Alright, I usually don't do this. And when I say "usually" I mean, I NEVER do this. I haven't written about anything serious on this blog, literally, ever.
However, there was a recent event that took place that really "got my blood boiling," and "grinded my gears." This is not because I am a grumpy old man, which I undoubtedly am, but rather, it's an indication of what we deem acceptable and unacceptable in society, and frankly, it makes me want to vomit.
About a month ago, Kobe Bryant used a homophobic slur to express his distaste with an official's call. He called the referee "The F-Word," and I watched on my couch in disgust, as I witnessed my favorite basketball player of all time absolutely lose his mind and offend probably everyone in America simultaneously.
This guy has been hanging from my wall since I was 8. I drew free-hand sketches of him and sent them in to Sports Illustrated For Kids. I named my DOG after him. I grew an AFRO and changed my name to KOBE because of him. Okay I made that last part up.
About three days passed, and he kind of apologized. Then he got fined $100,000, and his kind-of apology turned to a real apology.
Kobe went on to film a public service announcement about how "gay" is not synonymous with "stupid" or "inadequate." Yes, it took him about a week. Yes, he was extremely out of line. But, in the end, he apologized and took a proactive step towards righting his wrong. He cannot be forgiven, but some positive outcome can emerge from his insensitive remarks.
Two weeks ago, Lebron James used the word "retarded" in a press conference. A press conference. You know, the place where there are microphones that pick up everything you say? That place where you are asked idiotic questions over and over again, and you say things like "we gave 100 percent tonight," and "we executed the gameplan, I just have to give all the credit to my teammates."
Yeah, those press conferences.
A reporter asked a STUPID question to Dwyane Wade, postulating that maybe Wade is a dirty player because he committed a foul that lead to Rajon Rondo dislocating his elbow.
To which, Lebron gave his least impressive assist of the season, interjecting, and providing his own idiotic comment:
"That's retarted," he said, under his breath, his mouth covered by his hand.
You can watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91JlOqzxp_w
Okay.
I get it.
That was an imbicilic remark. I do not think that he hates people with developmental disabilities. I do not think Lebron James is an advocate of discrimination. I do not think Lebron James is a bad person, and I know he is really good at dunking and putting that round orange thing through a rim.
It is not the comment itself that is so insensitive--even though it is--it is the fact that he, and most people, fail to understand how offensive it is.
When first offered the opportunity to apologize for his use of "The R-Word," Lebron took it as an opportunity to further criticize the reporter's question.
"I didn’t understand the question," he said.
James went on to add, "It’s definitely blown out of proportion. I don’t think Dwyane is a dirty player."
He went on to justify the use of "The R-Word."
"So it’s the same as me saying, ‘I don’t think that’s a great question,’ or, ‘I think it’s a stupid question.’ Dwyane has never been a dirty player, so I don’t know why someone would even ask him that question.”
Clearly, this is an oversight by Lebron. You cannot justify using the "R-Word" by insisting that "it's just the same as me saying I think it's a stupid question."
That is the problem. Retarted and stupid are not the same thing. And if you operate under this assumption, you are compartmentalizing and offending all people with disabilities.
Evidently, he had a moment of clarity that night, as the next time he faced the press, he opened his conference with an apology.
“First of all, before I answer your questions, I want to apologize for using the ‘R-word’ after Game 3, if I offended anyone, I sincerely apologize.” James said.
Good. Progress. He's shown remorse, and we can follow suit. If it's not okay for Lebron to use that word, it's not okay for anyone to use it.
The problem is, though he apologized, the public response, or lackthereof, shows we have a long way to go.
I really hate to compare discrimination. To say homophobic slurs are more or less offensive than slurs that are insesnsitive to people with disabilities is to make one seem acceptable, while the other is not. I want to be clear--both are unacceptable.
This raises the question, however, if both are unacceptable, shouldn't both be punished? And in the same way?
Kobe Bryant got fined $100,000 for his comments, and rightfully so.
Lebron James didn't get fined.
I'm not asking for Lebron's head. I'm not asking for an extended apology. I'm not asking for a time machine, or a politically-correct sensor to make sure nobody says things to piss people off.
What I'm asking for is awareness, and acceptance. Awareness that the "R-Word" is deeply hurtful, and offensive. Acceptance that it's just as bad as "Insert Slur Here."
Also, I'm looking for some pro-activity. Maybe Lebron doesn't film a public service ad. Maybe he doesn't donate $100,000 to disability awareness programs.
But at the very least, maybe we can all learn from this. Maybe we, as people, can see through this word, see through Lebron's mistake, and take a proactive approach ourself. Lebron need not be scolded. Lebron is not the problem.
If we can admit and acknowledge that the "R-Word" is offensive, and use King James's slip-up as an opportunity to eliminate it from our own vocabulary, we can all take the proactive step. If not, we'll be stuck in the same rut, and people will continue to feel isolated, discriminated, and not accepted by others.
Let's learn from this, you and I, and anyone else who cares to listen. Let's be proactive, let's make a change. If anything, this is a start. Erase the R-word. Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Things to do in Salem when there's Nothing to do in Salem.
This is that time of year when school ends, you say goodbye to people you really care about, you eat copious amounts of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, sit on your bed and cry while listening to Jimmy Eat World, swearing each song's lyrics were written EXACTLY for you.
This is also the time of year when Salem, Oregon has atrocious weather, all of your friends went back home, and you do things like watch "Hungry Girl" on Food Network, where the host says things like "You can save 35 calories by dabbing your pizza with a napkin! Who needs all that EXTRA OIL!?" And advocates turkey pepperoni by saying things like "Pepperoni is awful. You don't need it. Eliminate it from your life."
This is the time of year for change. New routines, no school, and way too much time to do that thing that you do when your mind works. Think? Yeah. You think too much this time of year. And by "you" I mean "me." Unless you do too, in which case, keep reading.
To combat this unfortunate inevitability of "thinking," I've decided to start thinking like an 8-year-old. This is really hard for me, because I haven't been 8 for 13 years now, but now that I've stopped hanging out with 21-year-olds and started hanging out in the classroom I work in, at Richmond Elementary, the transition has been pretty smooth.
For example, saying goodbye to friends can be looked at it two different ways. First, it can be really sad. Like, I'm not going to see you for a really long time. But, it can also be looked at like "I can play with your toys while you're gone, and I hope ABC's schedule for Saturday Morning Cartoons doesn't change over the summer!"
I've adopted the latter method, and so far, it's working alright.
Working with 3rd graders has also reminded me that many cliches that we use in everyday language aren't accurate.
For example, I helped a student with his multiplication tables last week, and he figured out 5x3.
In the most adorable event that has ever occured, he stood up, palms toward the ceiling, and screamed at the top of his lungs:
"Math is FUN!" He said.
"Yeah, buddy!" I replied,
"I am SMART! I DID IT!" He said.
"Of course you are. You know, you can do ANYTHING you put your mind to," I said, sounding like every teacher I've had in my entire life.
"That's not true though," he quickly rebuttled.
"I can't fly," he added.
"And I probably never will be able to," he said, almost like this was the first time in his life that he really sat down and realized this.
I tried to pick up his spirits.
"You could be a pilot, though. Or an ASTRONAUT if you put your mind to it!" I said.
"Maybe. But another thing I can't do is a backflip. I tried 3 times yesterday and landed on my head!" He said.
To which, I said nothing, because I immediately got up to get a post-it note to record this precious moment, and never ever forget it.
However, being an 8-year-old has it's complications, too. I am a lot taller than all of my classmates, and sitting criss-cross presents a great deal of pain.
Simple things like using the electric pencil sharpener, and going to the bathroom cannot be accomplished unless accompanied by an adult.
"Sean, will you sharpen this pencil for me?"
"Um...do you not know how to use a pencil sharpener?"
"No, we can't use the electric one. It's unsafe and our fingers could bleed."
"Right."
Last week, I also had bathroom duty. Which is basically code for "Stand in the hallway and make sure nobody kills anyone or pisses on the walls duty."
Bathroom duty made it very clear to me that in a group of 8-year-old boys, their bodily functions remain a very prevalent area of concern and interest for them. A topic for converstaion, really.
"Hey, how long did you pee today?"
"I went for like a minute, read "diary of a whimpy kid, came back, and peed again. For like ten minutes."
"NO WAY!?"
The more you pee, the cooler you are, and the longer you do it, the more impressive it is.
"EEEW! Hey, James, come look at THIS!" I hear from the hallway.
I really did not want to turn the corner and see what was going on, but I thought, for safety's sake, I had to.
"Doug's been peeing for, like, EVER, Sean!"
"hahahahah...it's COOL! I'm STILL going! Check it out!" Said Doug, in a state of sheer joy, cascading his urine all over the urinal, like a proud dog who just marked his favorite fire hydrant. "CHECK IT OUT!!!!"
"Whoa!" His classmates uttered in amazement.
"Okay, but we need to let Doug do what he needs to do, alright? Worry about yourself. Wash your hands, use soap, come back to class, okay?" I tried to neutralize the situation because I felt extremely uncomfortable.
"No, seriously! There's no WAY he's STILL GOING!" James said.
There were now six 8-year-olds gathered around the urinal, marveling at the duration of time in which their classmate was able to urinate for.
I have to admit, it was impressive, but I also had the teachers waiting for the kids to finish, and it was my job to make sure they were on task and not goofing off.
I am pretty sure that watching your classmate pee, and shouting words of encouragement like "Keep going!" and "It's like a WATERFALL!" would fall under the category of "goofing off."
Eventually, I got all the kids back to the classroom, but once we all got back, not even 10 minuts had passed before Doug, of all people, raises his hand and asks to go to the bathroom.
His classmates looked on in amazement and envy.
I looked at him in disbelief, and he sauntered off to the bathroom, ready for another leisurely 10 minute urination. I followed him to the hallway to make sure he wasn't just wadding up toilet paper and throwing it at the stalls.
"Sean...I AM STILL GOING!"
"Great."
On my way out of the classroom, the student I helped with math earlier, said, "I know you said I could do anything...but I don't think there's any way I could ever pee like him."
"Me neither, James. Me neither."
"Or backflips. I don't think I can do those either," James added.
This is also the time of year when Salem, Oregon has atrocious weather, all of your friends went back home, and you do things like watch "Hungry Girl" on Food Network, where the host says things like "You can save 35 calories by dabbing your pizza with a napkin! Who needs all that EXTRA OIL!?" And advocates turkey pepperoni by saying things like "Pepperoni is awful. You don't need it. Eliminate it from your life."
This is the time of year for change. New routines, no school, and way too much time to do that thing that you do when your mind works. Think? Yeah. You think too much this time of year. And by "you" I mean "me." Unless you do too, in which case, keep reading.
To combat this unfortunate inevitability of "thinking," I've decided to start thinking like an 8-year-old. This is really hard for me, because I haven't been 8 for 13 years now, but now that I've stopped hanging out with 21-year-olds and started hanging out in the classroom I work in, at Richmond Elementary, the transition has been pretty smooth.
For example, saying goodbye to friends can be looked at it two different ways. First, it can be really sad. Like, I'm not going to see you for a really long time. But, it can also be looked at like "I can play with your toys while you're gone, and I hope ABC's schedule for Saturday Morning Cartoons doesn't change over the summer!"
I've adopted the latter method, and so far, it's working alright.
Working with 3rd graders has also reminded me that many cliches that we use in everyday language aren't accurate.
For example, I helped a student with his multiplication tables last week, and he figured out 5x3.
In the most adorable event that has ever occured, he stood up, palms toward the ceiling, and screamed at the top of his lungs:
"Math is FUN!" He said.
"Yeah, buddy!" I replied,
"I am SMART! I DID IT!" He said.
"Of course you are. You know, you can do ANYTHING you put your mind to," I said, sounding like every teacher I've had in my entire life.
"That's not true though," he quickly rebuttled.
"I can't fly," he added.
"And I probably never will be able to," he said, almost like this was the first time in his life that he really sat down and realized this.
I tried to pick up his spirits.
"You could be a pilot, though. Or an ASTRONAUT if you put your mind to it!" I said.
"Maybe. But another thing I can't do is a backflip. I tried 3 times yesterday and landed on my head!" He said.
To which, I said nothing, because I immediately got up to get a post-it note to record this precious moment, and never ever forget it.
However, being an 8-year-old has it's complications, too. I am a lot taller than all of my classmates, and sitting criss-cross presents a great deal of pain.
Simple things like using the electric pencil sharpener, and going to the bathroom cannot be accomplished unless accompanied by an adult.
"Sean, will you sharpen this pencil for me?"
"Um...do you not know how to use a pencil sharpener?"
"No, we can't use the electric one. It's unsafe and our fingers could bleed."
"Right."
Last week, I also had bathroom duty. Which is basically code for "Stand in the hallway and make sure nobody kills anyone or pisses on the walls duty."
Bathroom duty made it very clear to me that in a group of 8-year-old boys, their bodily functions remain a very prevalent area of concern and interest for them. A topic for converstaion, really.
"Hey, how long did you pee today?"
"I went for like a minute, read "diary of a whimpy kid, came back, and peed again. For like ten minutes."
"NO WAY!?"
The more you pee, the cooler you are, and the longer you do it, the more impressive it is.
"EEEW! Hey, James, come look at THIS!" I hear from the hallway.
I really did not want to turn the corner and see what was going on, but I thought, for safety's sake, I had to.
"Doug's been peeing for, like, EVER, Sean!"
"hahahahah...it's COOL! I'm STILL going! Check it out!" Said Doug, in a state of sheer joy, cascading his urine all over the urinal, like a proud dog who just marked his favorite fire hydrant. "CHECK IT OUT!!!!"
"Whoa!" His classmates uttered in amazement.
"Okay, but we need to let Doug do what he needs to do, alright? Worry about yourself. Wash your hands, use soap, come back to class, okay?" I tried to neutralize the situation because I felt extremely uncomfortable.
"No, seriously! There's no WAY he's STILL GOING!" James said.
There were now six 8-year-olds gathered around the urinal, marveling at the duration of time in which their classmate was able to urinate for.
I have to admit, it was impressive, but I also had the teachers waiting for the kids to finish, and it was my job to make sure they were on task and not goofing off.
I am pretty sure that watching your classmate pee, and shouting words of encouragement like "Keep going!" and "It's like a WATERFALL!" would fall under the category of "goofing off."
Eventually, I got all the kids back to the classroom, but once we all got back, not even 10 minuts had passed before Doug, of all people, raises his hand and asks to go to the bathroom.
His classmates looked on in amazement and envy.
I looked at him in disbelief, and he sauntered off to the bathroom, ready for another leisurely 10 minute urination. I followed him to the hallway to make sure he wasn't just wadding up toilet paper and throwing it at the stalls.
"Sean...I AM STILL GOING!"
"Great."
On my way out of the classroom, the student I helped with math earlier, said, "I know you said I could do anything...but I don't think there's any way I could ever pee like him."
"Me neither, James. Me neither."
"Or backflips. I don't think I can do those either," James added.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
On Being 6'7. And Awkward. And Dancing. I see a lot wrong with a little bump and grind.
Do you remember graduating high school? I do. I remember being irrationally pissed off that my gown didn't reach my ankles and I didn't get to give the farewell speech. I made really funny jokes, I swear, but they gave it to this girl that got in a really serious car accident. I couldn't REALLY be mad, but I actually was. And still am. Don't tell.
But seriously, my favorite part of graduating high school was the fact that I would not EVER have to attend a dance. Ever again. Little did I know, I would be attending High School 3 years later, at Willamette University High School. Where you're cool if you play sports, but you're cooler if you play sports, aim to save the world in the near future, dress like a hipster on occasion, and SHAMELESSLY GRIND YOUR PRIVATES OFF AT EVERY GIVEN OPPORTUNITY.
At Willamette University High, dancing is like breathing. Everyone does it. And when I say "breathing" I mean rhythmic humping, erections at inappropriate times and repeated, vigorous body contact with Young Jeezy in the background. So really it's more like gym class. Which is unfortunately not offered at WUHS.
I never danced. Ever. Like, literally at dances I would stand and do that awkward head-nod, neck-bob where you snap your fingers and tap your toes and every single female organism around you says "oh my god who is that and why is he having a seizure?" To that, her friend would most certainly reply, "I don't know, but that pole has terrible dance moves."
Fortuntately, or unfortunately, depending how you look at it, I have overcome my phobia of moving my hips in rhythm. Or attempting to. Yes, I dance now. I mean, I find girls and rub my crotch up against their bottoms. But just because I partake in this bottom-rubbing does not mean I am not an awful dancer. Quite contrary, I am almost sure that I am an awful dancer. Evidence? Glad you asked.
Things that have happened:
Scenario 1:
Me: (That girl looks like it would be fun to rub my groin-area against her backside. Do I have to ask her to dance? Or do I just go do it? Why do I feel like a 13 year old boy?)
Girl: (After a good three minutes of me awkwardly standing there) "Do you want to dance...??"
Me: Blurfandsghande. Um. Yes. I would like to. If that's okay?
Girl: Sure. (3 minutes of sweaty awkward body-friction pass. "Get Low" is played. I haven't heard that song since 8th grade, which seems fitting.)
(I rap Ludacris's verse. Loudly and obnoxiously. Looking back, I have no idea why I thought this girl would find this remotely enjoyable. "We want a lady in the street but a FREAK in the bed!" I yell, way too loud, probably way too close to her ear.)
Girl: I have to go find my friends.
Scenario 2:
(I learned from previous mistakes. Don't ask, just grind. I approach girl, and begin crotch-knocking in a rhythmic fashion.)
Girl: Why do you look like you just took a bath with all of your clothes on? Me: (slightly out of breath) IT'S...REALLY HOT DOWN...HERE!
Girl: I have to go find my friends. Then take a shower.
Scenario 3: (I finally find a girl who doesn't mind that my shirt is holding the Pacific Ocean. The problem is she is 5 feet tall.)
We dance for a few songs. After twenty minutes of my AREA being level with her middle back, she decides to strike up conversation.
Girl: Are you having fun?
Me: Honestly? Dancing with you is like doing wall sits for a half an hour. I've been in the defensive stance this whole time. I hate defense...
Girl: You have no rhythm.
Scenario 4: One that still troubles me today.
I asked again, because this particular girl was extremely good looking.
Me: Do you wanna dance?
Girl: Where am I? (Rushes outside to vomit. Ego. Crushed.)
But seriously, my favorite part of graduating high school was the fact that I would not EVER have to attend a dance. Ever again. Little did I know, I would be attending High School 3 years later, at Willamette University High School. Where you're cool if you play sports, but you're cooler if you play sports, aim to save the world in the near future, dress like a hipster on occasion, and SHAMELESSLY GRIND YOUR PRIVATES OFF AT EVERY GIVEN OPPORTUNITY.
At Willamette University High, dancing is like breathing. Everyone does it. And when I say "breathing" I mean rhythmic humping, erections at inappropriate times and repeated, vigorous body contact with Young Jeezy in the background. So really it's more like gym class. Which is unfortunately not offered at WUHS.
I never danced. Ever. Like, literally at dances I would stand and do that awkward head-nod, neck-bob where you snap your fingers and tap your toes and every single female organism around you says "oh my god who is that and why is he having a seizure?" To that, her friend would most certainly reply, "I don't know, but that pole has terrible dance moves."
Fortuntately, or unfortunately, depending how you look at it, I have overcome my phobia of moving my hips in rhythm. Or attempting to. Yes, I dance now. I mean, I find girls and rub my crotch up against their bottoms. But just because I partake in this bottom-rubbing does not mean I am not an awful dancer. Quite contrary, I am almost sure that I am an awful dancer. Evidence? Glad you asked.
Things that have happened:
Scenario 1:
Me: (That girl looks like it would be fun to rub my groin-area against her backside. Do I have to ask her to dance? Or do I just go do it? Why do I feel like a 13 year old boy?)
Girl: (After a good three minutes of me awkwardly standing there) "Do you want to dance...??"
Me: Blurfandsghande. Um. Yes. I would like to. If that's okay?
Girl: Sure. (3 minutes of sweaty awkward body-friction pass. "Get Low" is played. I haven't heard that song since 8th grade, which seems fitting.)
(I rap Ludacris's verse. Loudly and obnoxiously. Looking back, I have no idea why I thought this girl would find this remotely enjoyable. "We want a lady in the street but a FREAK in the bed!" I yell, way too loud, probably way too close to her ear.)
Girl: I have to go find my friends.
Scenario 2:
(I learned from previous mistakes. Don't ask, just grind. I approach girl, and begin crotch-knocking in a rhythmic fashion.)
Girl: Why do you look like you just took a bath with all of your clothes on? Me: (slightly out of breath) IT'S...REALLY HOT DOWN...HERE!
Girl: I have to go find my friends. Then take a shower.
Scenario 3: (I finally find a girl who doesn't mind that my shirt is holding the Pacific Ocean. The problem is she is 5 feet tall.)
We dance for a few songs. After twenty minutes of my AREA being level with her middle back, she decides to strike up conversation.
Girl: Are you having fun?
Me: Honestly? Dancing with you is like doing wall sits for a half an hour. I've been in the defensive stance this whole time. I hate defense...
Girl: You have no rhythm.
Scenario 4: One that still troubles me today.
I asked again, because this particular girl was extremely good looking.
Me: Do you wanna dance?
Girl: Where am I? (Rushes outside to vomit. Ego. Crushed.)
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Spelling Privilege
Going to a private school is really cool. You get to do things like call your professor by their first names, have 7 people in your class, take classes with titles like "Modern British Literature Composition and it's Contemporary Effects on The Political Relations of 3rd World Countries." That's not really a class, but there are some pretty odd classes offered at Willamette University. What do you do with odd classes? Find EXTREMELY ODD professors to teach them!
What if there are no more odd professors? Grab a phonebook, ask your friend to tell you their favorite letter, run your finger up and down the "F" section, stop on a count of 3, then invite that person to teach a class at your university, and charge students 47,000 dollars a year to pretend to sit in said class and listen.
I mean, this isn't a specific example, I swear, but as of right now...it seems apparent that this is exactly how some of my professors were hired.
For example, Sociology 131 is such an insighftul class, that it has provoked such discussion along the lines of "oppression" and "stereotypes." According to 3/4 of the class, we are all oppressed, upper middle class white-kids. Usually, those words do not go together in the same sentence unless the sentence is as follows:
"Upper middle class white people that go to Willamette University are not oppressed."
But, if you're in Sociology 131, your sentence would look something more like this:
"Um, professor? You know how when you're in line at Safeway, and they ask you for a donation to like, I don't know, Breast Cancer Awareness or something? Yeah, well, the lady asked me OUT LOUD instead of just pointing at the screen, and I was OFFENDED! I mean...how insulting! I said no, and she stared me down because I have nice shoes so she thinks I am rich."
Life is so hard. But seriously...this would be bad enough if the professor was like, "Yeah it can be frusturating when you feel that people assume you have more financial priveledge than you do, but realistically, she probably asks EVERYONE that, so it's probably not a big deal."
Noooo, noooo, no. Instead, the professor replies;
"Oh my god, something like that totally happened to me too!"
She proceeded to go into great detail about how one time she wore all black to the Oregon Health Services office and the lady who distributes food-stamps gave her poor service because she thought she was gothic, uneducated and lazy.
The course title is Sociology 131, but really it's just an hour of every day that every person who has far more opportunities than they realize can come to class and talk about how people aren't nice to me if I am not smiling and wearing nice clothes.
The proverbial cherry on top---one time, our professor was asked to go into furhter detail about the discussion we were having about the failed-bombing in downtown Portland over Christmas Break.
"Um, I don't know. I don't really like to stick my nose in other people's business."
Oh. Good.
Is it ironic that I just wrote several paragraphs complaining about people who complain? Yes. Is it ironic that while reading this, you are thinking 'Sean is a whiney brat' but you are STILL reading!? YES! Now, pay attention.
Another cool thing about going to a private school is that it is ridiculously expensive, so you get to do work study. I do work study at Richmond Elementary. If you've ever had a problem with an over-abundance of self-confidence, I highly suggest walking into a 3rd grade classroom. Working at Richmond Elementary is the most humbling experience I have ever had. And when I say humbling, I don't mean it in the way of putting things in perspective, I mean it in the way that "Oh my god, these kids are brutal and my borderline non-existent self confidence is completely shot by their unintentional jabs at my ego."
Upon first entrance, you will hear things like "You are so tall! But my dad is taller, and he can grow a beard! You just grow yours on your neck!"
That's not my beard, that's a shadow. But, thanks, 9-year-old boy who is better at insults than I am.
"What happened to your foot? You are walking weird."
"Do you play for The University of Oregon? Oh...what's 'Willamette'?"
"How many points did you score?"
I scored 21, but we lost.
"How many did they score?"
115.
"OH MY GOD YOU GUYS SUCK!"
No, I mean, our team had 100, but...
"You almost lost by 100!"
And my favorite so far..."You smell like chips."
Just this week, the students stopped calling me 'Mr. Sun-Chips,' mostly because I made the teacher tell them to stop, and one afternoon I was reduced to tears by their badgering.
Just kidding, about the crying part. But more interestingly, today the kids found out my last name is "Dart" and they couldn't get enough of it. Mostly because it rhymes with "fart" but also because "Dude I love that game! One time my friend threw a dart at me and I started bleeding. Wanna see my scar?"
There's a point where the things these children say stop being adorable, and start being obnoxious, at least that's what they tell me. I haven't reached that point yet, but when I do, I'll make sure to bring it up in my sociology class, and complain about how the constraints of society is allowing 3rd Graders to feel like they can tell me I smell like chips because I am oppressed, and cannot defend myself, and it's all the systems fault. Also, my jeans don't reach my ankles because The Gap discriminates against 6'6 men whose legs make up 75 percent of their body. Life. Is. So. Hard.
What if there are no more odd professors? Grab a phonebook, ask your friend to tell you their favorite letter, run your finger up and down the "F" section, stop on a count of 3, then invite that person to teach a class at your university, and charge students 47,000 dollars a year to pretend to sit in said class and listen.
I mean, this isn't a specific example, I swear, but as of right now...it seems apparent that this is exactly how some of my professors were hired.
For example, Sociology 131 is such an insighftul class, that it has provoked such discussion along the lines of "oppression" and "stereotypes." According to 3/4 of the class, we are all oppressed, upper middle class white-kids. Usually, those words do not go together in the same sentence unless the sentence is as follows:
"Upper middle class white people that go to Willamette University are not oppressed."
But, if you're in Sociology 131, your sentence would look something more like this:
"Um, professor? You know how when you're in line at Safeway, and they ask you for a donation to like, I don't know, Breast Cancer Awareness or something? Yeah, well, the lady asked me OUT LOUD instead of just pointing at the screen, and I was OFFENDED! I mean...how insulting! I said no, and she stared me down because I have nice shoes so she thinks I am rich."
Life is so hard. But seriously...this would be bad enough if the professor was like, "Yeah it can be frusturating when you feel that people assume you have more financial priveledge than you do, but realistically, she probably asks EVERYONE that, so it's probably not a big deal."
Noooo, noooo, no. Instead, the professor replies;
"Oh my god, something like that totally happened to me too!"
She proceeded to go into great detail about how one time she wore all black to the Oregon Health Services office and the lady who distributes food-stamps gave her poor service because she thought she was gothic, uneducated and lazy.
The course title is Sociology 131, but really it's just an hour of every day that every person who has far more opportunities than they realize can come to class and talk about how people aren't nice to me if I am not smiling and wearing nice clothes.
The proverbial cherry on top---one time, our professor was asked to go into furhter detail about the discussion we were having about the failed-bombing in downtown Portland over Christmas Break.
"Um, I don't know. I don't really like to stick my nose in other people's business."
Oh. Good.
Is it ironic that I just wrote several paragraphs complaining about people who complain? Yes. Is it ironic that while reading this, you are thinking 'Sean is a whiney brat' but you are STILL reading!? YES! Now, pay attention.
Another cool thing about going to a private school is that it is ridiculously expensive, so you get to do work study. I do work study at Richmond Elementary. If you've ever had a problem with an over-abundance of self-confidence, I highly suggest walking into a 3rd grade classroom. Working at Richmond Elementary is the most humbling experience I have ever had. And when I say humbling, I don't mean it in the way of putting things in perspective, I mean it in the way that "Oh my god, these kids are brutal and my borderline non-existent self confidence is completely shot by their unintentional jabs at my ego."
Upon first entrance, you will hear things like "You are so tall! But my dad is taller, and he can grow a beard! You just grow yours on your neck!"
That's not my beard, that's a shadow. But, thanks, 9-year-old boy who is better at insults than I am.
"What happened to your foot? You are walking weird."
"Do you play for The University of Oregon? Oh...what's 'Willamette'?"
"How many points did you score?"
I scored 21, but we lost.
"How many did they score?"
115.
"OH MY GOD YOU GUYS SUCK!"
No, I mean, our team had 100, but...
"You almost lost by 100!"
And my favorite so far..."You smell like chips."
Just this week, the students stopped calling me 'Mr. Sun-Chips,' mostly because I made the teacher tell them to stop, and one afternoon I was reduced to tears by their badgering.
Just kidding, about the crying part. But more interestingly, today the kids found out my last name is "Dart" and they couldn't get enough of it. Mostly because it rhymes with "fart" but also because "Dude I love that game! One time my friend threw a dart at me and I started bleeding. Wanna see my scar?"
There's a point where the things these children say stop being adorable, and start being obnoxious, at least that's what they tell me. I haven't reached that point yet, but when I do, I'll make sure to bring it up in my sociology class, and complain about how the constraints of society is allowing 3rd Graders to feel like they can tell me I smell like chips because I am oppressed, and cannot defend myself, and it's all the systems fault. Also, my jeans don't reach my ankles because The Gap discriminates against 6'6 men whose legs make up 75 percent of their body. Life. Is. So. Hard.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Drunk And Hot Girls
Kanye West said it best—“La la la lalaaaah that’s how the F*#K you sound, you drunk and hot girl.” Not saying all drunk and hot girls are tone deaf, worth of lyrical dedication, or even particularly unpleasant—but undoubtedly, they do exist, and by golly, it’s about time they got some recognition.
You’ve seen them, you’ve talked to them, you might have been one, you might have taken one home with you—though probably, not to meet mom. Nope, drunk and hot girls aren’t prototypical girlfriend material, or even good for a 3 minute conversation…but you know what they are really good for? RIDICULE ! And public embarrassment on the internet! That and they do tend to have excellent fashion sense, and/or extremely large, extravagant sunglasses and handbags.
In the typical college scene, depending on the size of your school, you will meet 3-5 Drunk And Hot Girls per weekend. They tend to come out on Fridays more than Saturdays, as Drunk And Hot Girls don’t like waiting until Saturday to get publically, inhumanly, disgustingly, borderline addiction—inebriated.
In some cases—you know this Drunk And Hot Girl. She’s in your chemistry class—she’s actually your lab partner! And you see her at the party, and she slips out of her very modern slip on gold shoe, with those tiny adorable bows on the toe.
Next, she spills a little bit of her drink on you, but you don’t mind cuz beer compliments the cologne you are wearing, and finally you guys make eye contact.
(Note: Drunk and Hot Girls do not…I repeat, DO NOT traverse the party scene alone. Partly because they are unable to stand up straight, but also because her friends remember last weekend when she went home with that guy on the football team who wears pink polo’s with the collar popped. Um..”EEEW! Fashion Police!” They will most likely say.)
You want to talk to Drunk and Hot Girl, because she is your lab partner, and that drool on her chin really accentuates her facial features, and you want to tell her, but you are first assaulted by her group of Less Drunk and Hot Girls, who can actually physically put together articulate sentences.
“Um…our friend Rachael (most common DAHG name)is really sorry, but she can’t talk to you right now!”
“YA YA YA SHUT YER TRAP DENISE! I’LL TALK to ALLEN all I want! He did my lab once! Hi Allen…”
“Hey Rachel. We are lab partners. My name is Sean. You invited me to this party…I actually just got a text from you—and it’s even makes a little sense, it says “hey Allen, the party is at 24th and ;-). I looked really hard for a street called “;-)” and I even mapquested ‘winky-face lane’ and ‘smiley drive’ but those are in Eugene…we are in Salem. But anyway...I am here.
Rachel: I have no idea what you talking to…(briefly turns to vomit, then upon turning around, thinks you are someone else.)
Rachel: S’yer name Jason? I swear really seen you. You are my English class. You are tall and have hot. A Jeans can’t reach damn ankles though shop big tall S**T!
Nooope! Still Sean..actually…and these are capris. Thanks though.
Rachel: I think friend has BALLS!
“Um…what?” You think my friend has balls?”
Rachel: I can’t see you.
“Um…I am literally 18 inches from you.”
Rachel: You need help.
“I need help?”
Rachel: You can help me once.
“Are you okay?”
Rachel: I am black out. I think chemistry teacher good though kindly cute.
“Our chemistry teacher is a woman.”
Rachel: Wanna hear sing?
“I really don't. But have you heard that Kanye West song?”
Rachel: Yeah…I sayin gold diggey—but she can’t f**kin hold alcohol! Love favorite ones! Door jam my toe though! Selfish d**ks…
“Listen, Rachel, I think I should probably go…”
Rachel: I think friend has BALLS!
“I have no idea what that means.”
Rachel: You take home kay?
“I’m going to go get your friends.”
At this point, you are entirely confused as to what has just transpired between yourself and Drunk and Hot Girl, so you walk back to your group of friends.
“Bro, that girl is ON POINT! Were you spittin game Dart? (insert last name here.)”
Next, in an attempt to regain your pride and understanding of what just happened, you say, “Yeah bro, it was weird she is totally sober and remembered me from Chemistry class. She called me tall and hot and stuff. I got her number, man…I’m stoked!”
Then you get a bunch of hi-5’s from all your buddies and they say things like “You’d better hit that,” and “BOOTY call for Dart later!” and “She’s a really nice girl, I am happy for you. I bet her family is very kind, and she had a sound upbringing. Have an intelligent conversation with her, then hold hands while you watch “Garden State.”
See? Drunk and Hot Girls aren’t that bad…they’ve gained you false respect amongst your peers, and the vomit on your pant-leg will wash out in a few tries…she even might regain consciousness to help you do the lab on Monday. Until then, here’s to you, Drunk and Hot Girls, keep making everyone around you seem that much more appealing, and wipe up that drool on your chin—saliva makes you look fat.
You’ve seen them, you’ve talked to them, you might have been one, you might have taken one home with you—though probably, not to meet mom. Nope, drunk and hot girls aren’t prototypical girlfriend material, or even good for a 3 minute conversation…but you know what they are really good for? RIDICULE ! And public embarrassment on the internet! That and they do tend to have excellent fashion sense, and/or extremely large, extravagant sunglasses and handbags.
In the typical college scene, depending on the size of your school, you will meet 3-5 Drunk And Hot Girls per weekend. They tend to come out on Fridays more than Saturdays, as Drunk And Hot Girls don’t like waiting until Saturday to get publically, inhumanly, disgustingly, borderline addiction—inebriated.
In some cases—you know this Drunk And Hot Girl. She’s in your chemistry class—she’s actually your lab partner! And you see her at the party, and she slips out of her very modern slip on gold shoe, with those tiny adorable bows on the toe.
Next, she spills a little bit of her drink on you, but you don’t mind cuz beer compliments the cologne you are wearing, and finally you guys make eye contact.
(Note: Drunk and Hot Girls do not…I repeat, DO NOT traverse the party scene alone. Partly because they are unable to stand up straight, but also because her friends remember last weekend when she went home with that guy on the football team who wears pink polo’s with the collar popped. Um..”EEEW! Fashion Police!” They will most likely say.)
You want to talk to Drunk and Hot Girl, because she is your lab partner, and that drool on her chin really accentuates her facial features, and you want to tell her, but you are first assaulted by her group of Less Drunk and Hot Girls, who can actually physically put together articulate sentences.
“Um…our friend Rachael (most common DAHG name)is really sorry, but she can’t talk to you right now!”
“YA YA YA SHUT YER TRAP DENISE! I’LL TALK to ALLEN all I want! He did my lab once! Hi Allen…”
“Hey Rachel. We are lab partners. My name is Sean. You invited me to this party…I actually just got a text from you—and it’s even makes a little sense, it says “hey Allen, the party is at 24th and ;-). I looked really hard for a street called “;-)” and I even mapquested ‘winky-face lane’ and ‘smiley drive’ but those are in Eugene…we are in Salem. But anyway...I am here.
Rachel: I have no idea what you talking to…(briefly turns to vomit, then upon turning around, thinks you are someone else.)
Rachel: S’yer name Jason? I swear really seen you. You are my English class. You are tall and have hot. A Jeans can’t reach damn ankles though shop big tall S**T!
Nooope! Still Sean..actually…and these are capris. Thanks though.
Rachel: I think friend has BALLS!
“Um…what?” You think my friend has balls?”
Rachel: I can’t see you.
“Um…I am literally 18 inches from you.”
Rachel: You need help.
“I need help?”
Rachel: You can help me once.
“Are you okay?”
Rachel: I am black out. I think chemistry teacher good though kindly cute.
“Our chemistry teacher is a woman.”
Rachel: Wanna hear sing?
“I really don't. But have you heard that Kanye West song?”
Rachel: Yeah…I sayin gold diggey—but she can’t f**kin hold alcohol! Love favorite ones! Door jam my toe though! Selfish d**ks…
“Listen, Rachel, I think I should probably go…”
Rachel: I think friend has BALLS!
“I have no idea what that means.”
Rachel: You take home kay?
“I’m going to go get your friends.”
At this point, you are entirely confused as to what has just transpired between yourself and Drunk and Hot Girl, so you walk back to your group of friends.
“Bro, that girl is ON POINT! Were you spittin game Dart? (insert last name here.)”
Next, in an attempt to regain your pride and understanding of what just happened, you say, “Yeah bro, it was weird she is totally sober and remembered me from Chemistry class. She called me tall and hot and stuff. I got her number, man…I’m stoked!”
Then you get a bunch of hi-5’s from all your buddies and they say things like “You’d better hit that,” and “BOOTY call for Dart later!” and “She’s a really nice girl, I am happy for you. I bet her family is very kind, and she had a sound upbringing. Have an intelligent conversation with her, then hold hands while you watch “Garden State.”
See? Drunk and Hot Girls aren’t that bad…they’ve gained you false respect amongst your peers, and the vomit on your pant-leg will wash out in a few tries…she even might regain consciousness to help you do the lab on Monday. Until then, here’s to you, Drunk and Hot Girls, keep making everyone around you seem that much more appealing, and wipe up that drool on your chin—saliva makes you look fat.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Spin Class: A Love Story
As the running beat of that one horrible techno song nobody likes blared through my eardrums, the overly-peppy, chipper extrovert of a spin instructor started talking. Very loudly, I might add, into her headset that was programmed ten decibels too high.
“OKAY GANG! LISTEN! I KNOW IT’S ONLY 5:30 AND THE SUN HASN’T COME UP YET…BUT, TODAY WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A GREAT SPIN CLASS!” She said.
I turned to the woman to the left of me, and she looked like her alarm just went off. That look everyone gets when one second they are deep in their REM cycle, and the next, BEEP BEEP BEEP invades their slumber for a rude, abrupt awakening.
The woman jolted her eyes towards me, realized how miserable I was on this rigid bike seat that was now protruding its way into crevices I’d rather not mention, and shot me a look as if to say, “I know how you’re feeling, kid. I don’t like techno either.”
Regardless, I was drug to this torture chamber at this ungodly hour, so I was determined to at least survive the 60 minutes of torture/exercise commonly known as “Spin Class.”
From the start, it was one of the most emasculating events I have ever experienced. Not only is the instructor four decades older than me, but she is cranking her quadriceps at a pace that would make Lance Armstrong envious. As I am cranking the bike’s resistance down three notches, she is screaming at me through an amplified microphone to “CRANK IT UP!” Because we just finished the “WARM UP!”
In fear of getting my head sawed off by her chiseled hamstrings, I elected to obey her caps-lock orders, but as soon as I turned the knob, it felt like one thousand daggers were inserted directly into my quadriceps’ muscle fibers. The burn was so excruciating, I was biting my lip in an effort to not combust right then and there.
Obviously struggling, I looked around the room to see if anyone else found this so-called “pedaling” to be as impossible as it was for me.
To my left, a 50-60-year-old male with thinning hair and a stained tan tank top…and exercise shorts that didn’t fit him as an adolescent. His hands are tucked behind his back, eyes closed and face tranquil as he seems to have created some bond between his pedal strokes and that stupid “Firefly” song by Owl City. I hate Owl City.
To my right, an adult female, a few years older than myself, bouncing up and down like a gosh darn bottle of sunshine. She smiled at me in a way that you smile at the big, slow kid in gym class who gets out first in dodgeball. I mustered up what I felt like was a smile back, but apparently was more of a grimace, or I am just very unfortunate looking, as she jolted her head backwards in fright, and reached for her Dutch Bros latte’ in the bike’s cupholder.
Sipping her sugary delight ever so slowly, her legs were creating an effortless tornado of pedal strokes, she turned her head to the side and just observed the pain I was going through.
Her face said to me, “This is the only thing I am going to eat the rest of the day. I weight 90 lbs, and am making you look like a helpless ant right now. And yes, this is a Peach Smoothie. With whipped cream. Enjoy your last 40 minutes alive.”
It was official, I was surrounded by people who were a lot better at this than I was, and I contemplated leaving then and there. 20 minutes into class, the instructor FINALLY asked me the least flattering question I have ever heard.
“HEY…HAVE YOU DONE THIS BEFORE?” she asked, barely audible above the terrifying German-Hardcore song, “Du Haste.”
“Guess,” I said, in-between breaths that were barely sending my brain enough oxygen to speak.
She took a good 5 seconds to scope out my form, check my alignment, and analyze my pace, before she came to the ridiculously obvious conclusion.
“Nope,” she said, with a wry smile, as she was undoubtedly planning how to make me terrified of bicycles for the rest of my life.
“Oh really? Did you guest-star in that Sherlock Holmes movie? Or was that inspired by your life? Yeah…hey…instructor lady, that is really AWESOME you were able to conclude that the kid in tears in the back row, with the Atlantic Ocean of sweat underneath his bicycle has never DONE THIS BEFORE. Awesome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bleed out my ears, because if I hear another T-Pain Techno Remix, I am going to kill myself.”
I muttered all of that in my head, but there was no way I could get out a complete sentence without passing out, so the most I could muster was, “Kay,” as I bowed my head, contemplating suicide.
To make matters worse, after this demeaning interaction, the instructor became ridiculously kind and encouraging, and before I knew it, I was actually pedaling without tearing every muscle fiber in my lower body. Before I knew it, she stopped playing Owl City and German Hardcore Rap, and the Atlantic Ocean of sweat beneath my feet resembled something more like the Mediterranean on a hot afternoon in August.
The sun started to come up, and the feeling in my legs returned briefly. In a matter of minutes, the endorphins kicked in, and for some insane, incomprehensible reason, a smile cracked on my face. Dutch Brothers girl fled for the bathroom, the old guy next to me opened his eyes for the first time all class, and that 12-year-old girl in the front that was making fun of me for almost falling off the stationary bike, looked a lot more friendly.
“GOOD JOB SHANE!” The instructor screamed, butchering my name.
“Thanks,” I said, in a voice that didn’t sound like I was drowning.
We finished the class with some hills and intervals that would make World War II seem pleasant, but when all was said and done, she handed out “Tangerine-Scented Moist Towels,” and gave everyone a hand-sanitizer-high-five, wishing us a great rest of our day. The twelve-year-old girl looked at me and said I “don’t suck as bad as I did at first,” and the old guy behind me with overly revealing cycling shorts was like, “hey hey…now we can eat the food at the fair this weekend!”
“Yeah,” I stood up, smelling like a mix of tangerine and cheese, and with every step I took, my shoes “squished” and “squashed” like I just jumped into a pool with all of my clothes on.
“Will you be back Shane?” Instructor lady asked.
“Never again, you terrible, terrible person. Thanks for the towel.” I thought in my mind.
“SURE!” I said in reality, wondering why anyone would ever go through his torture again. Only time will tell. And by time, I mean if I can walk within the next week, and if I get a peach smoothie before every class.
“OKAY GANG! LISTEN! I KNOW IT’S ONLY 5:30 AND THE SUN HASN’T COME UP YET…BUT, TODAY WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A GREAT SPIN CLASS!” She said.
I turned to the woman to the left of me, and she looked like her alarm just went off. That look everyone gets when one second they are deep in their REM cycle, and the next, BEEP BEEP BEEP invades their slumber for a rude, abrupt awakening.
The woman jolted her eyes towards me, realized how miserable I was on this rigid bike seat that was now protruding its way into crevices I’d rather not mention, and shot me a look as if to say, “I know how you’re feeling, kid. I don’t like techno either.”
Regardless, I was drug to this torture chamber at this ungodly hour, so I was determined to at least survive the 60 minutes of torture/exercise commonly known as “Spin Class.”
From the start, it was one of the most emasculating events I have ever experienced. Not only is the instructor four decades older than me, but she is cranking her quadriceps at a pace that would make Lance Armstrong envious. As I am cranking the bike’s resistance down three notches, she is screaming at me through an amplified microphone to “CRANK IT UP!” Because we just finished the “WARM UP!”
In fear of getting my head sawed off by her chiseled hamstrings, I elected to obey her caps-lock orders, but as soon as I turned the knob, it felt like one thousand daggers were inserted directly into my quadriceps’ muscle fibers. The burn was so excruciating, I was biting my lip in an effort to not combust right then and there.
Obviously struggling, I looked around the room to see if anyone else found this so-called “pedaling” to be as impossible as it was for me.
To my left, a 50-60-year-old male with thinning hair and a stained tan tank top…and exercise shorts that didn’t fit him as an adolescent. His hands are tucked behind his back, eyes closed and face tranquil as he seems to have created some bond between his pedal strokes and that stupid “Firefly” song by Owl City. I hate Owl City.
To my right, an adult female, a few years older than myself, bouncing up and down like a gosh darn bottle of sunshine. She smiled at me in a way that you smile at the big, slow kid in gym class who gets out first in dodgeball. I mustered up what I felt like was a smile back, but apparently was more of a grimace, or I am just very unfortunate looking, as she jolted her head backwards in fright, and reached for her Dutch Bros latte’ in the bike’s cupholder.
Sipping her sugary delight ever so slowly, her legs were creating an effortless tornado of pedal strokes, she turned her head to the side and just observed the pain I was going through.
Her face said to me, “This is the only thing I am going to eat the rest of the day. I weight 90 lbs, and am making you look like a helpless ant right now. And yes, this is a Peach Smoothie. With whipped cream. Enjoy your last 40 minutes alive.”
It was official, I was surrounded by people who were a lot better at this than I was, and I contemplated leaving then and there. 20 minutes into class, the instructor FINALLY asked me the least flattering question I have ever heard.
“HEY…HAVE YOU DONE THIS BEFORE?” she asked, barely audible above the terrifying German-Hardcore song, “Du Haste.”
“Guess,” I said, in-between breaths that were barely sending my brain enough oxygen to speak.
She took a good 5 seconds to scope out my form, check my alignment, and analyze my pace, before she came to the ridiculously obvious conclusion.
“Nope,” she said, with a wry smile, as she was undoubtedly planning how to make me terrified of bicycles for the rest of my life.
“Oh really? Did you guest-star in that Sherlock Holmes movie? Or was that inspired by your life? Yeah…hey…instructor lady, that is really AWESOME you were able to conclude that the kid in tears in the back row, with the Atlantic Ocean of sweat underneath his bicycle has never DONE THIS BEFORE. Awesome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bleed out my ears, because if I hear another T-Pain Techno Remix, I am going to kill myself.”
I muttered all of that in my head, but there was no way I could get out a complete sentence without passing out, so the most I could muster was, “Kay,” as I bowed my head, contemplating suicide.
To make matters worse, after this demeaning interaction, the instructor became ridiculously kind and encouraging, and before I knew it, I was actually pedaling without tearing every muscle fiber in my lower body. Before I knew it, she stopped playing Owl City and German Hardcore Rap, and the Atlantic Ocean of sweat beneath my feet resembled something more like the Mediterranean on a hot afternoon in August.
The sun started to come up, and the feeling in my legs returned briefly. In a matter of minutes, the endorphins kicked in, and for some insane, incomprehensible reason, a smile cracked on my face. Dutch Brothers girl fled for the bathroom, the old guy next to me opened his eyes for the first time all class, and that 12-year-old girl in the front that was making fun of me for almost falling off the stationary bike, looked a lot more friendly.
“GOOD JOB SHANE!” The instructor screamed, butchering my name.
“Thanks,” I said, in a voice that didn’t sound like I was drowning.
We finished the class with some hills and intervals that would make World War II seem pleasant, but when all was said and done, she handed out “Tangerine-Scented Moist Towels,” and gave everyone a hand-sanitizer-high-five, wishing us a great rest of our day. The twelve-year-old girl looked at me and said I “don’t suck as bad as I did at first,” and the old guy behind me with overly revealing cycling shorts was like, “hey hey…now we can eat the food at the fair this weekend!”
“Yeah,” I stood up, smelling like a mix of tangerine and cheese, and with every step I took, my shoes “squished” and “squashed” like I just jumped into a pool with all of my clothes on.
“Will you be back Shane?” Instructor lady asked.
“Never again, you terrible, terrible person. Thanks for the towel.” I thought in my mind.
“SURE!” I said in reality, wondering why anyone would ever go through his torture again. Only time will tell. And by time, I mean if I can walk within the next week, and if I get a peach smoothie before every class.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Kids Say The Darndest Things
“It’s too hot in here. Get some fans so I don’t sweat,” said Akayla, every basketball camp-counselor’s worst nightmare.
“Akayla, you’re at a basketball camp. You are going to sweat…I’m sorry,” I replied sheepishly.
“I don’t like sweating. When I sweat, I crave meat,” She said.
“What? You crave meat when you sweat?” I replied, baffled.
“Yes. I want like, ribs or chicken or steak when I sweat. So get some fans, because I am not even that hungry. Also, my fingernail just broke. I need to go to the bathroom,” Akayla replied.
From this point on I should have known a summer full of working with children at a basketball camp would bring some surprises, but nothing could have prepared me for the events that occurred in the summer of 2010.
Then again, how could anyone be prepared for a fire drill? I mean, really, fire drills are made to catch you off guard—to test how you would REALLY react if the place actually went up in flames. But at camp, it’s standard safety protocol, so everyone was pretty well prepared to get the little boogers out of their rooms, and evacuated safely into the parking lot to take roll, and go back to bed.
This was all and well until we came to the name of “Logo,” one of the most notable campers for his seemingly endless supply of NBA gear, and equally impressive ability to have zero idea of what is happening around him at any given time.
After minutes of panic, and the realization that, “Oh shit, where is Logo?” set in, we decided to ask his roommate if he had seen him. Last he saw Logo, he was sniffing a cologne sample from a magazine ad in the chair in his room. This didn’t really happen, but it gives you a feel for how different Logo is.
Anyway, once the coaches scrambled up to Logo’s room, they found him in a panic amidst the chaos of the “BEEP RING BEEP BEEN RING BEEP!!!” of the fire-alarm, frazzled in his room, repeatedly pounding his alarm clock, exclaiming, “Why won’t my alarm TURN OFF!!?!?? I didn’t even SET IT!!!”
The coaches calmly explained to Logo that it was the fire-alarm making the noise, not his alarm. Relieved, Logo laid down on his bed, and was again reminded to please put down the cologne-sampler and please join the rest of the camp in the parking lot.
The fun doesn’t stop there. Not only are some of these kids extremely hilarious because of their evident shortcomings, but some of them are ridiculously smart, and make you feel exceedingly inadequate at any given time. Like when they tell you that when you run it looks like your feet are in cement blocks. Or when they say, “I used to think dunking was cool. Then I saw you do it,” or refuse to listen to your shooting demonstration because, “I haven’t seen you make a jump shot all camp.”
Ordinarily, being a 20-year-old college basketball player with 2 feet of height and 10 years of experience on your campers assures an authoritative position. That is, until you meet a camper who will probably be better than you one day, and knows it.
“Is D3 even hard to play?” Said this little shit that will most likely one day be a college athlete.
“I mean…a lot of people want to play a college sport, but you have to be pretty good to make any school’s roster,” I said, politically correct.
“Oh. Cuz I saw you air-ball a 6-foot-jump shot today. I don’t do that ever,” he said.
“Well…I mean…that happens to everyone once in a while. Keep working hard and I am sure you can be a college player somewhere someday, bud,” I said, grinding my teeth, trying to not kick him in the chest.
“No I know. I’ll play D1 or at least dominate D2. My dad has already been talking to some coaches,” he said.
“You’re 12. Seriously? Look, stay humble. You have talent but you need to work hard to realize your potential, okay? And as your camp-counselor, I’ve gotta tell you, your outside shot really needs some work. Your form is way off,” I said.
“Oh, yeah? I’m sure you know. Is that why you didn’t even make a 3 during the coaches shooting contest?” He said.
Fed up, I let his 12-year-old wit and audacity get the best of me, so I challenged him to a 3-point-contest right then and there. He annhialated me, with awful form, but didn’t miss, then told me he never had to listen to me for the rest of camp. He didn’t.
He proceeded to correct MY form, and explained to me I wasn’t following through. I shot 10 more 3-pointers, with him at my side, double checking my form. I made 8 of them…6 more than in my contest with him…and he smiled, walked off, then told everyone of his peers that he beat the tall guy. Some might call this inspirational..but the way I look at it, there is nothing more demoralizing than losing to an arrogant 12-year-old who thinks you suck at basketball.
Looking to break even, I found the worst 9-year-old at camp, and beat him in HORSE. I may or may not have pounded my chest and asked him “How defeat tastes?” while screaming in his face. I was about par for the day, so I called it good.
That last part was a joke. He was 10, and I said “Tell your parents to get their money back. You are an awful shooter. Punk.”
“Akayla, you’re at a basketball camp. You are going to sweat…I’m sorry,” I replied sheepishly.
“I don’t like sweating. When I sweat, I crave meat,” She said.
“What? You crave meat when you sweat?” I replied, baffled.
“Yes. I want like, ribs or chicken or steak when I sweat. So get some fans, because I am not even that hungry. Also, my fingernail just broke. I need to go to the bathroom,” Akayla replied.
From this point on I should have known a summer full of working with children at a basketball camp would bring some surprises, but nothing could have prepared me for the events that occurred in the summer of 2010.
Then again, how could anyone be prepared for a fire drill? I mean, really, fire drills are made to catch you off guard—to test how you would REALLY react if the place actually went up in flames. But at camp, it’s standard safety protocol, so everyone was pretty well prepared to get the little boogers out of their rooms, and evacuated safely into the parking lot to take roll, and go back to bed.
This was all and well until we came to the name of “Logo,” one of the most notable campers for his seemingly endless supply of NBA gear, and equally impressive ability to have zero idea of what is happening around him at any given time.
After minutes of panic, and the realization that, “Oh shit, where is Logo?” set in, we decided to ask his roommate if he had seen him. Last he saw Logo, he was sniffing a cologne sample from a magazine ad in the chair in his room. This didn’t really happen, but it gives you a feel for how different Logo is.
Anyway, once the coaches scrambled up to Logo’s room, they found him in a panic amidst the chaos of the “BEEP RING BEEP BEEN RING BEEP!!!” of the fire-alarm, frazzled in his room, repeatedly pounding his alarm clock, exclaiming, “Why won’t my alarm TURN OFF!!?!?? I didn’t even SET IT!!!”
The coaches calmly explained to Logo that it was the fire-alarm making the noise, not his alarm. Relieved, Logo laid down on his bed, and was again reminded to please put down the cologne-sampler and please join the rest of the camp in the parking lot.
The fun doesn’t stop there. Not only are some of these kids extremely hilarious because of their evident shortcomings, but some of them are ridiculously smart, and make you feel exceedingly inadequate at any given time. Like when they tell you that when you run it looks like your feet are in cement blocks. Or when they say, “I used to think dunking was cool. Then I saw you do it,” or refuse to listen to your shooting demonstration because, “I haven’t seen you make a jump shot all camp.”
Ordinarily, being a 20-year-old college basketball player with 2 feet of height and 10 years of experience on your campers assures an authoritative position. That is, until you meet a camper who will probably be better than you one day, and knows it.
“Is D3 even hard to play?” Said this little shit that will most likely one day be a college athlete.
“I mean…a lot of people want to play a college sport, but you have to be pretty good to make any school’s roster,” I said, politically correct.
“Oh. Cuz I saw you air-ball a 6-foot-jump shot today. I don’t do that ever,” he said.
“Well…I mean…that happens to everyone once in a while. Keep working hard and I am sure you can be a college player somewhere someday, bud,” I said, grinding my teeth, trying to not kick him in the chest.
“No I know. I’ll play D1 or at least dominate D2. My dad has already been talking to some coaches,” he said.
“You’re 12. Seriously? Look, stay humble. You have talent but you need to work hard to realize your potential, okay? And as your camp-counselor, I’ve gotta tell you, your outside shot really needs some work. Your form is way off,” I said.
“Oh, yeah? I’m sure you know. Is that why you didn’t even make a 3 during the coaches shooting contest?” He said.
Fed up, I let his 12-year-old wit and audacity get the best of me, so I challenged him to a 3-point-contest right then and there. He annhialated me, with awful form, but didn’t miss, then told me he never had to listen to me for the rest of camp. He didn’t.
He proceeded to correct MY form, and explained to me I wasn’t following through. I shot 10 more 3-pointers, with him at my side, double checking my form. I made 8 of them…6 more than in my contest with him…and he smiled, walked off, then told everyone of his peers that he beat the tall guy. Some might call this inspirational..but the way I look at it, there is nothing more demoralizing than losing to an arrogant 12-year-old who thinks you suck at basketball.
Looking to break even, I found the worst 9-year-old at camp, and beat him in HORSE. I may or may not have pounded my chest and asked him “How defeat tastes?” while screaming in his face. I was about par for the day, so I called it good.
That last part was a joke. He was 10, and I said “Tell your parents to get their money back. You are an awful shooter. Punk.”
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