishes, I'm adding some much needed excitement. I can't wait to meet this kid and watch yet another set of my mates raise a child.
The summer rolls on this upcoming weekend as my brother and his fiance give me one final opportunity to deliver a best man speech. Stay tuned for more reports on this occasion, my reconnection with my old friend Bill, and details on what I do with my rapidly shrinking summer vacation.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Final Videos
Now that we've returned to the states and a reliable wifi connection, I'm able to load some of the digital video clips from our trip.
Johannesburg Zoo
A rather large bear on the move.
A crocodile's brief swim.
Moving on up.
Vultures seemingly abiding by the adage, "sharing is caring."
Scenery
The landscape on the drive between Jo'burg and Rustenburg.
On the outskirts of a rural township.
Football
You've heard the ubiquitous vuvuzela buzzing during broadcasts of World Cup matches. Here is what it sounds like at a restaurant when the host nation's team takes the pitch.
South Africa fans react to Bafana Bafana's first goal, the first goal of the 2010 FIFA World Cup, scored by midfielder Siphiwe Tshabalala. Until Tuesday's strike by Netherlands defender Giovanni Van Bronckhorst, I thought Tshabalala had the shot of the tournament.
Ghana fans gathered at Melrose Arch react to a successful Asamoah Gyan penalty kick in the Black Stars' opening match versus Serbia.
Celebration in the stands at Tshwane/Pretoria moments after Landon Donovan's now infamous stoppage time goal against Algeria.
Johannesburg Zoo
A rather large bear on the move.
A crocodile's brief swim.
Moving on up.
Vultures seemingly abiding by the adage, "sharing is caring."
Scenery
The landscape on the drive between Jo'burg and Rustenburg.
On the outskirts of a rural township.
Football
You've heard the ubiquitous vuvuzela buzzing during broadcasts of World Cup matches. Here is what it sounds like at a restaurant when the host nation's team takes the pitch.
South Africa fans react to Bafana Bafana's first goal, the first goal of the 2010 FIFA World Cup, scored by midfielder Siphiwe Tshabalala. Until Tuesday's strike by Netherlands defender Giovanni Van Bronckhorst, I thought Tshabalala had the shot of the tournament.
Ghana fans gathered at Melrose Arch react to a successful Asamoah Gyan penalty kick in the Black Stars' opening match versus Serbia.
Celebration in the stands at Tshwane/Pretoria moments after Landon Donovan's now infamous stoppage time goal against Algeria.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Final Thoughts.
South African Subtleties
-"To Let" means the same as "For Rent." No one has inserted the obviously funny i to any of the signs we've seen, unfortunately.
-Servers in restaurants deliver the bill at a European speed--a suitable vacation speed, it's worth mentioning. They take your order and deliver and remove your plates very promptly, but it seems that they will never bring a check on their own volition. You just have to ask after you've been sitting at your table without plates for awhile. Sometimes, they will even come by to check on your empty table to see if you need anything, but they never ask if you want a check. Unlike in the states, the patron fills the tip out before the credit is charged, and the charge goes through a device at the table. If the patron decides to tip poorly, she gets to sit and watch the server go through the motions of typing it into the machine in front of her in an awkward silence.
-One must order a "filtered coffee" to get an familiar, American cuppa' joe. Servers ask you, however, if you'd like hot or cold milk, which I'm never prepared to answer.
-There is apparently no central heating and air in South Africa (some locals verified this fact for us, as we have obviously not inspected a lot of homes due to all the barriers surrounding them). This is due in some part to the good weather. The heating system in our room is basically giant square plates on the walls that one plugs in and turns on. If it was colder, the fact they don't heat up the room very well would be more of a problem.
-Not having a car means we haven't struggled with the fact that driving is done on the opposite side of the road. What's difficult, though, is overcoming the natural inclination to walk on a specific side of the street, of a walkway, or up a staircase, as the flow of foot traffic mirrors the road traffic.
-Green lights, of course, mean "Go" and yellow lights mean "Proceed with Caution." Red lights, at least when they change from yellow, do not really mean "Stop." Most drivers consider two or three seconds of red to mean something like "Get Your Ass Through the Intersection." Traffic laws seemingly permit this, as the opposing direction's light does not turn green immediately, apparently as a means to accommodate for this habit.
-South African soap operas on television include dialogue in a blend of both Afrikaans and English--something like our notion of Spanglish. What's funny, however, is how the network selectively subtitles this dialogue. Some of the programs have also had World Cup items in the background or being discussed as part of some strange product placement.
-Our motel, like any motel, provided us with a Do Not Disturb placard for our door. Having gone to bed near 5 a.m. after the knockout game, we hung the sign in hopes of getting sufficient rest. With the sign up, the staff knocked on the door at 9, called the room to get us to allow for breakfast delivery, and then called later to ask us to leave so the room could be tidied. My question: Why provide a Do Not Disturb sign?
A Land of Contrasts
The drives to and from Rustenburg really showed the contrast in the quality of life in South Africa. At a couple of points we skirted the edge of shanty communities. People walked along the road to and from major intersections, some spreading used clothes and goods along the route to sell. (Roadside window tinting, anyone?)
Less than 45 minutes away, we found ourselves near an upscale suburb surrounded by mini malls, car dealerships, and a luxurious golf community.
Inside 30 minutes from the previous spot, we found ourselves surrounded by nothing but typical, rugged African terrain.
Personal Records
-I've worn each pair of jeans I brought at least three times. Each pair of socks went 'round twice. T-shirts generally went a day or two, commonly layered over something long sleeve and reused as well.
-I now know why I own seventeen pairs of boxers.
-Stephanie has washed my team U.S.A. jersey and warm-up jacket in the sink. Ben has done some laundry in the room as well. Stephanie says I have to be careful not to make it seem as though this is a Chinese laundry joke. Regardless, they are very skilled with what soap we have and water.
-I, on the other hand, have made some dinners out of some truly non-standard items (tomato and cumin spread for pasta sauce?) and kitchen appliances that don't have specifics as to temperature or time anywhere on them.
-I painted my own face three times and decorated Steph's twice. I tied patriotic bandannas around my face, wrist, belt, and wife's hair. (I also dried her hair one night when she felt too feeble and ill to rub her hair vigorously.)
-I lost my glasses in a moment of exaltation at Ellis Park Stadium.
-My digital camera is haywire. It no longer zooms, the menu button has stopped registering, thereby making it impossible to change the settings or navigate through the photos.
-I have witnessed, captured, and experienced some the best football in the world in an expansive foreign country on the trip of a lifetime. Thank you for supporting, interacting, and joining us on our journey.
-"To Let" means the same as "For Rent." No one has inserted the obviously funny i to any of the signs we've seen, unfortunately.
-Servers in restaurants deliver the bill at a European speed--a suitable vacation speed, it's worth mentioning. They take your order and deliver and remove your plates very promptly, but it seems that they will never bring a check on their own volition. You just have to ask after you've been sitting at your table without plates for awhile. Sometimes, they will even come by to check on your empty table to see if you need anything, but they never ask if you want a check. Unlike in the states, the patron fills the tip out before the credit is charged, and the charge goes through a device at the table. If the patron decides to tip poorly, she gets to sit and watch the server go through the motions of typing it into the machine in front of her in an awkward silence.
-One must order a "filtered coffee" to get an familiar, American cuppa' joe. Servers ask you, however, if you'd like hot or cold milk, which I'm never prepared to answer.
-There is apparently no central heating and air in South Africa (some locals verified this fact for us, as we have obviously not inspected a lot of homes due to all the barriers surrounding them). This is due in some part to the good weather. The heating system in our room is basically giant square plates on the walls that one plugs in and turns on. If it was colder, the fact they don't heat up the room very well would be more of a problem.
-Not having a car means we haven't struggled with the fact that driving is done on the opposite side of the road. What's difficult, though, is overcoming the natural inclination to walk on a specific side of the street, of a walkway, or up a staircase, as the flow of foot traffic mirrors the road traffic.
-Green lights, of course, mean "Go" and yellow lights mean "Proceed with Caution." Red lights, at least when they change from yellow, do not really mean "Stop." Most drivers consider two or three seconds of red to mean something like "Get Your Ass Through the Intersection." Traffic laws seemingly permit this, as the opposing direction's light does not turn green immediately, apparently as a means to accommodate for this habit.
-South African soap operas on television include dialogue in a blend of both Afrikaans and English--something like our notion of Spanglish. What's funny, however, is how the network selectively subtitles this dialogue. Some of the programs have also had World Cup items in the background or being discussed as part of some strange product placement.
-Our motel, like any motel, provided us with a Do Not Disturb placard for our door. Having gone to bed near 5 a.m. after the knockout game, we hung the sign in hopes of getting sufficient rest. With the sign up, the staff knocked on the door at 9, called the room to get us to allow for breakfast delivery, and then called later to ask us to leave so the room could be tidied. My question: Why provide a Do Not Disturb sign?
A Land of Contrasts
The drives to and from Rustenburg really showed the contrast in the quality of life in South Africa. At a couple of points we skirted the edge of shanty communities. People walked along the road to and from major intersections, some spreading used clothes and goods along the route to sell. (Roadside window tinting, anyone?)
Less than 45 minutes away, we found ourselves near an upscale suburb surrounded by mini malls, car dealerships, and a luxurious golf community.
Inside 30 minutes from the previous spot, we found ourselves surrounded by nothing but typical, rugged African terrain.
Personal Records
-I've worn each pair of jeans I brought at least three times. Each pair of socks went 'round twice. T-shirts generally went a day or two, commonly layered over something long sleeve and reused as well.
-I now know why I own seventeen pairs of boxers.
-Stephanie has washed my team U.S.A. jersey and warm-up jacket in the sink. Ben has done some laundry in the room as well. Stephanie says I have to be careful not to make it seem as though this is a Chinese laundry joke. Regardless, they are very skilled with what soap we have and water.
-I, on the other hand, have made some dinners out of some truly non-standard items (tomato and cumin spread for pasta sauce?) and kitchen appliances that don't have specifics as to temperature or time anywhere on them.
-I painted my own face three times and decorated Steph's twice. I tied patriotic bandannas around my face, wrist, belt, and wife's hair. (I also dried her hair one night when she felt too feeble and ill to rub her hair vigorously.)
-I lost my glasses in a moment of exaltation at Ellis Park Stadium.
-My digital camera is haywire. It no longer zooms, the menu button has stopped registering, thereby making it impossible to change the settings or navigate through the photos.
-I have witnessed, captured, and experienced some the best football in the world in an expansive foreign country on the trip of a lifetime. Thank you for supporting, interacting, and joining us on our journey.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Adoption Papers.
I met a lot of great U.S. fans hailing from all over America. I met a lot of great Ghana fans, but none of them Ghanaian. Such is the nature of football when the tournament teams remaining represent a continent and not just a country. That said, you won't find many America supporters shifting their allegiances to Mexico now that the U.S. Men's National Team finds itself knocked out of the World Cup Finals.
After a 3-hour van ride, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on rye, a trek through a dirt parking lot (over six carefully counted mounds), onto a stadium bus transfer, and through a series of fences, we found ourselves back in Royal Bafokeng Stadium in Rustenburg for our last match of the trip. We spent some time at another friendly beer garden, tried our hands at ticket scalping, and endured the bandwagon Black Star fans before eventually finding our seats.
After only the third call of "quarter final tickets," we met Matthew, who hails from Mount Shasta, California. Matthew is in South Africa for a month-long internship, where his job is to drive soccer fans to their World Cup matches. Matthew, a new soccer convert due largely in part to the timing of this internship, unknowingly stumbled into the luckiest transaction in U.S. soccer history.
Scanning this beer garden photo, you'll see a homemade anti-Donovan shirt worn by a man in a green and yellow wig. The front of this Algeria fan's shirt says "Ghana's Newest Fans."
The fortune I felt at realizing our seating location is written all over my face.
We sat shockingly close, a mere three rows from the track bordering the pitch. We chatted up the man feeding the Jabulani balls to the players for throw-ins.
We sang. We cheered. We booed. The fans to our right were a veritable jukebox of nationally-focused rock songs. They worked with "Livin' on a Prayer," "Born in the U.S.A.," some unsuccessful Queen songs, and a nice little chant to the beat of a White Stripes' song. We watched Ghana take advantage of its two chances while the U.S. couldn't capitalize on countless. As the Black Stars hit the pitch, rode stretchers to the sidelines, and helped us vex our chances at a comeback, the feeling grew increasingly dire.
You saw me on television, likely mouthing an expletive that sums up the moment better than any writing I could do here and now. (This particular image was sent to me by a former student via Facebook. We are not Facebook friends, but he went out of his way to take a picture, search me out on the site, and send it with a heartwarming message. It's the most work he's ever done for me, come to think of it.)
Saddened by missed opportunities and surrounded by a large crowd relishing in the U.S. loss more than the Black Star victory, we retraced our steps through the throng of fans and locals selling an eclectic array of junk. We waited for another transfer bus while fans argued over how a queue works. We sat under another bunch of fans who'd adopted the Black Star, arrived at our van before any other members of our group, and then sat some more. A four hour trip to back to Jo'burg, through a mass exodus down two-lane roads, clogged highways, and three toll stops in non-reclining seats, and I'm rehashing it in the 4-o'clock hour before trying to get to sleep.
After a 3-hour van ride, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on rye, a trek through a dirt parking lot (over six carefully counted mounds), onto a stadium bus transfer, and through a series of fences, we found ourselves back in Royal Bafokeng Stadium in Rustenburg for our last match of the trip. We spent some time at another friendly beer garden, tried our hands at ticket scalping, and endured the bandwagon Black Star fans before eventually finding our seats.
After only the third call of "quarter final tickets," we met Matthew, who hails from Mount Shasta, California. Matthew is in South Africa for a month-long internship, where his job is to drive soccer fans to their World Cup matches. Matthew, a new soccer convert due largely in part to the timing of this internship, unknowingly stumbled into the luckiest transaction in U.S. soccer history.
Scanning this beer garden photo, you'll see a homemade anti-Donovan shirt worn by a man in a green and yellow wig. The front of this Algeria fan's shirt says "Ghana's Newest Fans."
The fortune I felt at realizing our seating location is written all over my face.
We sat shockingly close, a mere three rows from the track bordering the pitch. We chatted up the man feeding the Jabulani balls to the players for throw-ins.We sang. We cheered. We booed. The fans to our right were a veritable jukebox of nationally-focused rock songs. They worked with "Livin' on a Prayer," "Born in the U.S.A.," some unsuccessful Queen songs, and a nice little chant to the beat of a White Stripes' song. We watched Ghana take advantage of its two chances while the U.S. couldn't capitalize on countless. As the Black Stars hit the pitch, rode stretchers to the sidelines, and helped us vex our chances at a comeback, the feeling grew increasingly dire.
You saw me on television, likely mouthing an expletive that sums up the moment better than any writing I could do here and now. (This particular image was sent to me by a former student via Facebook. We are not Facebook friends, but he went out of his way to take a picture, search me out on the site, and send it with a heartwarming message. It's the most work he's ever done for me, come to think of it.)Saddened by missed opportunities and surrounded by a large crowd relishing in the U.S. loss more than the Black Star victory, we retraced our steps through the throng of fans and locals selling an eclectic array of junk. We waited for another transfer bus while fans argued over how a queue works. We sat under another bunch of fans who'd adopted the Black Star, arrived at our van before any other members of our group, and then sat some more. A four hour trip to back to Jo'burg, through a mass exodus down two-lane roads, clogged highways, and three toll stops in non-reclining seats, and I'm rehashing it in the 4-o'clock hour before trying to get to sleep.
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