Not exactly Friday Night Lights

I figure it would have been too embarrassing to get kicked out of my son’s first high school football game before it even started. So while I complained about the $3 admission charge for a ninth grade game, I borrowed $6 from another parent so my wife and I could watch our son play for one public high school against another. But I wasn’t happy about it.

The return to school has been a most-expensive proposition (especially since I’ve determined our tax dollars are spent on postage), and I’m cash poor until payday mercifully arrived today. Besides, the gate wasn’t equipped to take plastic.

We eventually gained entry and my boy put on an acceptable performance at cornerback. He got burned for a touchdown once, but it was on an exceptional pass to a receiver who had the skills (and the facial hair) of a third-year freshman. I took some satisfaction in that he burned other defenders too.

I took even more satisfaction in the assurance from other dads that it was ok to hate a ninth grader, especially one who reentered the game after we thought he had been ejected for arguing with an official after getting flagged for a personal foul. One dad even suggested it was ok to hate our own ninth graders, which I dismissed with a laugh even though I know it's true. Not mine, mind you, but I already have a few candidates in mind.

I got my financier's $3 worth when Zach broke up a pass later in the game, although it might have been an interception if he had held his position. It reminded me of all the times I’ve seen him misjudge, but usually recover, a fly ball. It also reminded me how much I prefer watching him play baseball.

Our Warriors were victorious by a score of 16-15, with our quarterback taking a knee inside the Wahawk five-yard-line to run out the clock. Too bad the classy move had to be followed (after the obligatory “fifth quarter” -- a 15-minute effort to ease the transition from "everyone plays" to "no they don't") by a rousing chant and rendition of the school fight song.

You don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and you don’t taunt your opponent, especially on their turf. At least, that’s how I roll.

I did take great satisfaction in shunning the concession stand -- even when my newfound sugar daddy offered -- since I knew our post game intentions. I even mapped out the route from the field to Famous Dave's, which doesn't charge admission and never leaves you with a sour taste in your mouth.

Who needs reality when there's reality TV?

During a time that saw the resignation of Bush cronies Karl Rove and Alberto Gonzalez, the two-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina (I hear they had a roof party in Crawford, Texas), Mike Vick’s fall from grace and inevitable turning himself over to God, and cancer forums with (some) presidential candidates and Lance Armstrong in my hometown, you’d think reality would be entertainment enough.

Alas, I’m a reality TV addict, even with the alleged “reality” involves grown-ups playing pirate games in the Caribbean. “Pirate Master” wasn’t long for primetime, but CBS mercifully finished out the series with online episodes (even after one of the contestants committed suicide). I took pride in the thought that I might be its only viewer.

If you didn’t hear, Ben found the $500,000 treasure and walked away with $587,624. Buxom blonde stay-at-home mom Christa, whom I cheered from the start, came up short. She pocketed $70,416 for her trouble, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she winds up on another reality TV series.

She would certainly be a sight for sore eyes on “Big Brother 8.” The show airs three times a week, yet I can’t seem to get enough of the train wreck. Seldom has a group of less likable people been assembled on network TV (save, perhaps, “The View”), yet I’m pulling for the least likable one of all – Evel Dick.

The show will end about the time “Survivor China” arrives to fill the void in my shallow lifestyle. Surely, there’s another “Amazing Race” around the corner too.

For now, however, I must return to reality. My fantasy football team needs some attention.

Two years ago today

And it still ain't right, not even close.

Perhaps it would be different, or seem so, if there appeared to be a good-faith effort to do what needs to be done, or, especially, to make up for the man-made disaster that followed the natural, but what am I saying? Good faith? Insert bitter laughter here.

I know my mood would be less dark if I hadn't gone to see No End in Sight, the documentary about the other brown people suffering at the hands of that same malevolently incompetent American administration on the banks of those other rivers on the other side of the world. At least, I guess, the Tigris and Euphrates didn't flood, though at least that might have given Baghdad some running water for a time. No End in Sight is the story of how the occupation of Iraq--not that it should have happened at all--was mucked up beyond all reason, told by those who tried to do it right only to learn this administration is only interested in doing wrong. As film-making, it's a bit like paying to watch old news, though cogently presented. The impact is less in the video clips than in the expressions of those who tried, or who would've if given the chance, and how they know even better than you or I that there really is no end in sight.

Adios, Fredo

Proving, once again, that he is both utterly shameless and incapable of making it through two sentences without screwing up a three syllable word, this was part of Dubya's statement today:

"Al Gonzales is a man of integrity, decency and principle, and I have reluctantly accepted his resignation with great appreciation for the service that he has provided for our country. . . ."

"It's sad that we live in a time when a talented and honorable person like Alberto Gonzales is impeding [sic] from doing important work because his good name was dragged through the mud for political reasons."*

Just wow. And vomit. And IF ONLY that were what's sad about the time we live in.

*This was on the back:

"Fredo here has covered my ass for years. And don't think I don't 'preciate it. I mean, this dude will do ANYTHING me and Turdblossom tell him, well, Turdblossom mostly, heh heh. You know I ain't got no ideas 'cept about gettin' more and more of that power. Power's cool. Constitution? He knows it's just some old paper. Shit. We got all kinds of paper. Anyway, that Fredo did some awesome lawyerin'. Made up all kinds of crap, then talked in circles 'til Congress was all pissed off and I don't think they'll catch us, er, them, 'til it's too late, maybe. And he said we could beat people silly and spy on anybody and and all kinds of supercool crap, too. Real presidentin'. None of that sissy business. Terror! Woo! See you around, Fredo, unless, you know, we got to hang you out to dry. Damn, we'll miss ya.

The payoff

"I think her students are lucky to have her."

The compliment is deliberate, and public, and probably unnoticed by anyone but me, its object. I'm curious why she--my mother--has said so during this obligatory Sunday lunch, but she doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask. That's how it goes in my family. We say, "I love you," with twenty dollar bills and drop meaningful phrases into random conversations instead of ever speaking directly. But something's going on with my job and me. Who knows: maybe she can tell.

Maybe it has something to do with this semester not being last semester, when I had no choice but to use up all those sick days and my students' most common question was, "Are you going to be gone again?"

Maybe it has something to do with finally hitting tenure, six years into my current position. It was never a question of job security; my qualifications are rare enough, and I'm good enough at what I do. But maybe the fact that the folders full of school stuff on my home computer are still labeled with the name of the school district, as if I were on my way to some other, greener educational pasture at any time, reveals something about the attitude with which I signed that original contract. After all, it's so far from home.

Which of course, it still is, but that is neither here nor there--it's all the miles in between. But, besides being another post, it's an expensive inconvenience that I'll be overlooking for the duration. Somehow, I seem to have arrived at someplace new without changing my route or my employer.

My predecessor always seemed to relish her imagined helplessness, and I suppose it does make for an easy job. "Ohhh, you can't do that," she told me time after time. And, every time, I stumped her simply by asking why not. I am no firebrand, but I have made things happen--good things--that were never before attempted. It's easy enough to be a force for change when one is willing to haul all the necessary crap over the bar alone; it's not as if that barrier weren't set awfully low.

My students now have classes in which they can learn something more than how to sink or swim and get graduation credit to boot; I now have a job that I want. Oh, it's still impossible, maybe more impossible that it ever was, now that I've tried to make it what it should have been all along, but I love trying, and everyone knows it, and what more can one person do?

Well, sometimes, one person can pull out a magic wand, or appear to, in the eyes of a 17-year old who has done everything she thought she was supposed to do and has yet been failed by the system that does not get it, because systems never do. And if you are the person who has finally stayed in a job long enough to know where the strings are and how to pull them, who has banked enough personal credibility that, "Oh sure, for you," is the automatic answer, and for whom a literal happy dance in the middle of the cafeteria is clearly just the thing to do and nothing to be sheepish about, well, then you might almost be looking forward to going to work on Monday, too.

A Draft Worth Remembering?

In the 15th annual draft of the fantasy football league I run so capably, I retained Donovan McNabb and Jeremy Shockey with Plan B and C selections (don't ask). I then proceeded to take Willie Parker-rb-Pitt, Cedric Benson-rb-Chi, Brandon Jackson-rb-GB, Randy Moss-wr-NE (even after puking in my mouth a little), Santana Moss-wr-Wash., Santonio Holmes-wr-Pit, Terry Glenn-wr-Dal, Jake Delhomme-qb-Car, Chris Henry-rb-Ten., Michael Pittman-rb-Atl., Brandon Jones-wr-Ten., Stephen Gostkowski-pk-NE, Miami's defense, and Coe College graduate Fred Jackson-rb-Buf.

Immediately after the draft, I dispatched Brandon Jackson and Randy Moss to a rival for Fred Taylor-rb-Jack and Lee Evans-wr-Buf.

Time will tell whether this was time well spent.

Then and now

A dozen more summers have come and gone, so my memories are minimal: running out of the big show at the Marcus, finally (the sound system was a disaster) and across the Summerfest grounds to where I really wanted to be. Standing on rickety wooden benches to improve our late-arriving view. A string of white lights across the black Wisconsin sky. That song.

I recall it as a perfect summer night, one of my favorite shows by my then-favorite band, but the fact that I have the idea that the weather (in M'waukee in July) was breezy and agreeable reminds me that the mind plays tricks. It was still a great moment in my time.

What it was for the principals was perhaps another thing.

That year was the end of the Jayhawks, and within months, one of the founders, Mark Olson, took his half of the harmonies and left the band for a musician whose stuff always sounds like a bag of wet cats, at least to me. He seems to be a pretty good guy, to have taken care of Victoria Williams for a chunk of years through her MS (just don't make me listen to her sing), and to have recorded an entire anti-Dubya album (see previous parens), but as I confirmed last night, I have virtually no interest in his last decade of music-making.

He had a good band now, though-- perhaps the most versatile I've ever seen--including a guy who played the violin or fiddle or whatever he'd call it with a particularly Italian enthusiasm and a Norwegian woman whose harmonies gratified the room when they got around to the Jayhawks songs (why yes, he has spent a lot of time in Europe). I'm sure it's a drag to feel the audience perk up when they recognize the stuff you tried to leave behind so long ago, but when one is hawking an album with the tag line, "A two year journey through loss and redemption" in the basement of a bar, it's only to be expected.

I'll never listen to that new album--it's just not my thing; even the tracks that reunited Olson and Louris, the heart of that old band, aren't what I want to hear, but that doesn't disappoint me like it once would have. Then again, I don't really listen to the old records anymore, either. It was fun to hear a few of those songs live one more time, though, and it was worth going just to see the current state of what once was. But I tell ya, if Mark Olson ever wants to expand on the story he alluded to last night, and record the the tale of taking his new international bandmates to visit his family on its dairy farm in rural Minnesota, I'd definitely listen. I might even pay.

What is the sound of one hand not typing?

This may be my favorite work e-mail ever.

It's almost a zen koan for the passive-aggressive work avoider.

-----Original Message-----
Sent: Friday, August 24, 2007 8:10 AM
To: Staff

Just FYI: I do not have access to email either, so please email also.

Today

Oh, my heart goes out. It does. And yet I can't help turning the scenario over in my mind. Could it really happen? Is it possible? Allison, it did. Could one really not notice a seven month old baby in the back of a four-door sedan? Seven months. Probably in one of those backwards infant seats: safety first. Agony and torture. Didn't they talk about it? Oh, probably not. Automatic assumptions. Daily favors. The baby was right there. At least they'll have have access to serious drugs. Two parents in medicine, one a pediatrician. Not that it matters, but that'll be the talk. One hot car. Where's the baby? Didn't you take her? I thought you did. Dear God. One hot car.

The plan for peace

Among the many, many examples of W's ineptitude as an illegitimate president is that he had no plan for peace. Yet, we learn from the Washington Post's Peter Baker that he had a plan all along; a manual in fact. Read on, if you can stomach any more.

White House Manual Details How to Deal With Protesters

By Peter Baker
Washington Post Staff Writer

Not that they're worried or anything. But the White House evidently leaves little to chance when it comes to protests within eyesight of the president. As in, it doesn't want any.

A White House manual that came to light recently gives presidential advance staffers extensive instructions in the art of "deterring potential protestors" from President Bush's public appearances around the country.

Among other things, any event must be open only to those with tickets tightly controlled by organizers. Those entering must be screened in case they are hiding secret signs. Any anti-Bush demonstrators who manage to get in anyway should be shouted down by "rally squads" stationed in strategic locations. And if that does not work, they should be thrown out.

But that does not mean the White House is against dissent -- just so long as the president does not see it. In fact, the manual outlines a specific system for those who disagree with the president to voice their views. It directs the White House advance staff to ask local police "to designate a protest area where demonstrators can be placed, preferably not in the view of the event site or motorcade route."

The "Presidential Advance Manual," dated October 2002 with the stamp "Sensitive -- Do Not Copy," was released under subpoena to the American Civil Liberties Union as part of a lawsuit filed on behalf of two people arrested for refusing to cover their anti-Bush T-shirts at a Fourth of July speech at the West Virginia State Capitol in 2004. The techniques described have become familiar over the 6 1/2 years of Bush's presidency, but the manual makes it clear how organized the anti-protest policy really is.

The lawsuit was filed by Jeffery and Nicole Rank, who attended the Charleston event wearing shirts with the word "Bush" crossed out on the front; the back of his shirt said "Regime Change Starts at Home," while hers said "Love America, Hate Bush." Members of the White House event staff told them to cover their shirts or leave, according to the lawsuit. They refused and were arrested, handcuffed and briefly jailed before local authorities dropped the charges and apologized. The federal government settled the First Amendment case last week for $80,000, but with no admission of wrongdoing.

The manual demonstrates "that the White House has a policy of excluding and/or attempting to squelch dissenting viewpoints from presidential events," said ACLU lawyer Jonathan Miller. "Individuals should have the right to express their opinion to the president, even if it's not a favorable one."

White House spokesman Tony Fratto said that he could not discuss the manual because it is an issue in two other lawsuits.

The manual offers advance staffers and volunteers who help set up presidential events guidelines for assembling crowds. Those invited into a VIP section on or near the stage, for instance, must be " extremely supportive of the Administration," it says. While the Secret Service screens audiences only for possible threats, the manual says, volunteers should examine people before they reach security checkpoints and look out for signs. Make sure to look for "folded cloth signs," it advises.

To counter any demonstrators who do get in, advance teams are told to create "rally squads" of volunteers with large hand-held signs, placards or banners with "favorable messages." Squads should be placed in strategic locations and "at least one squad should be 'roaming' throughout the perimeter of the event to look for potential problems," the manual says.

"These squads should be instructed always to look for demonstrators," it says. "The rally squad's task is to use their signs and banners as shields between the demonstrators and the main press platform. If the demonstrators are yelling, rally squads can begin and lead supportive chants to drown out the protestors (USA!, USA!, USA!). As a last resort, security should remove the demonstrators from the event site."

Advance teams are advised not to worry if protesters are not visible to the president or cameras: "If it is determined that the media will not see or hear them and that they pose no potential disruption to the event, they can be ignored. On the other hand, if the group is carrying signs, trying to shout down the President, or has the potential to cause some greater disruption to the event, action needs to be taken immediately to minimize the demonstrator's effect."

The manual adds in bold type: "Remember -- avoid physical contact with demonstrators! Most often, the demonstrators want a physical confrontation. Do not fall into their trap!" And it suggests that advance staff should "decide if the solution would cause more negative publicity than if the demonstrators were simply left alone."

The staff at the West Virginia event may have missed that line.

Real life lessons

Some of my students, unexposed to the wider world or that social studies teacher's e-mail account, are under the impression that I know everything. I don't disabuse them of their mistaken notion: "That's right," I say, "I do."

I hope, of course, that their illusions will be shattered. That, soon enough, they'll be literate enough to figure out for themselves that all I really know is how to read. And that because I've spent so many years reading one article and another by that one guy about that one thing, I know a little bit about a lot, and far more than enough to finesse my way through almost anything that may come up in these not-so-hallowed halls. It is, after all, only high school.

Sometimes, though, I'd really rather not know, would really rather not understand the latest article or story. This is one of these times. Only the details, however, are new to me. The themes, as the English teachers down the hall would say, are tragic and eternal.

After neglecting the Utah miners story for several news cycles, I finally started to read. I don't do cable news if I can help it, but, it should come as no surprise, I'll catch up on the web. If you've followed the story, you know the phrase that keeps repeating is "retreat mining." In retreat mining, pillars of coal hold up the mine's roof until they're intentionally pulled or cut away; then the last bit of profit is extracted as that section of the mine caves in. It's as dangerous as it sounds, and at first I was flummoxed: why ever operate that way? I forget that life is cheap.

Sections of the Crandall Canyon mine were also longwalled, which I now know means that long sections, or rooms, were left with no roof support; the new owners wanted to take out as much coal as possible, even though the old owners had decided the risks couldn't be justified. Despite prior concerns, Bush's Mine Safety and Health Administration took a whole week to approve the new money-grubbing plan, which likely lead to a "bump" in March, and now nine men are dead after another man-made collapse. Meanwhile, the collusion and corruption are exposed to be deeper than even that mine shaft, and yet the mountain--the mountain--is what is called evil in public and nobody blinks.

So, this time, my vocabulary has expanded, but, in the end, I have no words, and I've learned nothing that I didn't know before. Goddamn it all to hell.

No really, I'm not

In recent days I've learned all my students' names and how to prounce them, (c'mon, America--for the love of dios, do not pronounce German like the language they speak in Berlin), performed miracles of modern scheduling, created and taught lessons without benefit of sleep or time, tutored algebra, physical science, biology, Spanish, geometry, history, and English simultaneously and I'm not even kidding, mostly got my paperwork and grades out on time, and kept the attention of teenagers, through my wardrobe if nothing else. So you'd think I could stop looking like an idiot in front of that new social studies teacher. Alas, no. Repeatedly, no.

Better to focus all my screw ups in one spot, I guess, that to scatter them about the building, but damn. For the record, I am not the stupid one. A little scattered sometimes, and last week, for sure. But really, I'm actually competent. I swear.

the long road home

I have a stupid commute: this much is well-established. Two states, three bridges, two major rivers, three counties, and a canal? If only Phil were there to check me in to the parking lot, my drive would be an especially tedious, asphalt-heavy leg of The Amazing Race. I mean, technically, there's even a ferry between here and there; I just don't need a passport to board it.

My dirty little secret, though, is that except for the hours out of my day and the thousands of dollars it costs me, and, well, the times I've been hit from behind, I don't really mind my time in the car. There's something to be said for my job being there and my life being here; a buffer zone is a valuable thing. Then again, I'm not sure my peace of mind runs three dollars a gallon.

Close to home having undeniable advantages, I did try, this Spring, to eliminate my twice-daily cross-country chase. The hiring committee, however, didn't see things my way, and really, it was probably just as well. All that potential job had going for it was proximity; it would've been nothing more than a convenient hell. While, admittedly, being able to sleep even slightly past sun-up would have been wondrous, I no longer know how to stay sane--relatively--without trailing most of my job stress in the exhaust cloud behind me. If I had gotten that job, I may well have spent 40 minutes a day driving through town with the CD player turned up ridiculously loud. After this many years of commuting, I don't know how else to get home.

McLovin it

"So did you see Spiderman?"

"No."

"Saw?"

"No."

"Hostel?"

"No!"

"Borat?"

"Absolutely!"

"Saw 2?"

"Are you serious? You know better than that."

Every Monday morning for years, the countdown to the first bell has included my students' version of Entertainment Tonight, er, This Morning, a habitual query to see if my weekend movie-going matched up theirs. Thanks to graduation and a couple of moves, I'm not sure if anyone's left to carry on the tradition, and that pretty much figures, given that I put my ten bucks down to see the über-high school Superbad late last night.

You'd think I'd get enough of foul-mouthed adolescence for free during my work week, but my students aren't Americans, so they still watch what they say in front of grown-ups, and since my classroom was moved out of the freshman hallway, I hear little cursing at school these days beyond my own mental profanity. And besides, the high school kids I know aren't working off a script--a script I found hilarious despite being so far outside the target demographic I'm surprised they let me into the auditorium. The stories say Seth Rogen started writing Superbad when he was thirteen--in the 90s--but at least Judd Apatow is older than I am, a little. (Because, clearly, I could make up all that wild success in 18 months.)

I'm never sure how to answer, "What's your favorite movie?" because mostly it just depends, but as for current comedies, I'm not sure I can remember laughing more than in Superbad and Knocked Up and The 40 Year-old Virgin, so sure I'll go see whatever those guys make next, and maybe even talk about it the next Monday (along with the caveat to the Filipina that her step-father is right: she should never, ever see any of them). Either high school has gotten to me, or I just have a thing for filthy, funny, good-hearted boys.

Such a small town

Every now and again, this small city where I was born, raised and have lived most my life really embarrasses me. Case in point, a consultant has recommended the city change the name of its recently-closed landfill to something less unpleasant than "Mount Trashmore." Except that's not even the official name of Cedar Rapids/Linn County Solid Waste Agency (formerly Bluestem) Site No. 1.

A county supervisor I support is even advocating a naming contest. Really?

This could be fun, but isn't that like giving yourself a nickname?

The story in the local paper where I once worked (first as a paper boy, later as a reporter and, briefly during the meltdown, stuffing ads into the paper before distribution in the wee hours), was written by a former bowling team partner. Could this place be any less cosmopolitan?!

Right now "Trashmore" fits the looming brownish hill, but it will look better once the capping process now in progress is finished -- or so we're led to believe. "It's going to get 'greened' up and flowers will be planted on it. It's going to look nice one of these days -- very park like," the supervisor said.

How about "Park Like Place" for a name?

"The name Mount Trashmore likely was playfully attached to the site some 30 years ago by the media when it was not a high hill," The Gazette "reports." "There was talk then, perhaps not all that serious, of making it a ski hill when it was done."

Why not "Aborted Ski Hill" for a name?

The possibilities seem endless as I recall the stench that greets users of the cool urban trail that now skirts the former dump.

Mount Methane?

Hold Your Breath Hill?

Stinky's?

Or, perhaps the "greening-up" could include blueberrys so we could have our own Blueberry Hill. Adolescents in this town could use an alternative to First Avenue for finding their thrill.

Submit your ideas here and I'll pass them along. There's gonna be a contest, don't ya know? Please stop them from making a reference to the "City of Five Seasons." Come to think of it, what does the consultant have to say about that silly moniker?

Death by Cheap Crap

When my daughter was very young, two and three and four, and even for years after, her most favorite toys were Thomas and his dozens of friends-- the pricey wooden engines from those odd English stories. We had track and bridges and viaduct and tunnels, and thus a living room floor that was often a hazard, but mostly she played with them as dolls with wheels and smokestacks, converting the shed and the long-coveted roundhouse into group homes. She is, after all, a girl, if, nonetheless, a girl who did not potty train 'til she was bribed with locomotives. Though they currently occupy some prime closet space that could probably be more wisely allocated, those trains are the toys I'll never get rid of, the ones that I'll pass down to future generations, or at least let them play with, or at least touch. I have no intention of letting go of the stuff that a childhood was made of.

So it was a relief when our sets were too old to be included in that lead paint-spurred recall; it would have been awkward to issue respirators and rubber gloves to my potential grandkids someday.

I admit that I was surprised that Thomas was poisoned, though I would not have been shocked to learn his writers were on drugs. The fortune I invested in those small blocks of wood, combined with the British cloud that obscured its origins, created the illusion of a good and presumably safe toy. It's not as if they came out of a grocery store machine. And besides, wood is always the Expensive Toy Story code for Better For Your Baby. If that stuff can't be trusted, what can be?

Nothing, apparently. Mattel has recalled millions of pieces of plastic, and you know if that's the stuff they feel they need to draw our attention to, there must be billions more trinkets out there that are nearly as bad. And that's Mattel. Which still leaves the billions of doo-dads from Wal-Mart and the Dollar Tree, the carnival and Chuck E. Cheese. And, as yesterday's headlines reported, the baby bibs and junk jewelry. And the toothpaste, and the dogfood, and the seafood and fish. Rely on a nation known for neither public disclosure nor public safety to produce everything for nothing and get less than the very best? Who would have thought!

Now apparently Chinese pigs have some mysterious dread disease , though the Chinese won't say, since that's what they (don't) do, that's wreaking havoc there and potentially other places, markets and food chains being as entwined as they are. Maybe someday it will matter, maybe not (see SARS and Bird Flu), but it does not seem to bode well, since we seem to be fighting an undeclared war of death by stuff.

It's almost tempting to say that we get what we deserve, that it's only logical that if something costs nothing even after it's been shipped across the world one shouldn't assume that it's okay, regulation and conscientious employees costing money (even when there's not a culture gap to bridge) but we do, after all, live somewhere the government took on that role of protecting its citizens from stuff quite some time ago, back when it was a little dangerous to take even American-made products at their word. So now we assume we're protected, but unless one is a corporation, the answer seems to be no. The rest of have been sold out in this race to the bottom. Hope they at least got a good deal.

Maybe next year

When you're born on a Friday the 13th and, in my case, the same day (but not year) as Fidel Castro, gift-getting options are limited, or so has been my experience. It's not like being born on Christmas, New Year's Day, Valentine's Day or, even, Cinco de Mayo.

But it pays off every once in awhile. Take Monday, for instance, when I received the third best present I could have hoped for. Here's the Daily Show's take on the matter, which should tell you what gifts number 1 and 2 would be.

1 of 176

This time of year, certain grown ups have just one question for the school age kids they see: "Are you looking forward to going back to school?" Being her mother's daughter, my favorite ten-year old's reply isn't a simple yes or no. Instead, she's taken to overexplaining, "I'm looking forward to the first day, but none of the days after that." I'm not sure if she's just withholding judgment, or if she'd really rather fifth grade were just a one-shot deal. Still, I can kinda relate.

I love the first day of school.

I'm sleep deprived already--5 a.m. is too damn early--I'm not yet entirely prepared for tomorrow, and I left my desk a disaster. But today? Oh, today was great. Sure it's taking the new counselor a little longer than I'd like to learn why we do things my way (the right way), and if the bus hadn't been 20 minutes late, that would have probably been nice, but we've got weeks to work that out--months in fact.

The first day is for reconnecting and welcoming and rescuing the confused. It's little gestures that will pay off way down the line, when a kid remembers how I helped that time in the hall. But mostly it's the energy of that initial class meeting that makes the first day for me. It still amuses me, when I think of it, that I could be the same person who once suffered through a year of college French (taught by a fiercely intimidating Russian, natch) rather than complete ten weeks of public speaking, I love being in front of a class so much, but it's true. It's just my element, I guess, or one of them.

I've always been curious what my friends and family would make of Teacher Allison. I mean, she's pretty much me, though perhaps with slightly more patience and a slightly kinder wit. Maybe bigger gestures. She definitely does still laugh a lot, and will do anything for anybody on her side (just ask that counselor). So, not really that different, and neither is the first day. But still, there's a little something that makes those first meetings distinct (though less off-putting than referring to oneself in the third person. I swear never to do it again.). On this first day of class, there's no tedium or tension, and more than the usual measure of possibility. Most of the time, it's just fun, or at least enjoyable enough to make us all willing to come back-- at least for one more day. I love it, and I can't wait to do it again. Maybe even tomorrow.

Hometown Heros

My hometown isn't what you'd call a sports mecca, so we tend to cling to our local heroes. Of recent vintage, we have this year's Masters champion Zach Johnson and former NFL MVP Kurt Warner.

I don't think Kurt ever loved us as much as we loved him, but Zach is the real deal. He thinks so much of his hometown, he returns secretly to enjoy quality time with his family and friends while also doing his civic duty through charitable causes and public appearances.

I'm not even a Sox fan, White or Red, but I felt a little civic pride in learning Chicago closer Bobby Jenks tied a major league record for most consecutive batters retired. Jenks, who played minor league ball for the Cedar Rapids Kernels, and Jim Barr (San Francisco, 1972) are now the only major leaguers to retire 41 consecutive batters.

Think about it: 41 straight. That's nearly 14 innnings -- though not consecutively -- without a hit, walk, error, nothing but walking back to the dugout. Phenomenal. Now go get Orel Hershiser's consecutive scoreless innings record (59) and we'll talk.

But I've rarely been prouder of a Cedar Rapids product than Friday night, when Coe College graduate Fred Jackson broke tackles, stiff armed and dove his way to a 17-yard touchdown for the Buffalo Bills. They're in the NFL, you know?

Sure it was only a pre-season game and it was against the second or third team defense, but there aren't many Division III athletes competing for jobs in the NFL and there are even fewer more deserving than Fred.

A back-up running back in high school in Texas ("Friday Night Lights" is not entirely fictional), Fred and his twin brother, Patrick, came to Coe with the encouragement of one of their high school coaches, Wayne "Phiz" Phillips, who happened to be a Kohawk football player (under fellow Coe alumnus and Buffalo GM Marv Levy, I should add) and later head coach.

Fred and Patrick blossomed at Coe, each excelling on opposite sides of the ball (Fred at running back and Patrick at defensive back) and special teams. In 2002, their senior year, the Kohawks were 10-2 and advanced to the second round of the NCAA DIII playoffs WITHOUT SO MUCH AS ATTEMPTING A FIELD GOAL ALL YEAR! That's what kind of college football player Fred Jackson was. Equally impressively, they raced home from the NCAA DIII track championships that spring to receive their college degrees.

With the help of the aforementioned connections, Fred got some NFL looks he may not have otherwise. That's not a knock on him, by any means, but a fact of NFL life. Ultimately, Levy's Bills signed him to a contract and sent him to NFL Europe, where he starred. After spending last season on the Bills' practice squad, Jackson is looking to earn a roster spot in the National Football League.

With guys like Kurt, Zach and Bobby earning local fame, why not Freddie too?

Um, pimp my ride?

Carburetors have fantasies, too? Frankly, I've never been so glad to drive a fuel-injected car.

Quik Trip's ad agency seems to have decided that their customers would be amused by the thought of their vehicles having some kind of relationship with the gas pump. Or would feel a little bit better about forking out fifty bucks every four or five days if they're giving their cars fuel that is "like a fine wine, only it tastes nasty." Am I supposed to be bringing in my car for a date? Thank goodness for small favors; the images could be worse. Unlike our neighbors to the North, the QTs here haven't been bought out by the Kum & Go.