MORE NOTES ON FAILURE

If writing quickens one’s sense of life, like falling in love, like being precariously in love, it is not because one has any confidence in achieving success, but because one is most painfully and constantly made aware of mortality: the persistent question being, Is this the work I fail to complete, is this the “posthumous” work that can only make an appeal to pity …?
—Joyce Carole Oates

Approximately one year ago I had been running eight to twelve miles a day. This, while taking two college courses and creating a Science Olympiad event from scratch. I’d come home most nights literally exhausted, my body aching and too tired for conversation—that sense of accomplishment fading away as my head hit the pillow. After ten months of nervous energy, my wife confronted me. “You’re starving your body,” she said.

“No I’m not,” I replied. In fact, I had increased my caloric intake to sustain my newest lifestyle. After years of coming home from work and fixing myself a cocktail and hearing “You should start exercising,” I threw in the towel, got off my ass, and did something about it. When I put my mind to something, when I say, “That’s it, I’m going to do it,” there’s only one approach I’ve grown accustomed to—full throttle ahead. I still think dropping my weight from 170 to 138 pounds in a year’s time was fairly reasonable. The proof is in the picture. Some of you may think I look horrible, while others may think, “What happened to him now?” That’s an easy one to answer: kidney stones.

It doesn’t matter what the task is: exercising, writing fiction, or blogging, I’ve always been serious about everything in life I’ve tried. (Don’t get me wrong: I’ve quit or failed at plenty of things—Engineering School was my biggest disaster.) But lately, it’s the small missteps that’ll drive me crazy. Just yesterday, I mistakenly called Ellie “Emily.” She politely corrected me and didn’t get angry like I had once done when my wife informed me that her friends thought the newer, lighter version of me meant that my cancer had returned. Also, Patterns of Ink informed me that Pollyanna did not die; instead, she became paralyzed from the waist down. Still, no glad games for me. If only I could do everything in moderation, then maybe I’d achieve more in life; there’s no sense in thinking I’ll finish all those things I’ve set out to do.

HIGH RATIO FAN RESISTANCE

Once in a very blue moon, an inmate will say to me, “You’re probably the best teacher I’ve ever had,” and my typical hurried response: “What do you want?”

I’m not comfortable with compliments because in the prison system most words and actions are calculated maneuvers. Maybe the inmate wants to soften me up so he can get some typing paper or a calendar or a stick of gum—although gum requests seemed to have dropped off lately due to my gross display of offering them the chewed piece in my mouth.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I have a difficult time accepting praise. After fifteen years of working in a correctional facility, you tend to view things from a different perspective, you become cynical, and your habits seemed to get altered—like sitting with your back to the wall and facing the exit while dining in a restaurant—your optimism slowly transforms into pragmatism or worse. No Pollyanna glad games here; afterall, doesn’t Pollyanna die in the end? No one’s going to snuff me out early without a fight. At least in the restaurant I can crawl under the table during a hold up and fight for my survival.

Now that I’ve thrown all my self-loathing and negativity to the wind, I’d like to publicly thank Ellie for her kind words. If you haven’t already read what she had to say about me, I suggest you have a look for yourself: Ellie's praise. Also, if you leave her a comment, I beg of you: Don’t talk about me. Heaven forbid that the truth comes out.

Thanks for keeping me motivated, Ellie. PS “How much do I owe you?”

THE MANIFESTATION

When the electronic gate clanked open yesterday morning, a second teacher joined me in emptying his pockets and walking through the metal detector. While I was reclaiming my personal items—car keys, loose change, wrist-watch, computer disk, and eye glasses, I said to the senior officer, “Hey, he’s got a gate manifest, have her look at his.” Prior to my suggestion, the rookie officer wanted to know whether I could bring reading material into the prison, and if so, whether I needed a gate manifest.

The second teacher, who is definitely not a morning person, looked at me rather irritably and yanked his wallet out of his back pocket and found his gate manifest. “So,” the rookie officer observed, “he’s allowed to bring reading material into the prison.” Then she turned to me and asked, “Where’s yours?”

The second teacher chimed in, “Yeah, where’s yours?” He knew I didn’t have one.

I went through my usual you-should-be-greatful-that-I-helped-you-learn-something-about-the-prison-system routine, which, by the way, worked. Both of us were permitted to enter the facility. My coworker looked at me incredulously, “Man, you’re something else.”

“I was trying to help them out,” I said.

“No you weren’t,” he argued. Although crabby in the morning, he was definitely alert.

Not to be evasive, but the book I was bringing into the prison wasn’t technically a book—it was a journal, an inaugural issue of “Murdaland.” I’ve been reading, discussing, and studying the stories in it. I’ve been reworking my nonfiction piece, “Kenny’s Got a Toad,” extending the storyline, making it nonfiction (there has to be a murder) and prepping it for the editor.

Not to be the one to have the last word, but if I’m confronted about reading material again, here’s my answer: “Unlike the other teacher, who is a vocational teacher, I do not need a gate manifest because I am an academic teacher.”

MEMORIES FROM A HAZY PICTURE

Some photographs are never clear; we can only guess or interpret the grainy images before us. In the picture above, I’m standing in front of a classroom bulletin board, circa 1990. I stood before a classroom full of troubled teenage girls housed in a facility called Northwest near Wyoming and Feinkel in Detroit. One of my most memorable moments had to be the day after the Pistons won their first or second NBA basketball championship—as I approached Monte Vista, the dead-end side street where I usually parked my car—I had to dodge broken glass and newsstands thrown into the middle of the road. My sleepy students informed me of the celebratory gunshots they heard all night long.

Another time, before I knew any better, I stopped to grab breakfast at the McDonald’s on Wyoming. After telling a prostitute in the parking lot that I wasn’t interested in what she had to offer, I went into the restaurant and placed my order. As I sat down in a booth, the prostitute reappeared, sliding in next to me. I threatened to get the manager; so in a last ditch effort, she told me she was a crack addict and needed some money to feed her children. I simply replied, “You’ll have to find it elsewhere.”

Yet another memorable moment had to be the ongoing use of an outdated textbook on Health and Hygiene. I’d have my students take turns reading the pages outloud, only stopping to interpret the silly cartoon messages peppered throughout each chapter. “Teisha, please read the bubble above the character,” I said. The other students objected, mainly because Teisha wasn’t pregnant like the rest of them. “I’d be glad to,” Teisha proudly responded, and then in a loud retaliatory voice she said, “Quit your urgin’ be a virgin.”

Lastly, I notice from the hazy image, the word “Happy” in the upper right hand corner of the picture. In an attempt to get my students to feel better about themselves, I had them decorate the bulletin board. Of course, the central figure happens to be a baby, sandwiched between Roger Rabbit and a duckling.

This was my first teaching job and I never did stick around long enough to see whether any of these girls succeeded in life. On a sadder note, the Detroit Free Press has been covering a torture case involving a Tamika Williams, 30, and her adopted twin girls. Could this be the 13-year old Tamika that once sat in my classroom? And if so, what triggered her to use her children as human ashtrays?

HEAD RUSH

“I have a universe inside me. Where I can go—on spirit guide me. There I can ask—oh—any questions. I get the answers if I listen. I have a healing room inside meeeee….”
—Sinead O’Connor
“The Healing Room”





I’m not Sinead O’Connor; I’m not an Irish folk singer reincarnated. My long slender fingers aren’t ripping up a picture of the Pope. Such craziness—a bug blipping my radar. But I’m not her. My passion differs. I’m holding a personal note in my brain. Call it a head rush. I’m riding the wind, two mini-flags permanently suction-cupped to my scalp. Or are they magnetized? I’m not sure. They flap and flap and flap, changing form—a disoriented parallax—a concession to my husband’s quick getaway.

Why is he on the run when I clearly am not? Is it my curt message received on the dash? Did he get it? Did he even understand it? I’d say he’s made confetti and here’s the parade, but our children are numb by it all. He’s copping the yellow in his rhythm, cruising the California at the three-way. Everyone else is blowing reds, and now, kudos to him, there’s a whole freight train of vehicles barreling down on us. They run the gamut: family, friends, constituents, the liberal minded media—a regular delegation cruising down Woodward.

He’s dyed his hair gunmetal black and splashed a newer, spicier Stetson’s for Men on the nape of his neck. He’s calling his PR man and fiddling with the presets on his FM radio. Country music, how appropriate. He’s never liked it before. Songs about drinking and breaking up. Hey, this is Shania Twain, it’s different. Yes, I duly mock him. And what’s with the black leather gloves? The chauffeur’s cap? He claims to be a different man. You’re not getting away that easy, I tell him. My flag-antennae sense that others are taking my side. Swanson and Son’s compliments have rendered him speechless. My feelers feel the other woman’s scent. I want to be brave. I want to destroy that mental note scuttling inside my brain. I want this head rush to quit. I want to start over.

I half-heartedly apologize. Oh, I’m sorry—did I wreck your concentration? Is that decaf you spilled on your Christian Dior shirt? When did you start drinking coffee anyway? Maybe your latest fling can help you out of your middle-aged crisis. Someone should celebrate your victory. Or will it be another concession speech?

His former secretary, Beth, confided in me that she will no longer dictate memorandums for corporate whores who sip Earl Grey tea and fondle college interns from tall wingback chairs. I ask him, Are you a corporate whore? Are you? I’m sure he’ll explain—cut to the quick—I am not a Republican, nor am I a Democrat—then he’ll hold my gaze and, shifting gears, slide his hand along my thigh and tell me the God awful truth—I’m a compassionate conservative.

Fine. Be noncommittal. But remember: this is no longer your jurisdiction, this is no longer your home. I’m riding the wind. I’m chasing my car. It’s my sanctuary. Where I’m discovered. Where I’ll go. Where I’m going. Two mini-flags suction-cupped to my head. A magnetic field pulling me away.

The reality is this: our intermittent marriage fuels my passion; my husband is not the image he portrays. I love him. I’ll wipe away what the journalist said to me at the Roostertail Fund-raiser. She recommended putting him down like a dog. I’ll have none of that. I’ll have none of this windshield wiper fluid fanning out like gossip in a crowd. I’ll keep these thin dirty streaks to myself. I’ll wash away the bugs. I’m riding the wind, streamlining the fender. I’m waiting for the rainbow to regain its color. There’s beauty beneath it somewhere. I’ll destroy my words, sprinkle them onto the floorboard, terminate the static. Listen, I gesture, Don’t you dare turn away from what I have to say. There’s no need in kissing babies. Or turning back for that matter. Everyone’s acting so glum. Remember: there’s as much talk about me as there is about you. ‘Tailgating’s only illegal,’ they say, ‘if you can’t bring your auto under control.’ But don’t worry Dear, the children took the bus, and even though I’ve turned the ignition, I will never ever leave the garage.

TAKING IT BUG BY BUG

Tomorrow I will give a presentation to eighty-some Science Olympiad coaches regarding the insect competition I’ll be coordinating this spring. Overwhelmed with information, a majority of the rookie coaches will beg for advice on how to approach the material. This year I’m going to read them an excerpt from Ann Lamott:

Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said, “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”

Hopefully they’ll understand the message, that each child should have fun identifying the various insects and insect orders and to prepare ahead of time.

Tomorrow I will also lose thirty-pounds, put on a dress, and ride across the United States like Thelma or Louise, except instead of ending a troubled relationship, I’ll be heading straight toward resolving one. At least that’s my intention when I take on the House of Sternberg's latest writing assignment: Using a first person narrative from gender perspective opposite your own, write seven-hundred words about unrequited love using the title, “Head Rush.” Also, the character must have some deformity, imagined or otherwise.

Of course, neither task is related. That is to say, I will not be in drag singing show tunes at the Science Olympiad presentation. The second task is imagined; the first is real. Your comments will be greatly appreciated, especially on the writing assignment (and not on how you think I’d look in a skirt). Lastly, once my new writing assignment appears, the old one will self-distruct. Why? Because I’m reworking the story, taking the two dozen or so suggestions and reshaping and extending the fictional dream.

GETTING THE SHOWROOM READY

A prison classroom is often viewed as a factory, where the teacher is expected to meet the facility’s quota annually. I’ve found that “making quota” is a nice way to shoot yourself in the foot, especially since no matter how many GED’s you produce, Lansing is never satisfied. They want you to increase your numbers each year by some arbitrary number pulled out of a hat. Never mind that the Michigan Department of Corrections is losing teachers through attrition. Never mind the temporary set backs such as an illness or assault on a staff member. You are on the assembly line dammit, so why are you not producing?

Our yearly audit has been postponed thank God, however, soon we’ll have the leader of our state’s prison education system at our door, her staff asking questions, pulling files, demanding answers. And to be truthful—I have nothing to say that hasn’t been said before. Way back (November 8, 1995 to be exact), School Principal Tim Hogan defended us prison educators in regards to thirty-two contact hours per week with inmates. “What happens when they speed up the line in a factory?” he asked in his memorandum. “The workers try to keep up, but then they start making more mistakes, start getting frustrated, and eventually become less productive, and very, very angry. There are limits to what the human body and spirit can do. If the thirty-two hours is strictly enforced, the teachers will try to do their best, but they too will become frustrated and ultimately less productive.” Twelve years later and I can honestly say that Mr. Hogan’s prediction has hit the target dead center—a bullseye if I’ve ever seen one. Files are incomplete. Academic plotters vary from facility to facility. GED Scores get lost. The list goes on and on.

As for me, I’m starting out my week by cleaning house, by getting rid of the dead weight in my classroom. Our facility has gone from five academic teachers to the current low of two. We have a waiting list of students begging to be enrolled in school. I can’t see someone taking up space in my classroom. I’ve got my target group. I’ve had them sign on the dotted line when quarterly evaluations were due. There should be no surprises. I’m going to get that showroom back in order, just in time for our annual audit. Out with the old, and in with the new. And as usual, when the head honchos walk past my room with their clipboards in hand, I’ll say to the inmates, “Okay now, it’s time to put on a show,” and they will shine.

TRUE LIES, TRUE ROMANCE

It’s a known fact that I’ve shared with many people: I did not mature until the age of twenty-nine. I had always said that I’d marry by the age of thirty, and true to my word, I got hitched one year earlier than my goal. During that stressful year, I hired in with the Michigan Department of Corrections, bought a 1970’s style ranch house, bought a brand new 1992 Ford Tempo, and helped plan my wedding. My parents and my in-laws agreed to pay two-thirds of the wedding cost, while my future wife and I paid the other third. Also during that time, my future wife bought a 1992 Lumina. She took out a loan through her employer’s private bank. Not that it matters now, but that Lumina was the crappiest car I’d ever had the pleasure of wasting time at a dealership with.

The day that our offer had been accepted on the house was the day that I proposed—Hey, I never claimed to be the romantic type—in fact, my proposal went something like this: “I guess we should probably get married, now that we bought a house together.” I never got down on one knee, I didn’t purchase an engagement ring, I simply stated a fact while driving over to her parents home. I can’t even remember what my wife said at the time. I’m thinking she said, “Okay,” but I’m not sure. Maybe she said, “Yes” or “Good idea.” Do I have any regrets as to how it went down? No. I’m a practical man, a realist. We sprung the news on her parents in pretty much the same way, “We just bought a house and we’re planning on getting married.” I never asked for permission to marry their daughter. My guess: at that age it’s perfectly acceptable to come right out and state your intentions.

Within the first month of working at my new job (prison in Detroit), I was told to close down my classroom and report to personnel immediately. I had asked my boss, “What’s going on?” She told me the Internal Revenue Service wanted to have a word with me. For some reason, I thought my future wife’s bold face lie about not having a car loan had something to do with this. Prior to our purchasing the house, she had told the loan officer, “My car’s paid for.” The loan officer looked at both of us in disbelief—two new automobiles and no car payments.

As I traveled between desks in the elongated personnel department toward the personnel director’s office, a Hispanic man in a fancy suit greeted me. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. “Mr. Garcia,” he said. “FBI.” The secretaries and office help were looking at me as if I had done something tragically wrong.

Puzzled, I asked for clarification, “I thought you were with the IRS.” The personnel director intervened. He said it was a joke. He knew beforehand that I was purchasing a home, so he thought he’d throttle me some. “Go ahead and take my office,” he told the FBI agent.

As soon as I plunked my ass in a chair, the agent started. “So you’re purchasing a house and getting married?” I was unimpressed, he could’ve received that information from the personnel director. “Your dad’s a tool maker by trade?” I might’ve mentioned this to someone at work. Then he came right out and asked, “Do you know a Lisa Wilson?”

I couldn’t believe it. Had my past caught up with me? She and I used to hangout together. I wanted to be exclusive with her, but she dumped me. The standard line: “I just want to be friends.” Story of my life. She had applied for a Federal Job and had put me down as a reference. I answered his questions as truthfully as possible. “Have you ever known her to use drugs, smoke marijuana?”

“No,” I said. I guess we all tell lies when needed. She knew that I was getting married, that she wasn’t invited to the wedding. After my first year of marriage, she called my parents and asked how I was doing. They said, “Fine. Just fine.” I’ve never heard from or about her since—our lives traveling their own separate ways—fourteen years later, my wife and I perfectly content.

CORRECT ME IF I'M WRONG

Correct me if I’m wrong, but the last time I checked—I’m just a convict teacher with a bachelor’s degree, working for the Michigan Department of Corrections. Nothing spectacular, just someone who helps the dregs of society improve their academic skills. But there’s another, more academically demanding side of me; I volunteer countless hours preparing for and running an insect competition called “Don’t Bug Me,” for the largest county in the United States participating in the Elementary Schools Science Olympiad Program (80 schools and climbing). So when a United States Presidential Award Winning Elementary School Teacher of Science (it’s on her business card) with a master’s degree emails me, asking if I would be so kind as to provide her school district with the practical (including insect displays) for their district competition, I politely decline.

First of all, her district’s competition is scheduled on the same day that I volunteer at another school district. She knew this in advance. She even mentioned it in her email, which in turn means that I would have to come up with duplicate insect displays. Secondly, I let her borrow all of this material for their district event last year, and in return, I got a half-dozen chocolate-covered pretzel sticks for my efforts. Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you think someone who has won the United States Presidential Teaching Award for Science (again, it’s on her business card) would demonstrate a tad bit more appreciation—perhaps a gift-card or certificate for a nice dinner out. The chocolate covered pretzel sticks were probably given to her from a parent anyway.

Correct me if I’m wrong—remember, I’m just your average Joe and probably not the brightest, but don’t you think that if she really wanted my insect displays and test material, she’d change the date of their district competition? Last but not least, her school district (they have a higher socio-economic status than where I live) kicked my school districts proverbial ass at the county competition. Besides, she has her summers off. She should spend her time and effort collecting and researching her own damn insects.

Desirea Madison of "Ambition" tagged me with the following: “Five Things You Probably Don’t Know About Me.” Here it goes:

1. My high school graduating class voted me “The Biggest Grouch,” in their mock elections.
2. I used to be a foot soldier for General Biscuit. My enemy: National Biscuit (Nabisco).
3. As a limousine chauffeur, I once left six middle-aged women stranded at a gas station when their divorce party turned into a “we hate all males” night.
4. As the new kid in a new junior high trying to gain a reputation as a “bad ass,” I deliberately stepped on another kid’s hand, breaking his thumb.
5. At my old junior high, I deliberately hit the classroom bully over the back of his head with a drafting stool because he poked me with his compass on a daily basis. I served a three-day suspension for my deed.

LESS IS MORE, MORE OR LESS

"The short story is written in a manner similar to the way it's read, which is all at once. At some point in a short story, the writer sits down and writes it all the way through from beginning to end. Whether it's on the eleventh draft or on the first draft, there's a wholeness to it, a momentum to it, a seeing of it all the way through."
--Lorrie Morrie,
author of Birds of America

I received an interesting e-mail the other day from Flashquake inviting me to enter their "Less Is More" micro-fiction contest which, by the way, happens to be free. They're looking for complete stories that have clear characters, a conflict, and a setting, and--get this--you must do it within 100 words. For more information go to http://flashquake.org . There's something about getting straight to the point, the heated argument, and quickly satisfying the reader by sprinting to the finish line that I find challenging. I've already sent them one micro-fiction story titled "Hurt's Proposition," and I'm working on another one. Hey, there's money to be won here!

HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

“The elderly are us, grown old, and their lessons for survival, even renewal, are our only preparation for the future.”
—Peter Stine, Editor of Witness

A majority of the inmates do not like the new 2007 version of me, preferring the older 2006 model, and suspected something might be slightly askew when they read the following question on my classroom board: Will the new year be the same as the old year? First, they protested that I no longer handed out full-length sheets of writing paper. Some even mumbled the following, “He’s a straight-up asshole.” Not that I needed to explain myself, but from past observations, the classroom assignments were not being completed. Instead, the paper was used for doodling on, writing rap lyrics, or writing letters home. Prisoner Brown went so far as to say, “I should write a grievance on you for not allowing us to do our work on regular sized paper.”

Before I could address his complaint, I told him to sit in a chair and not on the table. He’d been rather cantankerous since being released from segregation and refused to move. I said, “If, when you were in isolation, they brought you your food and instead of eating it, you chose to sling it at a corrections officer, it wouldn’t be long and you’d be getting your proper nutrients presented to you in a slightly different form.” He understood what I meant. Per policy, an inmate can not be denied a well-balanced meal. Thus, in this type of scenario, his food (perhaps a ham and cheese sandwich, cole slaw, and chips, with a glass of milk) would be mixed together in a blender and baked into a nice solid cake commonly known as nutriloaf. “I suggest you quit complaining, take the two half-sheets of paper, find a chair to sit in, and get to work.”

He refused to budge.

I told him about my younger days as a lifeguard. In order to pass my Water Safety Class and get a job as a lifeguard, I had to prove that I could rescue the instructor from the deep end of the pool. Not an easy task. He’d pull your hair, pinch you, choke you, and do whatever he could to stay above the water. But if you practiced the proper life saving techniques none of those things would occur.

“It’s like this Mr. Brown,” I said, “I’m not going to let you get a hold of me. I’m going to dive under water, spin you around, and ride-out your resistance. In fact, I’m going to bring you ashore alive, exhausted, and gasping for air ... or dead, your lips purple, your lungs full of water. Your choice.”

He smiled, and I decided to carefully bring him ashore.

ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL

If I ever entered the political arena, if I ever ran for office, I’m the type of person that’d get comfortable in a tall leather wing-back chair, where I’d forget about serving my constituents (they say power changes purpose, at least Shakespeare did) and would need someone like the late-former United States President Gerald Ford, God rest his soul, to grant me a pardon.

Better that I never become an elected official, not even an appointed one. Once, during my highschool senior year, I received the most votes from my peers to be our cross country captain, but after one too many complaints and rumors of my free spirited ways as a weekend warrior, the coach decided at the midseason point, after a dismal Detroit Lions type record, to have cocaptains. I considered it a demotion, laughed it off, and no longer offered sound advice. “I suggest you stick with the front pack,” I’d tell the inexperienced freshmen, knowing that the other team used two or three rabbits at the beginning of a race to tire out their opponents. I might’ve fooled them once or twice, but not for long. If I were on Survivor, I’m the type of person you’d forget about on account of my getting the ax at the first tribal counsel.

It’s best that I keep my mouth shut and listen to others. As the saying goes: You learn with your ears and not your mouth. Which brings me to my next point—don’t let the title of Joel Saltzman’s self-help book fool you—writing is not easy—it’s the most difficult, most self-tortuous task I’ve ever wrestled with. Joan Didion got it right about the whole writing process, “…that there is always a point in the writing of a piece when I sit in a room literally papered with false starts and cannot put one word after another and imagine that I have suffered a small stroke, leaving me apparently undamaged but actually aphasic.” Gee, maybe I should drop my pencil and run like hell.

With that said, I’d like to take a moment to nominate two individuals for the Seventh Annual Weblog Awards . In the “Best Teen Weblog” category my choice is Theory of Thought by none other than The Thinker. This anonymous sixteen-year-old young lady not only understands HTML code, but she knows how to effectively communicate with other bloggers. Her writing style is not only mature for her age, but also thought-provoking. My other nomination goes to Michelle's Spell for “Best Writing of a Weblog.” Don’t let the provocative pictures fool you; as my former writing instructor, Dr. Brooks (yeah Ph.D) consistently demonstrates a natural ability with words. She’s also the person who got me started with this whole blogging business. Thanks for suggesting a daily dose of pain in the form of mini-strokes—what better way for me to improve my writing. Both candidates deserve recognition for their steady dedication to writing in the blogosphere. Please vote by January 10th. Thanks.

MY ANXIETY COMES FROM THE T.V.

I hung my Wild & Scenic Michigan 2007 calendar on the kitchen wall only to have it taken down and filled full of doctors and dentist’s appointments, Science Olympiad meetings, presentations and events, birthdays, anniversaries, and whatever else my significant other deems important. Since I’m not a long term planner (and as exciting as watching wet paint dry), I wake up most mornings staring at the date, wondering how much fun I might be having if I could only do whatever I wanted. I simply dream about how I might squeeze a few fun-filled moments into my life. For instance, I’ve always wanted to go to the Ann Arbor book fair, however, it’s usually the same week as my annual catfish tournament, which, incidentally, is the only event I pencil in every year once I get the details. I shouldn’t have scheduling conflicts when it comes to things that interest me.

I used to count going to the gym at five o’clock in the morning and running six miles as quality time for myself, but as I get older and wiser, I treat it for what it is—a way to burn calories and boost my metabolism rate while half-asleep. What can I say? If I’m going to feel like a gerbil on a wheel, I might as well make it as painless as possible. Maybe I need to get a hobby, something more than the occasional Sudoku puzzle or television show to occupy my mind.

More and more, I study that damn calendar like an inmate studies the hashmarks on his cell wall. Allow me to do some quick math regarding “eighty and out,” (My Age + Years of Employment = Retirement). I’m forty-three with fifteen years of teaching in the Department of Corrections. That’s fifty-eight. Subtract that from eighty. Twenty-two. Cut that number in half. Eleven. Yeah right, as if I’ll be able to retire when I’m fifty-four (54 + 26 = 80). After completing his first year of retirement, my dad said, “I don’t know where I ever found the time to go to work, I’m busier now than ever before.” Imagine that! When is it going to be my turn?

THIS ONE’S NOT FOR THE BIRDS

SEE BELOW.
For more winning entries go to The Thinker's Theory of Thought.

THE 2006 "SYTYCB" WINNING ENTRY

TEMPORARILY CLOSED FOR REMODELING.

A NEW YEAR'S EVE TRIBUTE

The most difficult public reading I’ve ever done occurred on January 3, 2004, at the Chas. Verheyden Funeral Home in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. My father-in-law had died from complications related to Parkinson’s Disease on New Year’s Eve, and as my wife made phone call after phone call where she was greeted with “Happy New Year,” I sat in my mother-in-law’s living room putting together his eulogy. Although I’ve lost my original words, I still have four small notecards in my nightstand, a semi-outlined presentation of what I needed to say. In honor of my father-in-law, I’ve recreated those words. What better way to end my last post of 2006 then to pay tribute to a man I loved with all my heart and still miss. Here it is:

Parkinson’s is a funny disease. Some of you may have already heard this story; however, it’s worth telling again. One day, C___ and I went to visit her dad at his home. We knew with Parkinson’s that he had good days and bad days. On this particular day I needed to borrow a battery charger. I thought he had one, I just couldn’t recall how many volts it was or where he had kept it. All I could recall was that it was the color blue. After our visit, I told C___ “your dad was really sharp today. He told me his battery charger was on his workbench in the basement and the correct voltage and that I was more than welcome to borrow it.”

On the drive home, battery charger by my side, I had determined that he was having a good day. It didn’t matter, as C___ pointed out, that he did not know who we were on this particular occasion. It did not matter that he did not know his very own daughter or son-in-law. You see: He was willing to help out a complete stranger on that very day. That was the type of man he was—a quiet, gentle, generous man.

Parkinson’s is a funny disease. But it did not define him. It only magnified his character. In the nursing home he smoked his imaginary pipe. Why? Because he had smoked a pipe for years. He gave me imaginary money from his imaginary wallet. Why? Because he had always bought me dinner and drinks. He showed concern for his income tax. Why? Because he was an accountant for GM and didn’t want to miss his filing deadline. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t done his taxes in years. He also traveled plenty. He took his wife of 45 years on numerous cruises. He even paid for my vacation more than once. Two years ago, when he was in the nursing home, before we sprung him from the joint, he complained (but only mildly) that “this is the worst cruise ship I’ve ever stayed on.”

Although he had Parkinson’s, he never lost his motivation to walk. I can only guess that it was from all those years of waltzing with his wife. He never ever complained. He served his country in WWII. He wasn’t too fond of having his picture taken; however, earlier this week, we managed to find approximately 700 photos of him. Since he was 81, I’m sure there are even more pictures. If you haven’t had the opportunity to see parts of the DVD slide show I put together, please take a moment in celebrating his life with us. In closing: Daniel S____ will be missed, but not forgotten.

To start the new year off with a bang, I will repost my winning entry of The Thinker's 2006 Championship Round of the SYTYCB Contest (So You Think You Can Blog). Here’s to the year 2007! May we enjoy it to the fullest.

I NOW HAVE A DESIGNATED DRIVER

I wish I could get my brain to function at a four or five star Sudoku level at regular intervals where my recollections of events fall into place with ease. I’m not necessarily speaking about the digits one through nine either, instead, I like doing those sixteen digit puzzles with an added twist of filling in the diagonals correctly. Unfortunately my mind doesn’t always see things clearly and I end up relying on luck. When I write, I’m constantly checking the dictionary and thesaurus for a better word, a more comfortable word, and to be quite frank, there aren’t many words that I’m comfortable with. So, just like a Sudoku puzzle where I arbitrarily test a number, I usually settle for my original choice and hope that I made an adequate decision.

Back in my college days, a drinking buddy talked me into celebrating St. Patrick’s Day at an Irish Pub even though neither of us is Irish. There’s not much about that night that I remember. I’m not even sure if we were at the Blarney Stone or the Shamrock. I do know one thing, or maybe two things—no, make that three things. I drove. I sang along with the house band. And I drank way too much green beer. The next morning I could hardly function. My buddy gave me a wake-up call.

“Hey,” he said, “Did you have fun last night.”

“Too much,” I answered.

“Did you forget something?” he asked.

I thought about his question. I remembered going to the bathroom near the entrance of the pub and then stepping outside for some fresh air, but very little else. “No … not really,” I guessed.

After a brief moment of silence, he yelled into the receiver, “Me, you asshole!”

With New Year’s Eve fast approaching and plenty of parties to attend make sure your travel arrangements are in order. Drinking and driving isn’t worth the risk. I’ve had my share of close calls and have witnessed first hand the misery of certain individuals locked up for vehicular manslaughter. Today’s photo shows my designated driver taking her road test at a very early age. Thirty-some years later, her skills have come in handy, carting me arse from place to place when absolutely necessary.

B-I-N-G-O & BINGO WAS HIS NAME-O

I overheard a conversation in the employee lunchroom the other day between the Assistant Deputy Warden for Programs (ADW) and a School Officer about Bingo. Before I go into the details, let me explain how crowd control works at our facility and throughout the Michigan Department of Corrections. First of all, each inmate receives a printout of their itinerary for the day. Everything from a kitchen detail to weight pit to church to school. Security has always been a concern, and now that a computer can track each inmate’s whereabouts, every breathing body should be easily accounted for. All inmates must show their photo id and itinerary to gain access to an area. None of this, “I have so-and-so’s permission to be here.”

Now back to the conversation. The ADW for Programs wanted to know why the School Officer did not make allowances for prisoners enrolled in academic classes to play Bingo in the school. The School Officer informed him that it was not on their itinerary. “But they’re not in class this week,” the ADW for Programs pointed out. “Then someone should’ve changed their itinerary ahead of time,” the School Officer countered.

Both employees had valid arguments as to why or why not certain inmates could or could not play Bingo; however, security always prevails. The bottom line: If some event on an inmate’s itinerary is canceled that doesn’t mean the inmate can change his plans for the day—a done deal is a done deal. The School Officer was doing his J-O-B. He even caught a few inmates out of place and shook them down. I’m not sure if part of the Bingo prizes were peppermint candies, Hershey Kisses, and bite-sized candy bars, but I will say this, “The extra boost in sugar helped me get through the day.”

Incidentally, the last time I played Bingo was with my mother in a smoke-filled church hall. I remember a rather large woman asking if the chair next to me was occupied. I nodded no, and she proceeded to push my two bingo cards to the edge of the table so she could lay out her forty-some cards. By the way: Isn’t Bingo gambling?

ANOTHER DAY IN THE JOINT

I could’ve taken that stretch of time off between Christmas and the New Year and traveled south for some much needed rest and relaxation, but I chose to work instead. My fondest memory of a vacation where I did absolutely nothing is probably the time my wife and I rented a condominium in Orlando, Florida. My alarm clock came in the form of a leaf blower humming along at the crack of dawn. Angry, I had decided to give the lawn maintenance person an earful. Only problem: he did not a-speaka-da-English. So I got up early and read a novel by Sue Miller appropriately titled, “The Distinguished Guest.” I had become familiar with her work back in the mid-80’s with a subscription to Ploughshares. Her short story, “What Ernest Says,” not only peeked my interest in her writing—the story itself, about the relationship between a young white girl and a black boy who sat directly behind her in class—made me realize that not everything appears as it should.

I decided to work this Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday in the prison. The best time to be in a correctional facility is during the holidays because most of the prisoners are too damned depressed to argue with you. Funny thing is, when I first went into teaching I had one thing in mind: summers off and lots of vacation time. I remember my mentor, Mrs. Lillian Fishtahler (pictured above, January 4, 1988), telling me that vacations wouldn’t be easy to come by. “Are you kidding me?” I asked, somewhat surprised at her statement. Now I understand. She encouraged me to continue my studies and perhaps was the only staff member at Oakland University who understood my need to work while doing my student teaching. Who else was going to pay my school bill?

So, as a correctional educator, not everything appears as it should. I’m spending my three workdays scoring tests, writing student evaluations, and replenishing the handouts in my file cabinets. Although my prisoner contact is minimal this week, I’m looking forward to a better 2007, where I can help a few of them obtain their GED.

BUILDING A BETTER WACKENHUT

Now that Christmas has come and went, I guess I’ll go ahead and mention the most interesting gift I received. We all get them, that one thing that we really don’t need but for some reason get because it defines who we are. This year’s most interesting gift came from my wife: Prison Tycoon.

According to the back cover, private prisons have become the new growth industry. Although I haven’t played it yet, the object to this computer game is to turn a profit while dealing in human misery. I have to build a small dormitory, mess hall, school, and factory. Also, I must hire and control prison staff, set up and run my prison industries, influence prisoner morale through various activities, establish a sound reputation, and manage prisoner sentences from time off for good behavior to rehabilitation (yeah, sure).

As I become successful in running my low security prison, the level of difficulty will increase. More gang related incidents will occur. More violence. Even murder. The inside cover, under “Getting Started,” warns the potential gamer that they will not be able to build a death row right away. Imagine that. Should I be disappointed in not having the ability to pull the switch on an inmate? Here’s to hoping my newest gift will help reduce work related stress. If not, there’s always that one liter bottle of Seagram’s VO my mother-in-law bought me for Christmas.

What unusual gift did you get this year?

FINDING MYSELF NEVER SATISFIED

When you know where the story’s going, and you know what you need to accomplish, you tend to approach the structure of the novel with the sensibility of a car mechanic. You want to get into the engine and tinker. There’s a satisfaction in just making the damn thing run.
—Allen Morris Jones, author of Last Year’s River

I’m no mechanic. I don’t like getting my hands dirty. Something about grease under my fingernails bothers me to no end. I won’t even change the oil on my van, preferring instead the $19.95 Jiffy Lube special. My dad’s just the opposite, a retired toolmaker, he doesn’t mind looking under the hood of a vehicle or crawling below it with a wrench. When I announced that I was quitting engineering school, he was quick to ask, “What’re you going to do? I’m not going to let you live here and work some piddly job. You better have a plan.”

The only real plan I had was to “find myself,” to move on to the next challenge in life and to discover my place in the world. Shortly after dumping my college major, he lined up a factory job for me as a sweeper. I quickly declined the offer. “All these years I’ve worked there, paying the bills and putting food on our table," he said, "and now it’s not good enough for you!”

The real irony about my not working in a factory is that I think I would’ve become acclimated to the environment quite easily. It’s not hard for me to imagine myself going to the Paper Clip Lounge every day, having a liquid lunch, and kibitzing with a bunch of assembly line workers. Hell, I’d probably fight for the overtime too. What terrified me the most about my dad’s offer was that I might become too complacent. I never set foot in his manufacturing plant, even though he had worked there for most of his forty years of employment—sixteen years of it on the midnight shift.

I remember eating cold cereal in the morning while he poured himself a beer and tomato juice and told my brother and I to “have a good day at school.” On the weekends we’d go to our family cottage and ride minibikes up and down the street and through the woods while he tinkered away on a spare minibike in the garage. Today’s photo shows the very same Suzuki 50 I rode some thirty year ago. It’s in mint condition. My parent’s store it in their walk out basement. Click here to see me as a child, zooming down the road, my destination unknown. I’m still trying to find my niche in life.

CHRISTMAS MORNING

The weight of my stocking pulled the brass holder off the fireplace mantle and onto the wood laminate flooring. Nothing broke, I can assure you of that, having left my stocking lying there until morning, but it most certainly awoke me in the middle of the night. Considering my young age and sense of practicality—I don’t believe in fat men sliding down chimneys unless they’re of criminal mind (you read about such characters getting stuck and crying for help until the police arrive, or worse: suffocating in their own stupidity)—so I rolled over and went back to sleep.

My wife says I can sleep through a plane crash in our backyard, but for some reason, today I had to get up early and investigate the damage. My greatest concern was that the brass stocking holder chipped the wood laminate; however, the only real damage happened to be a few broken Werther’s Original Candies that undoubtedly softened the blow. I thought about unsavory characters, the Billy Bob Thornton type, doing B & E’s and stealing presents from under Christmas trees. Of course, this would be perfectly acceptable if some tragic circumstance, some malady, some horrible affliction, motivated Mr. Bad Santa to overcome electronic burglar alarm systems and locked doors. Hey, what can I say—a Santa Claus of this nature interests me a hell of a lot more than some good natured jolly old man spreading joy and cheer all over the world for no real apparent reason except to make us forget about our troubles. Let’s be real—Christmas Day to some only magnifies their unfortunate circumstances. I’d rather take a look under the microscope and see if I can come up with some of the dirt, some of the unfortunate events that most people would rather ignore. Isn't that what makes a character interesting? I leave you with some advice on creating fictional characters from John Dufresne:

Once I get to know a character, I want to know even more about them, so I keep digging into their pasts. And I also feel that every character in a story is the central character in his or her own story, and I try to suggest what that story might be. Every character has an imagination and memories, has suffered childhood traumas, has or has had a mom and a dad. Every character has regrets. Every character has secrets. Every character has a public self and a private self and a self that he doesn’t even know about.. Every character has a history, a formative past. And I need to know all that when I write the story. I want to tell what happened in a character’s life. But I want to know why it happens and I want what happens to be told in a surprising way, surprising for me and for the reader.

WHAT COMES AROUND, GOES AROUND

I worried what people would think of me when they read “The Widow’s Poet,” and whether anyone would publish it. Eventually, I was able to face down my fears, and tell myself that I can write anything I want if I’m willing to take responsibility for it.
—Melissa Pritchard

I’ll admit it, I’m one of those people you see on the news frantically shopping for presents on Christmas Eve. I’d like to tell you otherwise, that I put a lot of thought and planning into finding just the right gifts, but then I’d be telling you a bold face lie.

When I was a high school senior and working at a small town grocery store, the manager sold me a case of toilet paper on Christmas Eve right before closing time. While the cashiers counted their tills and the stockboys shagged carts and mopped floors, I haphazardly wrapped my gift in glossy advertisements. I didn’t think of the message I might be sending to my parents. You bought this, my dad’s expression seemed to indicate, because you think we’re full of what?

When I was dating my future-wife, about eight years after the TP episode, she confessed that her family had a unique gift exchange tradition. “You don’t have to go shopping,” I heard her say, “just pick out something from your home, something you no longer need that might give my family some insight as to who you are. And don’t worry about fancy paper, ribbons, or bows, wrap it in the comics instead.” I thought, Wow, here’s a girl near and dear to my heart!

Although I can’t remember exactly what I had given on our first Christmas Eve together (I think it was a variety of magnetic locker mirrors), I do remember drawing a low card and having to wait my turn to select a gift. I also remember the gift I brought going early in the first round. My feelings of joy and anticipation turned to anxiety when someone groaned at having opened a hideous looking candle that had been passed around year after year. As for me, when it was my turn, I received a box of laxatives.

A HORSE WITH NO NAME

Even the most ordinary lives, once you begin to press on them a little, reveal themselves to be full of the most affecting pathos.
—Vikram Chandra, author of Love and Longing in Bombay.

It’s so easy to say “Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year,” yet at work I’ve omitted it from my repertoire. These expressions, along with “Good Morning,” have been shelved for quite some time. Not that I’m wishing ill will on the prisoners, I really really do hope that their holidays are filled with peace. But after fifteen years, I’ve become condition to saying things a little differently. For instance: instead of the usual “Good Morning,” I say, “Morning.” I used to slip up and the usual response was, “What the &%#!@ is so damned good about it?!!!”

Yesterday, a few of the inmates wished me a “Merry Christmas,” and I did not reciprocate. A simple “Thanks” was all I said. They understood. Other inmates waited around for a “Merry Christmas” in return. To them I said, “Hey, try not to have a shitty holiday.” Laughing, they understood too.

As for saying nothing at all, the coworker I had problems with signed his retirement papers the day he and I had the blow out, and I, in turn, did not sign his farewell card. He is gone. I did not tell him to enjoy his retirement. What’s the point? No matter where he goes, a cloud of misery will follow. Here’s to wishing him well. And I seriously mean it. If I didn’t, he’d still be looking for his car keys .

Now it’s time to get the show on the road. Snow or no snow, Christmas is here! Time to spend it with family and friends. When I see my brother (if he hasn’t already read this post), I’ll tell him that the horse was definitely mine. It was the start of a natural progression. From there I became an American Indian (somehow mistaken for a squaw). After that, I became Gene Autry, the singing cowboy.

Before I ramble on any further: MERRY CHRISTMAS TO EVERYONE NEAR AND FAR.

THE HORSE & THE TRACTOR

I lived on a little farm in the mountains, really an old-timey farm. We didn’t have a car or truck or tractor. We plowed with a horse, kept our milk and butter in the springhouse, that sort of thing.
—Robert Morgan, author of Gap Creek

The horse and the tractor, cherished then neglected, more influential to me now, then when my brother and I unwrapped each during Christmas. The horse, in all its natural beauty, belonged to me, a future teacher of convicted felons (go figure); the tractor—a John Deere or Farm All, depending on the color paint—belonged to my brother, the future engineer in the family. Both gifts seemed appropriate not only to us, but also to the giver, our grandfather, a Michigan farmer.

I’m not sure how much influence a single toy has on a child. It’s the cumulativeness of it all that makes the difference. A constant barrage of Barbie dolls, Madeline Tea Sets, Easy-Bake Ovens, and Nifty Knitters may bring out the femininity in a young male. Not that I ever received such gifts; My beating came in the form of Halloween costume accessories. Other than that, we received Little Tikes Tool Benches, GI Joes, and Bop'em Boxing Gloves. Our young father, looking onward, certainly approved of these choices.

The horse and the tractor. The horse is a more gender-neutral offering. Young mothers, faced with a decision, would choose the horse before the tractor for their daughters. The tractor, on the other hand, seems to be gender specific.

When I look at this picture (it’s the only one where I’m sitting on my grandfather’s lap) I can’t help but think of the Huron Daily Tribune, about my grandfather's tragic accident. I was eight or nine years old at the time. I’m sure my mother still has the article tucked away somewhere. And I’m most certain there’s a newspaper photo of a car being pulled from the frigid waters beyond the pier, the chain taut, neither horse, nor tractor, hauling it away.

TWO HOUSES, ONE ASSIGNMENT

Last weekend I had carrot cake and coffee at The Pasta House in Kinde, Michigan. I never thought I'd do it. There's nothing there. A post office, a gas station, and The Pasta House.

I also set foot in The House of Sternberg. Literally. He's a retired educator who still enjoys dishing out homework. His lastest assignment: Write a 1,000 word (or less) short story dealing with a weird addiction. His circle of fellow writers/bloggers discuss each other's work after the assignment is turned in (posted).

Since I'm a man of few words, I graciously accepted his assignment. If you haven't read my story, "Adopted Behaviors," then scroll downward; it's my last post. For more short stories on weird addictions, go to The House of Sternberg. Better yet, if you're a fiction writer, look for his next assignment. I was pleasantly surprised at the comments everyone left regarding my story. More comments and suggestions are greatly appreciated.

A. B. (FLASH FICTION)

The subject matter is dictated in part by my subconscious, and I don’t care to force it to behave one way or another.—Rick Moody



Currently up for adoption. Wish me luck!

REEXAMINING THE EVIDENCE

Please don’t prosecute me for something you’ve probably read months before. I presented my tale, "A Creative Nonfiction Escape," to demonstrate how close I actually came to being arrested. Then I deleted my incriminating statement.



Once again, here is the real evidence in the form of a picture. Notice the busted windshield. Do you see its flaw? Do you see its cracked web of deceit on the passenger’s side? Ask yourself, "Is the writer telling the whole truth, or is something missing?" Maybe he should’ve been sent to prison. Where is his original statement?

Read my prose at Foliate Oak Online Literary Magazine. You be the judge. And don’t forget to leave a comment.

THE ENCOUNTER AT NORMAN'S

I’ve always considered myself the creep magnet, drawing anything out of the norm into my magnetic field. The buggered-up child with a prosthetic arm grabbing the tail of my shirt. The town drunk cleaning his glass eye with a yellowish handkerchief while giving me directions. The three-hundred pound welfare mom with an affectionate smile and a business card that says, “Jesus is your savior.” I sometimes wonder why they gravitate toward me or vice-versa. In college I dated a militant gal, president of the NOW Chapter (National Organization of Women) at Oakland University. One time—the last time to be honest—I stopped over to her house unannounced and her mom informed me she was in the backyard. I saw her lying in a chaise lounge sunning herself. As we began to talk, I noticed that two of her toes on each foot were connected but had individual toenails. My eyes couldn’t help looking at them. Over and over. Without offering an explanation, and perhaps a bit irritated, she put on some tennis shoes. I had learned later on that her feet were a less severe result from a drug that her mother once took during pregnancy. I was dating a thalidomide baby.

As the late Jim Morrison would say, “People are strange,” and it’s sure nice to see the tables turned once in a blue moon, especially when I’m one aisle over, listening to a lopsided conversation through the shoe racks. We’re at Norman’s in Bad Axe, Michigan, perusing their irregular clothing and other slightly odd merchandise. They buy truckloads of defective stuff and sell it at discounted prices; seems appropriate, doesn’t it? Anyway, this seventy-year-old man in bib overalls and a Dickie ball cap (that’s how my wife described him) says, “I bet I know where you got that purse.”

My wife looks in the direction of two young children goofing around in the middle of the aisle before she realizes the man is speaking to her. She detects a strong body odor.

“I bet I know where you got that purse,” he repeats now that they’ve made eye contact.

Not knowing how to reply, my wife answers as if it were a knock-knock joke. “Where?”

“Around your shoulder,” he says, his eyes moving downward.

With a nervous smile, my wife clutches her purse closer to her body.

“Are those your kids?” he asks.

Before she can say yes a woman peaks her head around the corner and yells, “Get over here! Now!” The children disappear.

“Are you by yourself?” he continues.

“No,” my wife’s quick to answer, her voice getting a bit louder, “I’m here with my husband.”

“He gave me the creeps,” she said to me afterward.

“Welcome to my world,” I replied.

YOU'VE GOT TO HAVE MOXIE

You are looking at Moxie, the latest addition to my extended family of pets. He’s faster than you think, faster than myself. I’ve always been the type of person that’s slow to react to given situations whether it be dealing with a manipulative coworker, throwing an inmate out of my classroom, or changing this blog to the beta version. I guess we’re all creatures of habit, trying to stay within our comfort zones. For the most part, I don’t like change.

The crazy loon I dealt with on Wednesday prior to my going home in frustration and anger signed his retirement papers that day. He should’ve never been allowed to work for the Michigan Department of Corrections for twelve years. His personnel records may be larger than some of the inmates’ criminal files. Come mid January he’ll be able to substitute teach in a public school (I cringe at the thought of it). At least this is a good change for me. Knowing there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, I’ll try to tough it out.

As for inmate stupidity, I had to answer a questionnaire regarding Prisoner Otto's whereabouts for the three days he did not attend my class. According to the Hearing Investigation Report the prisoner says he attended class and he would like the security cameras checked. I had to provide a written statement in regards to the following: Is it possible that this prisoner was in your class on 12/07/06 and missed being counted? Explain why or why not. No. Mr. Otto did not attend my class on the day in question. He was informed prior to this date that he must attend my class regularly. Also, on 12/11/06 and 12/12/06, he did not attend. School Officer Triplet discovered him in another classroom. "Out of Place / AWOL" tickets were written. (I jokingly told the Hearing Investigator that perhaps they could check the security camera in regards to my latest incident with the crazy coworker; she told me she only handles inmate situations.)

Lastly, this beta blogger switch has me puzzled. Did I miss a window of opportunity? In an attempt to convert, I’m told that I can not make the necessary change. Why is that? Do I have too many post? I don’t think so. I could start a new blog instead. I feel lost in the blogosphere. Any suggestions would greatly be appreciated.

KOOKY IS AS KOOKY DOES

A fellow coworker has been harassing me for far too long. His latest tactic: When no one’s around, except for the security camera in the hallway, he’ll turn his back toward me and in a deep baritone voice say, "Excuse me." He’s not trying to start a friendly conversation. Calling me "a punk" and suggesting I take a swing at him severed all forms of communication (except for memorandums) approximately three years ago. No, this coworker, who claims he’s retiring at the first of the year, is once again trying to provoke a fight—his last ditch effort to get me to do something that will get me fired and perhaps line his pockets with cash.

Yesterday, as I sat in my classroom preparing for my first hour, he stood outside my door and said, "Excuse me." I didn’t acknowledge him. So he said it again, "Excuse me." Then a third time, "Excuse me." When I finally looked up, he was gone. As I proceeded to the office, he stood by his classroom door waiting for me to pass. "Excuse me," he said, once again turning the other way.

"I don’t know what to make of it," I told my boss, "but I’m requesting an intervention with him right now." She knew exactly who I was referring to. I figured I had nothing to lose, perhaps we could air our differences.

She asked him, "Why are you continuously saying ‘Excuse me’ to Mr. T.?"

First he denied saying anything at all, then he claimed I almost bumped into him in the hallway (hmmm, wouldn’t the security camera have that on tape?). Then he started making faces at me while our boss spoke. Totally creeped out, I said, "I’m not going to put up with this nonsense. I’m going home." I have plenty of banked leave time, so I might as well use it. Hopefully, when I return, he’ll be gone.

GIVE THE MAN-CHILD A PACIFIER

If you’re a bleeding heart liberal and I tell you a bold face lie that the Michigan Department of Corrections number one goal is to rehabilitate prisoners you’d probably believe me. If, on the other hand, you’re an ultra right wing conservative and I tell you that the MDOC’s main objective is to punish each and every inmate for their past criminal behavior, again, you’d probably take me for my word. But guess what? Neither statement is correct.

Anyone believing in rehabilitation needs to take a long hard look at the people incarcerated. We’re not talking about puppies and sunshine here. We’re talking about pathological liars and thieves. I use the word "thieves" loosely—meaning killers (thieves for stealing lives), rapists (thieves for stealing sex), thugs (thieves for stealing someone’s health or destroying their property), and robbers (thieves for stealing money and personal belongings). Most prisoners, when opportunities arise, will prey on your weaknesses, and if they get caught doing something they shouldn’t, they’ll turn around and blame their victim. Here’s a simple example: An inmate in my classroom continuously turned up missing. I wrote two consecutive "Out of Place" tickets on him. "You lied on me," he said, "I came to school. I was in another classroom." He felt that it was okay to be where he shouldn’t have been because the other teacher never said anything to him. What kind of shit is that?

Let me get back on track. The main objective of the MDOC is to protect the public at all cost. Pacify these men, if you will, with basketball, softball, weight pit, floor hockey, Ping-Pong and many other recreational activities. Pacify these men with ESPN, ESPN2, FX, MTV, BET, VH1, Spike, SciFi, TNT,USA, A&E, CMT, Discovery Channel, Animal Planet, National Geographic, The History Channel, and many other cable stations. (Yes, they have cable television. In fact, they get more channels then I do.) Lastly, wouldn’t you feel better knowing that some asswipe is off the streets doodling away his time in prison instead of looking for his next victim? I know I sure would.

THE REAL STORY

Elves, don’t you understand what you have done? You both became so angry with one another that you forgot to make your toys out of love. You put so much bad feeling into making these toys that they came to life with anger inside them.
—Santa Claus, "The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat."


Always the skeptic, my version of Jessica and Owen’s discovery of a kitten and puppy on Christmas Eve takes a serious turn for the worse. These two wayward critters—didn’t they fall from Santa’s sleigh and wander the night through the forest?—aren’t cute and cuddly; they’re mangy, they’re damaged goods. They’re not so much put together by warring elves, no sirree—one’s from a puppy mill and the other came from love-passionate screaming alley cats. That’s how the procreation equation factors in.

Reality may be harsh, not at all like the story’s fairy tale ending where the Calico Cat and the Gingham Dog find harmony and love in their new home, where the brother and sister lovingly share and look after each other’s pet. Ask an animal shelter employee about the busiest time of the year and they will tell you, "We get more animals right after the holidays. As soon as the novelty of owning a pet wears off."

Speaking of pets, my wife and I are still feeling the sting from the loss of Bear, our black lab. We’ve found remnants of him under throw rugs and furniture. No more discussion about another dog yet. My wife’s been unusually kind to me lately, perhaps she’ll bring it up soon. Yesterday, she packed my lunch—homemade chili with beans, onions, and a cheese and sour cream topping. She hates beans, I should’ve known something was seriously wrong with her sudden act of kindness. It wasn’t until I arrived home from work and my stomach was doing backflips, that I realized where she had gotten the idea: leftovers from when our dog was sick and eating cheap hamburger and rice. I guess she thought I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between good hamburger and cheap hamburger.

EXPOSED, THE SHOWER SCENE

Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay just a little while longer? Just for talk?
—Norman Bates, Psycho


Someone commented on my last post about the JR Thumbprints Band. I can assure you there is no such monster. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, and I’m almost certain that if I tried to sing in the shower something dark and sinister would happen to me. I can see the knife’s shadow rising and falling, rising and falling, a continuous violent jerking motion straight out of Alfred Hitchcock’s movie Psycho, rising and falling, my poor defenseless forearms giving way to the attacker, my hands grabbing the shower curtain, the eyelits tearing away from the hooks.

Such horrific thoughts are unnecessary. I am not a warbler. There’s no sense in committing to a New Year’s resolution, where at the stroke of midnight I say to my wife, “Okay dear, I promise to never ever hide the kitchen knives from you again.”

Speaking of New Year’s resolutions, soon the gym I workout at will be crawling with new members. Physical trainers will be demonstrating how each weight machine functions and how to punch in the personal FitLinx code. If only they’d give our new members a complete tour of the facilities. Last year, while lathering up, I saw an Indian woman standing at the entrance. She sent her seven or eight year old daughter through the men’s shower area and into the locker room to use the bathroom. I turned my naked derriere toward them. I wanted to yell something, but nothing came out—the knife—rising and falling—rising and falling.

RAISE YOUR GLASS

Why do we read fiction? The answer is simple. We read it because fiction, as an image of life, stimulates and gratifies our interest in life.
—Robert Penn Warren

Why do I write nonfiction? To deaden that sense.
—JR’s Thumbprints

I have one small announcement to make. Nothing as grandiose as the belated toast I gave in a crowded church hall, a toast to my brother and his wife, where I said, “For those of you who did not attend their wedding, don’t feel bad—neither did I.” I’ve never been one to make excuses or vague references to anything unusual I did or did not do. What I have to say really isn’t that big of a deal at all, so I’ll just come right out and say it, “This is my 200th post.” I’ve been blogging now for 8 months straight, which is not that long of a time. More like the tail end of a sentence. Shit, I know inmates that can do eight months standing on their heads.

A few weeks back I clipped a blurb out of the Detroit Free Press’s Asked and Answered Section. The question: Just how many blogs are there? According to Technorati, the blogosphere doubles every 6½ months, or 175,000 new blogs each day, or 2 new blogs per second. The 50 millionth blog allegedly came into existence on July 31,2006. The Freep quotes David Weinberger, a new-media advocate, “On the Web, everyone will be famous to 15 people.”

I’m a firm believer on setting time limits on anything I do. My blogging days, like so many other fellow bloggers, will eventually come to an end. Andy Warhol was absolutely correct, “Everyone will have their fifteen minutes of fame.” I’m not sure whether I’ve had mine or not, but I do know this—my uncertainty keeps me going.

"THE FURNACE" WENT OUT

Why is it so damned difficult for a small literary magazine to survive in Detroit? Not one, not two, but several competing journals have been in Chicago for as long as I can remember. So why not Detroit? Not the Metropolitan Detroit area, but the heart of the city. Detroit.


In the Fall of 2002, a journal called “The Furnace,” promised to hang around for eternity, at least that’s the way I saw it, showcasing local writers, artists, and photographers. I actually believed them, or wanted to, and mailed off a check for a one-year subscription of four issues. Little did I know it would take 2 ½ years for me to get those four issues. But my faith never wavered. Some of my very own short stories appeared in issues 2, 3, and 4 (that probably says it all). What can I say? They had my local support.

I liked the anonymous Chrysler millwright’s metal magazine racks that held “The Furnace” face out; the metal flames concealing too much of the magazine, but drawing the attention of a few wayward customers at Café De Troit, Eph McNally’s Deli, and Avalon International Breads. I even tried to gauge the success of the magazine by some of the writers appearing in it: Jenny Bitner, Best American Nonrequired Reading 2002. David Barringer , We Were Ugly So We Made Beautiful Things. Ella Singer, Pushcart Nominee 2002. I thought for sure "The Furnace" would survive. A telltale sign of their success: my 2004 Christmas present of The Best American Short Stories Series; they listed “The Furnace” in the back of the book. Perhaps this would drum up new subscribers and contributors.

I should’ve known better. Their attempt at bringing serial fiction back failed miserably. Who wants to follow a story when the next installment takes 6 months to get published? However, I faithfully reread the previous issues to keep pace with Zuriel Wolfgang Lott’s “Feedback," (how's that for irony?). Near the end of their existence, the fiction editor accepted my serial titled “Ghost Suit,” which would appear in the next 3 issues. Then the downward spiral continued—the very same editor asked if I would replace her. “We’re meeting at Nemo’s, a bar in Corktown, on Monday,” she had written in her email dated December 11, 2004, “I could introduce you to the advisory board.” I graciously declined, and shortly thereafter “The Furnace” went up in flames.

DONTE'S INFERNO

I’ll never forget Donte Williams, a 7th grade student of mine at St. Matthew’s Middle School in Detroit. Unusually small for his age, he’d sit in his chair, legs dangling, whisking the floor, thumb discreetly inserted in his mouth, sucking and daydreaming his life away. He’d stare out the window for countless hours, his mind elsewhere. I’d constantly remind him, “Donte, unless you plan on attending summer school, I suggest you start working on your class assignment.”

Always one to acknowledge my requests, he’d quickly fill in the blanks with whatever words popped into his head—never mind the word bank—and he’d draw quivery lines connecting words and terms based on fate and not fact. “I’m done,” he’d say, interjecting zero enthusiasm, a more controlled deadness in the tone of his voice. Then he’d drift back to a different time and place, his body physically here, but his mind far far away, until I’d reel him in again with the same observation, “Donte, you didn’t even try.”

One day, right before the Christmas break, a sad tired look on his face, Donte asked if he could speak to me in the hallway. “Sure,” I answered. It didn’t take him long to say what had been troubling him. “My dad beats me.” I immediately asked whether there were any physical marks and he lifted his shirt, showing me elongated crimson welts. “He uses an extension cord,” he added.

I told Donte that I had a moral and legal responsibility to report child abuse and that more than likely a social worker would visit his home. Later that week, I had learned from the principal that they were trying to locate his mother. Meanwhile, Donte continued attending class and staring out the window. I could almost imagine his thoughts: Will I get a beating after school today?

As for the father, who happened to be—of all occupations—a Detroit police officer, I tried explaining my situation after we accidentally met in the corridor, “Whenever a student tells me something of this nature, I’m legally obligated to report it.”

He, in turn, replied, “As far as I’m concerned, Social Services can keep the little son-of-a-bitch.” I saw Donte Williams once more after the holidays, then he disappeared from my life. If he had stayed in my class until the end of the school year, I would have, without a doubt, given him a social promotion to the next grade level. I saw no need in compounding his agony.

AN EARLY CHRISTMAS PRESENT

Stick to it in spite of hell and other people. Patience and endurance.
--Katherine Anne Porter






Christmas came early for me in the form of an acceptance letter from Foliate Oak Literary Magazine.

Here's what they had to say:

Congratulations! We've chosen your work to be published. We enjoyed reading your submission and will be including it in our January issue of Foliate Oak Online. We will notify you when your work is published. Thanks again and we look forward to seeing more of your work in the future.
--Jessica Hall

This will be my first creative nonfiction piece.

A BIT OF DOGGEREL & TWO REPRIEVES

Nothing could be more appropriate than the light dusting of snow, each tiny snowflake as unique as the calcified stones I placed on my urologist’s office desk. He, of course, ignored my action. “The stone is so small,” he said, examining the x-ray of my left kidney, “that I suggest you drink plenty of water and I’ll see you back here in six months.” Just like that, a simple handshake and I’m leaving his office, our meeting no longer a regular visit, instead, a post-op evaluation.

It’s been approximately ninety days (a four pound weight increase per month) since I’ve stepped onto a treadmill or elliptical; It’s been even longer since I’ve lifted weights. This morning I’m back at the gym continuing my daily routine. A fresh start. A new beginning. I’ve been granted a reprieve.

In other news, a former student shared the following letter with me:

Dear Mr. Remick:

Enclosed you will find a copy of the Court of Appeals’ opinion in your case. Congratulations, because, as you can see, they have reversed your conviction and have granted you a new trial. The opinion was also chosen to be published. I have included copies of the case that the Court of Appeals connects on, People v Sullivan, 392 Mich 324 (1974); People v Pollick, 448 Mich 376 (1995); People v Hardin, 421 Mich 296 (1984); and People v Goldsmith, 411 Mich 555 (1981)

As you can see from reading the opinion, the Court held that the instruction given by the trial Judge constituted reversible error. They also held that the instructions as given gave too much sympathy for the victim. In effect, the Court of Appeals held that the trial Judge’s instruction created a coercive effect on the jury and pressured them to reach a verdict.

Again, congratulations and I am not sure of the exact time frame that will be involved before you will be brought back for a new trial. Take care and let me know what you think.

Sincerely,
The Law Offices of Dewey, Cheetum, & Howe

Dear Reader:
Make that two reprieves.

THESE ARE YOUR ELECTED OFFICIALS

The feeling that the work is magnificent, and the feeling that it is abominable, are both mosquitoes to be repelled, ignored, or killed, but not indulged.
—Annie Dillard

The first warden I ever worked under held monthly Warden’s Forum Meetings in the Food Tech dining area across the hall from my classroom. The Food Tech instructor and his inmate staff fixed the warden's administration and the elected prisoner representatives a nice breakfast of farmer’s omelets, hashbrowns, toast, orange juice, and coffee. After they’d had their fill the warden got down to business. "Okay men, what issues or concerns need to be addressed?"

I’ll admit, the warden certainly knew how to work a room full of convicts. She knew how to minimize their complaints. First, feed the reps, get them comfortable, and make them feel special as if they didn’t have six-digit numbers like their constituents. From my observations, they looked forward to their monthly meetings; it sure beat the hell out of the chow hall.

I informed Prisoner Miller, who also happened to be an academic tutor of mine, that there were lots of complaints from the general population. "I hope you were able to come to some type of an agreement with the administration. It certainly looked like you guys were on good terms with the warden and her staff."

Detecting my sarcasm, Miller responded, "As long as the Warden feeds me, I ain’t got shit to say."

I knew most of the men attending the Warden’s Forum, so when my boss asked if I would supervise the packaging of Christmas goodies being delivered to all the inmates, I said, "Sure, why not." The following items were purchased with IBF money (Inmate Benefit Funds): small pecan pies, chocolates, hard candy, candy canes, and various other treats. Stations were set-up in the gymnasium and the reps shoved items into each bag before moving it further down the line, all the way to the last station where the bags were stapled and loaded into boxes for delivery to each unit.

Since they were elected officials, I didn’t scrutinize their work—afterall, it was the week of Christmas. I remember inmates from the general population complaining to me about the chintzy packages they received. When I showed them the list of items stuffed into each bag, I got the typical response, "Well then, I got shorted. Did you actually see these items go into each bag?"

"Hey," I said, "these are your elected officials. You guys voted them in. If you don’t like what happened, vote’em out. Oh, and Merry Christmas."

THAT'S JUST WEIRD

I’ve been told I must list six weird things about myself and to tag six fellow bloggers to follow suit. Only problem is: Sheila tagged ALL THE PEOPLE THAT I KNOW WHO WOULDN’T MIND. Therefore, as usual, since I never could follow rules and I’m good at pissing people off, anyone commenting on my blog in slots seven through twelve—YOU’RE IT! You will know who you are because I’ll be checking your blog to make sure you tag people (that is, if you’re not an anonymous commenter or if I get any comments beyond the first six). Anyway, here goes my weirdo ways:

1. I think rats make the best pets. My brother and I used to have gerbils growing up, until they started inbreeding and cannibalizing one another. My wife and I have three rats in our livingroom right now. Of course, they’re all females.

2. If I had my way, I’d get a brushcut. However, my wife is against the idea. She says I leave too much grease on the pillow from the butchwax and that this hairstyle makes me look mean.

3. Unlike most American citizens, I have never had a car payment. I’ve only owned one new vehicle in my entire life. Also, I've never done my own laundry (haven't a clue).

4. I didn’t propose to my wife until our offer was accepted on our house. I lived with her parents while she stayed in our new home. Marriage came a year later.

5. My parents didn’t know I graduated from college for approximately eighteen months, even though I was living under their roof. Something to do with living at home rent free until I completed school.

6. My all-time favorite Christmas CD is “The Mother of all Flagpole Christmas Albums.” It’s a compliation CD of a bunch of bands from Athens and Atlanta, Georgia. Songs include:

“Santa Claus, Go Straight to the Ghetto” by Seersucker
“Christmas in August” by Bloodkin
“Christmas with the Devil” by Allgood
“Jingle Bells” by the Flat Duo Jets
“Santa’s Hard” by Follow For Now
“White Christmas” by Vic Chesnutt

…and sixteen other songs sung by Deacon Lunchbox, Kevn Kinney (yeah no “n”), Bliss, Michelle Malone, The Woggles, Dreams So Real, Widespread Panic, Daisy, Labrea Stompers, Hear It Love It Dance It, Five-Eight, Bill Taft & Kelly Hogan, Marlee MacLeod, The Opal Foxx Quartet, and Hetch Hetchy.

THE HECKLEBURGER INCIDENT

In my younger days, my friend Bob and I went fishing in and around the Pinnebog River. We wore burlap sacks across our shoulders, held five-prong spears in our hands, and took turns carrying a kerosene lantern. We moved slowly, our waders pushing against the current, our legs occasionally getting thumped as we stabbed at the murky shadows until our spears came to life. There’s nothing more thrilling than having a large fish, mainly suckers, violently thrashing about on those five-prong spears.

Once our burlap sacks became too heavy to carry, we called it quits, throwing our equipment and the fish into the trunk of my car. It was time for a Heckleburger, fries, and a beer, or two, or three … at Heck’s Bar in Pinnebog.

As we sat at the bar scarfing down our food, I noticed fish eggs all over Bob’s clothes. “You’re just as bad,” he said, pointing to a smeary slime on my sweatshirt. It must have oozed through the burlap. None of the locals seemed to mind, including the bartender. We ended up closing the place.

A few years later, we grabbed our fishing poles and tackle boxes and headed for Caseville. We traveled Van Dyke Road, more commonly known as M53—it splits Michigan’s thumb right down the middle, a semi-straight line except for one left turn at an intersection in Bad Axe, before continuing all the way to the tip. But we weren't heading for Port Austin, so we veered onto Pinnebog Road just before entering Bad Axe. Pinnebog Road has plenty of twists and turns, however, it ends at Kinde Road, and more conveniently, the parking lot of Heck’s Bar.

During our two-hour drive, Bob kept telling me that the Heckleburger had to be the best damned burger in Michigan. “Can we stop there?” he asked.

“Yeah, I suppose.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him Heck’s Bar purchases their hamburger patties from the McDonald’s in Bad Axe. Instead, I told him, “You like the Heckleburger because it’s cooked.” He knew I was referring to kibbe, a Lebanese dish of raw meat I tried at his parent’s home once.

When we entered Heck’s we couldn’t belly up to the bar, too many locals, so we sat near the billiards table instead.

“Hey canary bird,” one of the locals started yelling. “Hey canary bird.” He was referring to the bright yellow shirt Bob had on.

We laughed at first. “Just ignore him,” I said.

“Hey canary bird, canary bird,” he repeated, his buddy making a silly cooing noise as they picked up some cue sticks off the wall rack.

"He's really annoying," Bob said, "and this burger taste like shit, not like they used to."

"We were drunk the last time we ate them," I explained.

"Hey canary bird," the man continued, facing us, his cue stick resting diagonally across his body. His buddy behind him, waiting, the butt of his cue stick touching the floor.

It was fairly obvious we were out of towners and these clowns wanted to fight. I was more concerned about Bob then myself on account of his Middle Eastern descent. “Okay guys, “ I said, “knock it off!”

“Who the hell are you to tell us what to do?” the first heckler said.

I tensed up. I told him the only thing that might save us—my last name.

“Are you LeRoy’s boy?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I lied. LeRoy was my dad’s cousin. They hadn’t spoken in years, not since my dad broke his nose during a fishing outing, the family tree permanently splintered. I had become my second cousin that night, a farm boy from Marlette, and Bob and I made it out of there unharmed.