Ranting About Young Adult Lit and Allende's CITY OF THE BEASTS

This morning it's me, Katherine.

Before reading this, remember that I'm a girl who believes in heart and intuition and magic and soul and all those things.  I'm beginning to wonder, however, if all the wizards and vampires and zombies and beasts and the other-worlds inside books that sweep young adults off to these different worlds are a good idea.  I believe that heart and intuition and magic and soul bring light to reality.  I'm just not sure adolescent worlds that lose reality altogether are such a good idea when fantasy seems to be all that's offered.  Things just feel a tad out of balance.

I've been saving this rant up since I finished Isabel Allende's "young adult" novel while we were in the Tetons.  I bought CITY OF BEASTS because I wanted to compare what a published writer did with the genre next to the two books Jim has written.  I picked Allende because I love and respect her and because I wasn't going to deal with all the already existing noise that goes with Harry Potter or the vampire books.

I need to begin by saying my sense of adolescent novels is snobbish.  When I wanted to arm an adolescent to think and to read about the real world, I marched into class with CATCHER IN THE RYE.  When it was time to escape and play pretend, I taught the entire 1500 pages of THE LORD OF THE RINGS.  Both had merits, but I'd bet a lot I helped more kids understand the real world through the eyes of Salinger than I did through the eyes of Tolkien.

That's my problem with Allende's CITY OF THE BEASTS and what I know of the Potter and Twilight series.  These stories don't move kids to maturity, but make them yearn for worlds that do not exist and will never exist.  These stories suggest that somehow we all have special abilities or powers and that there are magical worlds to go to.  Tolkien's world was allegorical and the unity of the Fellowship made sense in post World-War II zeitgeist.  I just don't see any allegorical similarity between the fantasies that kids (and romantic adults) are zipping through these days.  Neither the sentences (especially my brief dive into the Twilight stuff) or the stories seem like the kind of stuff I can appreciate.

Here are my problems with current adolescent lit and they match how I felt about the sex-is-the-only-goal movies I saw everywhere when Chris and Nate hit middle school (PORKY'S, RISKY BUSINESS, THE SURE THING, etc.).   The sex movies and the escape lit aimed at adolescents don't say what is true about living in the real world.  I think adolescents need that.  The whole movement that suggests kids should pick their own books gets woven into this as well.  I knew a lot of adolescents in my 33 years in a classroom and most of those kids were good kids, but I wouldn't put a one in charge of curriculum.

CITY OF THE BEASTS began to tick me off when I realized the uber-uniqueness of the two adolescent protagonists of the book.  The book follows a 15 year old boy whose artist Mom is dying of cancer and so his grandmother (a writer for a fictionalized version of NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC who loves living in jungles and drinking vodka and coffee) takes him off into Amazonian jungles to try to prove the existence of a warm weather Yeti-style beast.  Fortunately, Jaguar is the boy's vision name and I can't remember his given name and it's not worth looking up and for what it's worth, whether you love or hate him, nobody forgets Holden Caulfield's given name.  Jaguar has been trained by his amazing doctor father to be an expert climber and Jaguar conquered El Capitan in Yosemite when he was 13 or so.  The doctor also shot up each of his pimples with cortisone so he never faced the anguish of acne (an acknowledgement of acne seemed kind of real).  Jaguar also plays the flute at a level that seems to stop and soothe boatloads or forests full of people.  He plays with his famous, flautist grandfather's instrument which he keeps hooked to his belt for emergency chaotic situations that need soothing flute music to resolve the tenseness in the air.  There's a point where there's only so much tenseness in the air anybody can take, you know.

Jaguar meets the ethnic and exotic 12 year old Nadia (I remember her name!!!) in the Amazon where her father guides a group of awful stereotypical folks through the jungles to find the Beast.  Nadia speaks the many languages of the native peoples and animals.  She negotiates for the group a they meet tribal folks along the way and she summons the witch doctor who guides she and Jaguar, eventually, to the Invisible Tribe (you just have to focus really hard to become invisible) and the City of the Beasts.  She loves animals and talks to them, especially her monkey and I need to add that lassie was nothing next to this monkey.  There are two other books and it's pretty clear that these two kids will age and grow into a more-than-friends relationship.  Isn't that how these adolescent books work?

The characters are just too unreal for me.  I've known gifted young climbers and linguists and musicians and all sorts of gifted teenagers.  I haven't known many who had enough hours in their lives to become such masters in the multiple ways Jaguar and Nadia.  Outliers (Malcolm Gladwell)  says it takes about 10,000 hours to master anything--these kids are not wasting any time.

The whole world of the book is unreal.  Even by Amazonian standards.  The two kids find the real El Dorado and Jaguar finds the Fountain of Youth and brings home the healing water for his mother (we'll find out if it works in the next book perhaps) and brings home the three largest diamonds in the world which will be used to save the Invisible Tribe.  Beasts who live for centuries and talk very slowly do exist, but, of course, will be kept secret because they promise to stop killing people and they will stay hidden in their city.  The group of characters on the expedition come out of a Tarzan book.  The book takes place in 2001 and yet they snap photos and destroy film as though a digital world does not exist.  The leader wears a pith helmet and makes soldiers take photos of him with his boot planted on dead animals hunters killed.  There is also a kindly doctor and a greedy jerk wanting to kill native peoples to find the gems of El Dorado and there is the Tonto-ish guide and adult good guy who happens to be Nadia's father.

Kids seem just too smart to believe in this stuff.

The book has many messages.  I like the part that seems to say that practice pays off even though the book never discusses the practice.  All the climbing practice and the flute practice and the talking to animals and native peoples has paid off.  Without those skills, everybody is screwed.  This part isn't announced like some of the other messages.  Maybe that's why I like it better.  I still believe kids can read between the lines.

The other messages really don't apply.  One message is that we must always give before we take.  sounds good.  Sometimes you just have to give and give and give and nobody hears that you need help too--how many people can't hear Holden's hurt?  Give and take don't really balance out in life.  Ask anybody.

The book is all about shutting down your head and working from the heart alone.  Though I believe it is important to follow your heart and have done so as a wife and mother and teacher, I think this book offered magic and talismans and dreams rather than knowing that there is a reality that is often boring and repetitious.  The Myth of Sisyphus and his smiling reaction to punishment was my best advice to teens about this.  Kids needed to know that a lot of life wasn't peachy keen and a bummer to deal with and that you need to "keep passing the open windows" as John Irving would say (The Hotel New Hampshire).  I'm not sure such unreal worlds with unreal solutions help as much as watching Holden learn he has to go home and get some help.

That's it.  Jim wrote two books where the girl is a gifted musician.  We've known girls like her.  The guy likes to cook and has cool parents.  Also possible.  The parents (except for their much cooler jobs) are a lot like us and I think we're real.  Well, kind of.  I just feel angry that Allende's decidedly average book (I couldn't find a sentence to underline anywhere) is published and Jim's is not.  I know I'm prejudiced.  I love the guy.

Of Hard Hats, Habitat for Humanity, and Border Patrol

One of the reasons I've stopped volunteering at Habitat for Humanity work sites, other than the fact I don't look good in a hard hat, is that in those times I did volunteer and show up at the site, there were so many other volunteers (more often than not youth groups) that I found myself looking around for things to do.  I hate standing around waiting for someone to make up something for me to do.  Now, if I volunteer at all, it is at one of the stores.  There is still almost nothing to do, but at least I don't have to wear a hard hat.

Which brings me to my current concern.  I'm thrilled about the immigration bill's success in the Senate, even though I can't see it ever getting through the House, but I wonder about the promised surge in border patrol.  20,000 more agents!  A longer fence!  How much will this cost?  I thought we were trying to be austere.  When we cut even more money from the federal budget, will these 20,000 additional agents get furloughed?  Imagine the mob scene frantically crossing the Rio Grande during federal furlough days.

I'm afraid, just like my experience at Habitat, all these extra agents will have nothing to do.  In this month's ATLANTIC you will find a nifty little chart entitled "America's Emigration Problem."  This chart goes on to explain that border crossings from Mexico, both legal and illegal, have fallen by 80% since 2000!  Why?  It sure as hell isn't because of increased vigilance.  Since the recession in 2008, Mexico's economy has grown at twice the rate as its neighbor to the north.  In fact, preliminary data show that there are more people moving south across the border than people moving north.

Those poor, bored agents.  While they're standing there shoulder to shoulder on the fenceless stretches of our unprotected border waiting to retire and start collecting PERA benefits, will southern governors come up with make work projects.  Maybe they could clean up some of the tumbleweeds collecting against the fence.  But if they do, I think we should make them wear hard hats.

Playing Jacks and Packing Light: The Odd Outlier Abilities I Have and Have not Got

Katherine today.

Several unrelated events met up recently to bring back the Malcolm Gladwell book about why folks succeed and where unique abilities originate.  Outliers makes me feel smart because it champions quantity as a vehicle to success.  10,000 repetitions of a skill creates extraordinary performance.  That means all those millions of Big Chief pages I made sophomores write were really valuable.  I believe strongly that schools suffer because drill work and repetition and quantity have been replaced with a bogus belief that poured-over long-time quality efforts lead to the same effect with less homework.  The effort to teach literacy without reading as homework is among the most baffling things I see in education.

I'm wandering though.  I was thinking about playing jacks and Jim's first comment to me this morning: "I'm going to take a record low number of things to Jenny Lake this time."  Good morning to you too sweetie.

I'll start with the packing.   Jim would never say anything like that in the morning if he hadn't been thinking about it and there is absolutely no sub-level manipulation or condemnation of my increasingly futile attempt to pack well.  I suck at packing.  I haven't even come close to 10,000 repetitions so my chances for improvement are limited and I just can't stomach the idea of practice packing.  Jim is a natural.  He hates clothes.

Jim has so many packing advantages.   His daywear consists of one outfit and he's just dealing with variations on a theme.  There are long shorts that go to the gym or go kayaking or go hiking or play tennis.  Most are black.  He couples these shorts with T-shirts--mostly grey.  Some have sleeves.  Some don't.  Sometimes he wears tennis shoes.  Sometimes he wears Keens or hiking shoes or flip flops.  He grabs a stack of black shorts and grey T-shirts and adds a lightweight jacket and he is done.  He brings some jeans and "good" T-shirts and a sport coat to cover nice nights out.  Maybe some dress loafers.  If he forgets anything, it's underwear.  This pretty much has him covered for two whole weeks.  If the weather is cold and wet, he's good.  If the weather is hot and icky, he's good.  He is the lowest maintenance fellow imaginable.  When he declared he was taking less than usual it occurred to me he might really mean it.  He is not a practiced packer honed by limitless travel opportunities--he just hates wearing clothes.  Two weeks is a long time to do with less than he normally brings in my mind.  I will try not to worry about this.

He also needs no potions or lotions.  He can use the shampoos and soaps at the hotel and his skin doesn't seem to wrinkle or look much different.  He doesn't have the nasty skin problems I deal with since the two cancer battles.  Recently,  I saw an age spot on his right arm and it took me aback.  I'd point it out to him, but he'd worry about it for several days.  I'm pretty sure I shouldn't mention it here either, but I can't edit my every thought.

On my side, there are all sorts of packing hurdles so I pack too much.  I need all sorts of potions for wrinkles and eczema (radiation treatments suck).  Eczema and fragrances are a really bad combo--no hotel products for me.  I really miss getting all excited when the hotel has really good shampoos and lotions and it feels like a treat.  There's something depressing about buying your skin creams at Walgreens instead of Nordstrom.

I also pack the wrong stuff.  I try to be prepared.  I make lists.  I look up weather reports.  The weather changes and my lists match some ideal for every situation that makes the usual and probable difficult to deal with when I arrive.  This is where Cosmic Banditos is the best book ever.  Almost every chapter ends with this phrase: "And then things didn't go according to plan."  These are words to live by.

I find myself with several problems.  I know lady light packers who mix and match and everything they bring along  (think Janet Simmons).  It's a lot like Jim's black/grey motif.  This is hard for me to do.  I'm a girl who doesn't really believe in matching so I can't pull out a stack of anything that would work that way.  You come stare at my closet and find a way to mix and match your way through that forest.

Shoes are a packing problem for me when I fly  If you don't believe in matching, you need to bring a lot of pairs of shoes to figure things out so you DON'T match.  Flying and multiple shoe options are out.  I use up any spare weight on a plane in my eczema stuff anyway.  My limited footgear is only one reason I'm not wild about flying.

When we are on the road, I bring the shoes I want.  I'm good enough to limit myself to one pair of cowboy boots, but that's about the only limit I acknowledge.  I bring multiple flip flops, some spiky heels, some tennis shoes, some water shoes, and one pair of yummy cowboy boots.  It's really hard to explain why this is necessary, but it is and I know this hampers the light packing ability.  I really like shoes.  Really.

The weather never works the way it's supposed to either.  I look it up online.  I plan accordingly.  Then I worry about what will happen if the weather is wrong and it always is.  I decide to pack for all kinds of weather to compensate.  I end up with a little bit of stuff for every possibility and it never works out.

At Jenny Lake the weather ranges are wide and I worry about weather stretches.  It's always chilly when we arrive, but that can last a day or a week.  It's always too hot when we leave and the deer flies are annoying, but you can never tell if that will be just hitting as we leave or whether the heat will have been there for over a week.  It's the time lengths that do me in and there's never been a clear cut pattern there and I'm a girl who likes patterns.  I wonder if we will be in the wind and rain a lot?  This year, I feel pretty good about the wind and rain part at least.  I used our yearly REI dividend to help pay for these cool light weight wind/rain jackets that take no space at all.  The North Face description indicated they were great for scaling peaks.  That's us.  Besides,  I'm hoping the teeny jacket lowers my packing mass considerably.

Enough of that.  If Outliers is correct, I need a lot more travel to improve.  Jacks, on the other hand, is something I am practiced at and I'm getting ready to get in playing shape.

There are few devotees of jacks left.  When I was a kid, we played for hours and hours and hours.  I bet I got 10,000 reps in third grade alone.  Later on I played jacks with students during informal lunches we had with kids in our adjoining classrooms.  I beat most of determined teenagers wanting to bring down their Honors English teacher.  I laid some in waste.  Two or three boys became so obsessed they beat me.  I have really good memories of playing jacks with so many kids.

Yesterday when we went to Chris's house for a Father's Day Brunch, I realized it was time to think about teaching Brooklyn and Sammi to play and love jacks.  There are challenges.  Sammi is partially paralyzed and modifications will be necessary if she wants to play.  I can do that.  Brooklyn, on the other hand, is reluctant to do anything that doesn't require princess attire.  Brooklyn's starts all conversations with me about potential outings by asking if walking will be involved.  Walking is on Brooklyn's no-fun list.  That limits almost every good time I can think of.  Jacks, however involves no walking.  I just need to find a pink outfit covered in princesses or find a movie where a princess plays jacks.  Normally I just get out my jacks and start to dazzle my audience.  Brooklyn doesn't dazzle easily.  I'm not worried though.  She's young and I've got time to strategize.

It seems so odd to me that I can't pack a suitcase with normal restraint, but I can still sit on the floor and play a nasty round of jacks.  Repetition is everything.  Schools should take note.  Kids will read better if they read until their eyes fall out.  Kids will write better if they write until their arms fall off.  Practice is everything.  Quantity is everything when you are a beginner.  Homework is good.  I feel sure of it.

That's enough for now though.  I am going to restrain myself at least here.  Besides, I want to practice some jacks.

Father' Day

I don't put much stock in special days like Father's Day, Mother's Day, most national holidays, and birthdays.  Christmas and Thanksgiving I can tolerate, but it is getting harder every year.  I just don't like the idea of sending cards, giving flowers, or candy, or presents in general on those days.  I know this sounds cheesy as hell, but I think that if someone is special, you shouldn't wait for a birthday to do something about it.

Father's Day is the worst.  It is nothing more than a marketing attempt to cash in on the previous marketing of Mother's Day.  Who is the biggest beneficiary of such days?  Hallmark Cards, of course.  Oops!  I just spoke disrespectfully about a business, a Job Creator.  I'm going to quick get off the keyboard and genuflect.  I'll be right back.

There, that's better.  I think Father's Day is my least favorite because it brings all my father issues to the surface.  Remember the great feeling you used to get--still get--when you give the perfect present to your mom or dad?  That perfect aspen leaf pin for mommy.  A paisley tie for dad.  You saved up, or borrowed the cash from your grandmother.  You made the purchase yourself.  Went home and gift wrapped it and spent the whole night in bed dreaming about how happy mom would be when she fastened that pin on her blouse.  I mean, how sharp does that look?

I'm not soliciting sympathy here, but I never had that experience with my father.  I made my mom cry over the perfect gift lots of time, but my father left long before I had a chance to give him something special.  If I had gotten him something, it probably would have been a roll of stamps so he could stop deducting the ten cent postage from the child support checks he sent my mother.  $24.90 every week like clockwork.  Oh well, at least he was punctual.  But enough of that.

The only real problem not having a father caused me was that I never developed an attraction for power tools.  I do go to Home Depot and Lowe's to get stuff for home projects, but you won't find me wandering through the power tool section sizing up the latest innovations in cordless drivers. (My favorite is the cordless screwdriver.  I remember my grandmother had one of those back in the fifties.)  I also never felt an urge to have a mancave where I could hang out with my buddies, drink beer, eat lots of nachos and guacamole and act like I care about who wins.  In short, Father's Day, like leaking sinks that refuse an easy fix and flapperballs that are less than reliable, makes me feel somehow inadequate.

I was looking through the Post yesterday and noticed on the feature pages a list of gift suggestions for Dad.  I knew the list would piss me off, but I read it anyway.  A Bosch articulated-arm miter saw was first on the list.  The article said it was perfect for a small workspace.  That would certainly apply to my, ahem, workspace.  If I had the slightest idea what an articulated-arm miter saw was I might want one.

Here is a better one:  the Rockler Insty-Drive, 18 Piece Self Centering & Countersink Set.  My mother always told me that I was too self-centered.  Maybe this piece of equipment would help.

The list left the power tool motif for a moment and suggested a JBL Charge Portable Wireless Bluetooth Speaker.  It will not only supply the driving bass line that any decent mancave requires, but it is sturdy enough and produces enough sound to go with Dad on his latest handy man project, like turning out table legs on his new lathe.

And the coup de grace, The Bottoms Up Home Unit Kit for dispensing draft beer in your mancave.  It fills the cup from the bottom up for a perfect glass of beer every time.  Finally, something practical.

There were other suggestions, but they pretty much followed the same theme:  Things To Insulate Dad From His Family On Weekends.  I just don't belong in the demographic that this list is speaking to.  I would mostly like Father's Day and all other such days to disappear, but since that isn't going to happen anytime soon (think what it would do to the economy), I do have one item I'd like.  I have a water color by my uncle (my mother's twin and my namesake) that I would like to put in an oversized mat and frame and hang on our big living room wall.  This is not the kind of gift you talk about with your buddies over a beer.  It would probably cost around $500.  I know, I know, I could probably pick up a perfectly good table saw for the same price, but it would look lousy in my living room.

Hey.  Happy Father's Day.  I hope everyone has a great day with their kids.  We're going to Chris' for brunch, but before I go I'm gonna get over to Lowe's and check out Black & Decker's Cordless Lithium-Ion Gyro Screwdriver.  My grandmother never had anything like that.

I Love Jeans, Shorts, Spiky Heels and Flip Flops--So There!

Katherine today.

It's chilly and rainy and not even 60 degrees outside and it's almost noon.  It's summer though.  Today is the first day I can remember when my fate is my own.  When I woke up, I didn't begin with a mental catalogue of the things that had to get done.

On most days, the items on my list are usually good and make me happy.  Cooking, knitting class, seeing family, meeting friends, planting posies--I love all these things.  They have to get done though.   Today I woke up and the to-do things could be done tomorrow.  Life will go on if I don't change the sheets or clean our bathroom or fold the last load of laundry.  I could do those things, but I don't have to do them.  To quote Willa, "Happy, happy, happy, happy, happy, happy."  It's a good mantra to cultivate.

So here I am with choice number three on today's list.  I've knitted two rows and one had beads and I'm new at beads so that was a goodly amount of time.  Two rows before 6:00 AM--Ahhh.  Then the gym.  And now--I'm writing away instead of thinking about chores.

I was running around the track at the gym (pleased as punch that I was running a bit better) and decided I wanted to write about a Sunday column in The Denver Post about social "rules" that needed enforcing.  I broke the only four I read.  All were about appropriate clothing.  I decided I would postpone all bathroom work and spout off on the fashion rules this social guru insisted I broke. I broke them all.  To quote Willa, "Happy, happy, happy, happy, happy, happy."

The first rule was about jeans.  Jeans are bad.  No one should wear them.  If you are in the woods and under 40, maybe.  If you were foolish enough to spend more than $58 on them--well, I stopped reading at that point.

This is sacred territory for me.  Saying anything negative about jeans is like saying you don't like skin.  I think a huge problem with old people is that they don't wear jeans.  What's up with that?  Where is the magic line that says this is the moment you stop wearing jeans?  Good-bye True Religion and Hello Dockers.  No thank you.

Whoever wrote the column clearly didn't understand other things about jeans.  They work with cowboy boots.  That's important for a girl like me.  I have some impressive boots (the baby blue ostrich with lime green goatskin Luchese's top the list) and unless you're really and truly line-dancing, you don't wear boots without jeans unless they have spiky heels.

Jeans force you to think about your weight.  What can I say?  I have jeans for my various weights, but I'm not buying a bigger pair than anything I have now.  It's as good a weight loss system as any of the others I've tried.

Look around.  People wear jeans.  They will always wear jeans.  So silly.

The second rule was about shorts.  To be avoided at all costs.    Absolutely not after 40.  Again.   Excuse me.  This is also silly.  Who gets to decide this stuff?  I didn't even check the reasoning.  People love shorts or they don't.

My mother wore shorts with pantyhose underneath--"Horrible, horrible, oh most horrible."  It was the pantyhose that made her shorts approach awful.  I never understood it at all.  It was the wosrt when we traveled.  She played tennis and walked in Yosemite that way and she looked at the geysers in Yellowstone that way.  I think if you're going to wear shorts, you should just wear shorts.  If you must make a rule about wearing shorts, I think a no pantyhose rule would be okay with me.

My father never wore shorts at all.  I never ever saw my father's legs until he was dying.  He wore his suits to work and khakis on the weekend when he went fishing in the mountains.  I only saw his forearms when he retired and took up golf.  It was okay he hid them all those years, you know. It's kind of amazing I love shorts so much given my background.  Maybe I'm just being a passive aggressive kid.

Like I said, people like shorts or they don't.  I'm okay with anybody wearing them unless they wear pantyhose underneath--I just get a Barney Fife feeling all over when that happens.  For me, there are perfect shorts for almost any function.  I have shorts for running, hiking, kayaking, dining on a patio with pretty plants, hanging out, playing tennis, going to a cool early evening cocktail party (it could happen), watching grandkids, gardening,  and typing.  Doesn't everybody?  To quote Willa, "Happy, happy, happy, happy, happy, happy."

I skimmed through footwear too.  I didn't read much because it was clear I was a scofflaw in the shoe department through and through.  Spiky heels followed the jeans and the shorts pattern for rules.  We should all avoid them, but if they must be worn, make sure only young folks don them.  I don't wear spiky heels often, but I have two amazing pair and I wear them to Mizuna or at Jenny Lake sometimes or if there's a fancy-dancy wedding.  When I pull them out and put them on, I remember I have really nice legs for an old lady.

The last fashion taboo was flip flops.  For anyone at anytime.  Talk about making a rule folks won't follow.  Try that in Kauai.

 A world without flip flops would be like a world without jeans.  Stupid.  People were meant to be barefoot.  I'm sure of it.  Flip flops are the closest thing to barefoot that will still get you into a fine restaurant.  Like shorts, there are flip flops for any occasion.

I love Chacos for daily life.  They are made in Colorado.  They are sturdy and last forever and cost a bundle for what is essentially a flip flop.  They feel right on my feet.  The arch is right.  The width of the straps is good.  I like my black ones best.  There's a part of life that is a quest for the perfect daily flip flop.  If you don't have a favorite flip flop, part of me thinks something is wrong with you.

I love Tori Burch flip flops for dress up.  All of mine came from the Nordstrom Rack last year.  I somehow discovered when the weekly shipment Tori Burch shoes would arrive and my work schedule met up with the flip flop delivery schedule.  I like these because the soles of the shoes are incredibly thin and the straps are thin and I feel barefoot in a downtown kind of way.  I wouldn't go for long walks in these, but I feel good going to Bones.

That's all I read.  It's hard to read something that attacks the very core of your being.  No jeans, no shorts, no spiky heels, no flip flops.  I'm not giving these up--not yet.  To quote Willa, "Happy, happy, happy, happy, happy, happy."

Old Friends, Part II

On the day I retired, I petulantly promised myself that I would never set foot in a public high school, particularly the one on Green Mountain, again.  So far, with the exception of attending my grandson's graduation in Orlando, I have kept that promise.

But yesterday afternoon I managed to revisit good old GMHS without having to actually walk into the place.  We went to the shower for Gavin's new child, Colton.  We met Todd and saw Ellison running around just like he did at their place in New York a few months ago.  And there at Nils Erickson's spectacular home we found all the people, well a lot of the people, who made Green Mountain such a great place back in its halcyon years, you know, the years when Kathie and I were there.  There was Carol and Harvey DeLockroy, Bud and Janet Simmons, Barb Amberg looking a lot like she did when she was in my Sophomore Lang Arts class.  Nancy Hardesty looking all spiked and tres avant garde.  Mostly there were kids, wonderful kids.  I know they are all in their 30's and 40's now, but they're still kids.

I had a wonderful talk with Nils about his children and the Montessori school close-by.  Tim Skillern and his wife (I'm sorry I forgot your name) were there.  Tim and I worked side by side on the newspaper for four years.  Our relationship was one of my favorite things about my career, yet I barely recognized him.  I almost cried when we hugged.  Kevin Williams and I spent a goodly amount of time talking about our favorite subject--restaurants.  We discovered we live in the same basic area as Stacy Lord and now will start looking for her at the grocery store.  And of course we saw Gavin and his wonderful family again.  It was a rare treat to see him two times in the last couple of months.

Afterwards, we went with Bud and Janet and had a terrific dinner at Gaetano's, one time mafia hang out and current neighborhood Italian joint.  They have surprisingly good food there if you're ever around 38th and Tejon.

Thanks to everyone for reminding me of all that I loved about school, yet allowing me to avoid the many things I learned to hate.

Old Friends

Old people are so irritating.  Maybe you've noticed.  I finished up my workout this morning and headed to the showers anticipating a long stint in the hot tub.  I mean hanging out in the hot tub is really the only thing that makes going to the Y worth the effort.  But this morning things didn't go according to plan.  I walked in the shower room and there in the hot tub were two really nice guys, guys that are ordinarily fun to talk with if the conversation sticks exclusively to travel, but they're evidently too old to deal with the hot tub jets and instead just sit in the still tub (when it is still you can see how dirty it actually is) and soak.  Whenever an individual asks them if it would be okay to turn on the jets, they shout NO in unison.  On those mornings when I see the two of them in the tub, I just sigh a little and take a quick shower and get the hell out.

At what age does a human being stop growing, stop reading the papers, stop watching the news (they watch Fox instead), stop thinking or liking or accepting anything that they have not already thought, or liked, or accepted?  When you read KING LEAR for example, you are supposed to be sympathetic toward the older generation as they are being eaten alive by the ravening wolves of the younger generation, but let's face it, if you really had to deal with Lear and Gloucester and Kent, if you had to give them rides in your car, or share a hot tub with them, or have dinner with them, you would end up hating them and rooting for good old Goneril and Regan to put them out of their misery.  Kent says plaintively that he is "too old to learn."  I used to well up when I read that; now I want to tell him that if he's so old to shut the fuck up about it.

I'm not just talking about chronology here.  There are all kinds of people younger than me who are clearly already in their dotage.  For instance, if I take an "old" person someplace in my car I can't open the sun roof, or keep all the side windows wide open.  And when I do keep everything shut down, I have to be careful that the air conditioner doesn't blast them in the face.  Even if the climate inside the car is acceptable, if it is sunny outside and the old person spaced out his/her sun glasses (old people are always spacing out things like their sun glasses), you would think the old geezer was being exposed to nuclear fall out the way he puts his hand over his eyes to protect himself from the same sun that has been beating down on him without effect for the past 80 years.  I always carry an extra pair of sun glasses in the glove compartment.  Ray Bans.  If I'm gonna help some oldie stay out of the sun, I want them to be stylin'.

And I don't like the way they dress.  Old people always think they have to dress appropriately, so they wear suits during the day and wear hose and wear khakis and never shorts.  I don't trust people who never wear shorts.  They cover up to protect themselves from that same intruding sun in the previous paragraph.

They don't laugh as much as they used to.  They don't get the jokes on "The Daily Show" and, of course, "Colbert" is a complete mystery.  Why does he pronounce his name that way?  They're on the look out for gay people who might want to molest them, poor people who might want to take their money, black people who might want to marry their daughters and become President.  They miss Johnny Carson, have grown grudgingly accustomed to David Letterman and are still relieved that Conan didn't take over.

They like to eat out, but don't chew their food as carefully and thoroughly as their age requires and end up punctuating every meal with terrifying choking fits usually during or right after the salad course.

Don't get me wrong.  Some of my best friends are old people.  Now that I think about it, ALL of my best friends are old people.  But if you ever catch me rolling up windows, shading my eyes from the sun, choking over an underchewed scallion, or worst of all, turning off the jets in a hot tub, I want you to shoot me.