The Awesome Power of Pasta

We had some family over for dinner the other night. We were eating spaghetti. As I was dishing up a plateful I wanted to show my appreciation and said, “This looks awesome,” to which my sister-in-law replied, “Eating spaghetti is awesome.” I was immediately intrigued by the notion that ones social aptitude or level of “coolness” could be gauged by the quantity of spaghetti one consumed. Convinced that this must be a true principle, (partly because my sister-in-law is staunchly honest and partly because it just felt right), I decided to perform an experiment and put it to the test. I ate as much spaghetti as I could without vomiting. The following is a log of the first day’s trial.

6:55 am
I got up, went into the kitchen, and pointedly declined the waffles, sausage, and eggs my wife had prepared stating “those food items would only stifle my awesomeness,” and promptly pushed my plate onto the floor. As the plate shattered, sending glass and food in all directions, my wife and I looked at each other in shock. It seems my faith was baring fruit, as I was already acting more awesome. No one could deny that tossing my food on the floor like an angst-filled teen was anything if not awesome. “Hell yes” I said, “I’m havin’ BU-SKETY for B-Fast YO! Make some!” My wife walked out in tears obviously unable to handle my high level of awesome. I wanted to comfort her but restrained myself when I reasoned that the only thing that could help her now was more spaghetti.

7:21 am
After eating leftover spaghetti I split (left) for work. On the way I tuned the radio to a rap station, which I felt spoke to me on a profoundly awesome level. I was in the middle of busting a tight rhyme when some uptight cracker cut me off. Typically, I would have taken it like a spineless Nancy, but now that I was awesome I scooted to the center of the car, rolled down the windows, steered with my knee, and sped past the offending cracker with both hands extended out either side of the car flipping the biggest, most awesome birds I have ever flipped. I was on top of the world.

9:10 am
Five minutes into my second class I’m still sitting in my chair with my feet on my desk. I’m already tired of teaching for the day. The students’ just stare at me. Then one asks, “Mr. Quinn? Are we going to learn any history today?” I just looked at him for a minute contemplating what I might say. And then I spoke. “History schmistory.”
The students all laughed.

10:42 am
It was time to refuel so I leave school early to take an extended lunch and decide to cruise down to Olive Garden. “I’ll have the all you can eat spaghetti platter.”
“We don’t have an all you can eat spaghetti platter.” The waitress explained.
“What did you say?”
“We don’t have an all you can eat spaghetti platter.” She repeated with deliberation.
“What did YOU SAY?!”
“I said we DO NOT have an all you can eat spaghetti platter!”
“WHAAAAT DIIIID YOOOOU SAAAAY???!!!!”
“Sir, I’m sorry. We don’t offer an all you can eat platter. Can I get you something else?”
“WHAAAAT DIIIID YOOOOU SAAAAAY???!!!!!!! AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!”
“I’ll talk to the kitchen and see what I can do.”
I got the all you can eat spaghetti platter. My powers of persuasion are becoming increasingly proficient. Awesome.

2:45 pm
Upon my return to school I am informed I have been fired for sloughing. “I thought you could only get detention for sloughing” I protested.
“If you’re a student you get detention. If you’re a teacher you get fired.” They informed me.
“That’s a double standard.”
“Well, we hold teachers to a higher standard than students.”
“That’s what she said.” Point, set, match. No one recovers from a “that’s what she said.” My principal was probably reeling from the retort.
“What?” she asked.
“Never mind.”
“No, I want to understand you. That’s what who said about what?”
“I said never mind.”
“Just tell me what you meant.”
“Just forget it. It’s been too long now so it won’t even be funny.”
We just stared at each other for a minute. Then I walked up to within one inch of my principal. I grabbed her face and kissed her long and hard. “Am I fired now?”
“Yes. And I’m calling the police.”
“Your mom’s calling the police.”
“What?”
“Oh geez. Never mind.”

3:15 pm
I’ve cleared my stuff from my classroom but can’t go home yet lest my wife catch wise to my new employment status. But now that I’m awesome and not a teacher I want my car to reflect that fact so I stop into a car accessories shop to purchase some stickers of Calvin, from Calvin and Hobbes, peeing on stuff. I hit the jackpot. I bought one of Calvin peeing on the Chevrolet logo but since I wasn’t sure what car company built my car I also bought one of him peeing on the Ford logo. I got one of Calvin peeing on George Bush, Osama bin Laden, the Taliban, Hillary Clinton, Hollywood, Irish Dancing, Mexico, Mac Computers, Lindsey Lohan, Smokers, Ex-Wife, Ex-Boyfriend, My Step Kids, Al Gore, Polar Bears, Global Warming, Michael Moore, Socialism, and France. I bought some of him peeing on acronyms like NRA, PETA, MADD, and NAACP. I even bought some that didn’t really make sense but still looked awesome like Calvin peeing on Polio, Kermit the Frog (a dead, limp looking version), Orphans, Caribou, a human fetus, Spina Bifida, and a sticker that had two Calvins peeing on each other. Needless to say I stuck all these on the back window of my car to show my high level of awesome.

4:25 pm
I’m on the road heading home with the window down, arm hanging out, spitting occasionally just for the H of it. I feel as light as the ether now that I’m free from the bonds of slave labor. I decide to open up the ol’ Prizm all the way and push it up to 60. Just then I notice the fuzz on my tail. I decide to pull over and play it awesome. He approaches my window.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”
“What?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”
“I pulled you over because it’s illegal to completely obstruct the view through your back window with decals or anything else for that matter. It’s not safe.”
“You got a warrant copper?”
“I don’t need a warrant to pull you over. Can I see your license and registration please?”
“Where’s my lawyer?
“I don’t have clue where your lawyer is.”
“Well I know my rights so you can stick it pork chop.”
“Watch the insults!”
“Is this some kind of screw job? I’ve been framed.”
“What are you talking about?”

5:15 pm
After I was arrested and put in jail I started to get hungry.
“Hey piggy!” I yelled to the nearest cop. “When’s chow?”
He started to walk closer and explained that they don’t provide meals, and that I could eat when someone came and bailed me out. Then I noticed his nametag read “Fabrezio” and got excited.
“Hey Guido, do you think you could score me some spaghetti?!” I asked.
“What did you call me?” He said as he walked toward my cell.
“No need to get bent out of shape Corleon. I’m with you, so get me some spaghetti.”
“I already told you we don’t serve meals.”
I could tell this situation was going to call for higher powers of persuasion.
“WHAAAAT DIIIIIID YOOOOOOU SAAAAAAAAY?????!!!!! AAAAAA…”

7:40 am (the next morning)
“Hey Ben. Ben, wake up.”
From a sleepy stupor I wake to the prodding sound of my wife’s voice. My eyelids flutter and I notice I’m lying in a small pool of my own blood. “What time is it?” I ask.
“It’s seven forty.”
It’s amazing how soundly you can sleep when you’ve been Billy-clubbed to the face. My wife informs me that I’ve behaved like certain parts of the body, which are found below the waist, and then bails me out. At the booking window I collect my things and bid farewell to all the law dogs.
“So long coppers. See you next time.”
One of the cops behind the counter looks my way and says, “I hope there’s not a next time.”
“That’s what your mom said.”
A bunch of cops laughed.
Awesome.

Love & Money

If money could procreate what would it give birth to?
Assume I lit some candles in my room, scattered paper hearts over the bed and floor, and put on some Barry White to help set the mood. I then left two 20’s on the bed, and took my kids and wife out for the evening to give the 20’s some privacy. Now I’m just wondering; if the two $20 bills did conceive, what would they get pregnant with? Would they give birth to 1’s that would mature into 20’s, or would they just give birth to smaller, miniature 20’s that would grow to normal size 20’s over time? Maybe these are not the only two possible scenarios. Maybe they could get pregnant with any denomination of bill: 5’s, 10’s, 50’s, or even 100’s? Or is this all a moot point since 20’s are marked with the face of Andrew Jackson therefore making them male by default and unable to procreate?
Just wondering.

5 Years of Chess

My wife and I are one of those couples of which you hear people say, “If they can make it, anybody can.” Like magnets of a similar polarity our being together defies the laws of nature itself. I used to be jealous of couples who have everything in common and an easy go of marriage; passing the time without contention as all their moments together are filled with an air of pleasant ease. I would ask myself, what are they doing that we are not, to make it seem so easy? My conclusion, nothing; they were just born that way. Some combinations just have to work harder than others. And my feelings about that fact are ambiguous because I have also concluded that our relationship is a great benefit to all contrasting personalities that become entwined in the bonds of matrimony. An observation of our lives provides the observer with an opportunity for growth and education that just can’t be gleaned from those “perfect” couples.

My wife’s sister and her husband, whom we occasionally tease because of how easy AND cheesy their relationship sometimes seems, do not know contention or difficulty and if they did ever have an argument it would sound something like this:

Him: “I love you.”
Her: “I love you more.”
Him: “No, I love you more.”
Her: “No, I love you more.”
Him: “Nuh-uh. I do.”
Her: (affectionately) “Oh honey, I’m sorry for arguing.”
Him: (passionately) “By golly, your peace-making gets me hot.”
(kiss kiss kiss hug hug kiss kiss)
Him: “Go sit down right now! I’m rubbing your feet.”
Her: “Not before I rub yours.”

Not that my wife and I haven’t enjoyed similar exchanges, but ours sounded more like this:

Her: “I love you.”
Me: “I love you more.”
Her: “Yeah, you’re probably right. Now rub my feet!”

Allow me to explain why I’ve been thinking about this.
Before marriage I was one of those idealistic romantics that thought marriage came as a packaged challenge, like a video game, and all people experienced that game at the same level of difficultly. It was supposed to be like Super Mario Brothers on Nintendo. (My choice of metaphor should illustrate how long it’s been since I’ve played video games.) Everyone would have to advance through the same levels to progress to the end and save the princess, which, in this analogy, would represent mastering the art of marriage and never experiencing a hint of trouble again. However, after a few years of marriage and a large amount of interaction with other married couples I learned this is not the case. It is more like playing chess against your computer, but instead of being able to pick which level you wish to begin (beginner, intermediate, or advanced), the computer chooses the level for you.

Let’s stick with this analogy a moment. Once I entered adolescence I began to notice that I liked computers. I knew I liked them but at the same time was fully aware of my incompetence when it came to their inner workings (both hardware and software). I did not understand them and visa versa. Still, I enjoyed being with computers; it felt good. By my mid-twenties I had some limited experience with computers. I used them to type papers for school, checked the occasional email, and searched the net on a very shallow basis. Beyond that I was pretty much computer illiterate. Also, I had always been aware that there were some men out there who were quite well versed in the binary language and some of these men were so familiar with computers that they started playing a game called chess with them. From what they described, chess was a difficult game, but one well worth playing. As it turned out, the levels of success and happiness these men were having at playing their various computers at chess were varied and irregular. Some of them loved the game vowing to never play any other games with any other computers ever again, while some of them didn’t take to the game of chess as well as they thought they might and they gave up and went back to using computers on a limited basis. Some men attempted to trade in their old computers hoping to secure a newer model while they, the men, were still young enough to understand and use new technology. And still some men got angry with their computers claiming their computers were cheating at the game and that it was too hard. “I’ll never play chess again. It costs too much both monetarily and emotionally,” they would say. Some of these men even threw their computers out, and then screamed at them from the window while throwing the computer’s belongings into the street. That said, I was always intrigued with the prospect of one day playing chess with some special computer. And then one day that opportunity presented itself. I had been working with a certain computer for about six months, felt comfortable with it and decided to become a chess player. When I began my game I naïvely thought the computer would start out easy, helping me understand what to do along the way. I told the computer that I wanted to start at the beginner level but to my surprise it said “No. I only play advanced.”
“But I don’t want to play at the advanced level yet. I’m just a beginner.” I explained.
“Well too bad. It’s your own damn fault for asking me to play with you.” It said with finality. And that was that. I was now stuck in a game I barely understood for what was supposed to be forever.

After hearing this analogy some people might say that the energy we’ve had to expend to stay happily married could have been saved had we chosen people more compatible to ourselves in the first place. And to them I say, that it is a moot point since my wife is the girl I fell head-over-heels in love with and when it comes to these types of dilemmas the mind is ill equipped to do battle with the heart. I think our relationship is that much better AND stronger due to the energy we've put into it. Somethings are worth fighting for, and the love of your life should be one of them.

We just celebrated our five-year anniversary this past Friday (Oct. 12th). Wars have been fought, educational degrees have been declared and completed, and hundreds of Hollywood relationships have been born and expired in less time, but it is only the beginning. There will be plenty of time for other young, struggling, passionate couples to look to us and say - “If they can make it, we can too.”

Book of Real History, Chap. 1

So I got that teaching job I said I was looking for back in March (The Burden of an Education). For a poverty level paycheck I still can’t believe how demanding teaching high school can be. (That’s right, high school. I was also offered teaching positions at two different junior high schools, but I decided early adolescents was someplace that, psychologically speaking, I could not venture.) I spend my extra time trying to stay one day ahead of the students as we are covering 20th Century history this year and my exposure to said field was cursory at best. And so I feel like I am just as much a student as I am a teacher. Since August I have been on the edge of my seat with shock and awe as I have investigated the past like some kind of explorer. (This, along with the fact that my father passed and we moved into a new home, is the reason I didn’t write much in August.) Assuming that most American high school graduates left school with the same sheltered/half-truth education that I did, I feel it a duty as an educator to start a semi- regular piece entitled “The Book of Real History” where I reveal lesser known tidbits from our collective pasts. Let this be the first of those entries.

Verse 1
Did you know that the most famous duel in history is laced with irony? The duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr really had nothing to do with politics or slander. What most history books fail to mention is that while the two statesmen were heavily involved in American politics they were also in a bluegrass band together and they both played the banjo. It was called “The Burilton Mountain Pickers” and they enjoyed traveling around the colonies playing family parties, barn dances, and various church functions. One of their most popular tunes was a little ditty they wrote together called “Competing Banjos.” The song was written to be an equal opportunity for the two virtuosos to display their picking prowess but Hamilton, who was kind of a showboat, insisted on taking an extended solo to end the song. Burr tried to express his frustration but was stymied by his band-mate’s pompous indifference when Hamilton told him to “Blow it out your butt.” Burr, at wits end from the constant upstaging by his musical compatriot, held his rage in until their next performance when right at the climax of Hamilton’s final solo, at the end of “Competing Banjos”, Burr bludgeoned Hamilton over the head with his banjo fatally wounding Alex and putting an end to “The Burilton Mountain Pickers.” Coincidentally, the name of the song was later changed to “Dueling Banjos” which only helped perpetuate the myth that an actual “duel” took place.