Tp Tech

I will say right off, from the beginning, this one may be a little strange, a bit odd. But stay with me if you can. I have point. Valid point? I do not know about that, but there will be a point.
Toilet paper plays a significant role in most of our daily lives. At least, we hope it does. If not, then you are probably experiencing some sort of gastrointestinal distress and need more fiber in your diet, or, perhaps, you are French. For most of us, however, toilet paper, in the end, is vitally important. It may not be air we breath or water we drink important, butt in the end it wipes away all of seemingly trivial items present in our daily lives. If you are an easily embarrassed sort and find yourself flushing a bit as you read, please, bear down and push onward: I will try not to let this swirl out of control.
Seriously though, many people do our best thinking in most private of spots, and sometimes those ideas lead to greatness. Sometimes, they are just ideas. I have not decided yet into which category this one might eventually drop. Here is my thought:
Does the way a person chooses to utilize TP say something about that person, his outlook or approach to life, or the principles by which he chooses to live?
By utilize, I do mean the more graphic or foul thoughts that some of you may be considering. No, I am basically referring to how an individual chooses to remove the perforated paper from the roll. There are a myriad of methods, and I would venture to say that the one that an individual selects, while not done through conscious thought, reveals much about that person. Take, as examples, the precise folder, the wadder, the catcher's mitt creator, the three square conservationist, loose layerer, or the stacker. Can a person be defined by the particular way in which he uses the bathroom roll? Does the wadder, who sends the roll spinning and gathers the long strip of quilted cloth into a bird's nest that gets the job done, approach his job the same way, never truly planning anything out precisely, but ensuring that there are plentiful resources available when needed, sometimes throwing them together as a deadline approaches, so that the process may not be pretty or efficient, but it is effective. He may roll through company resources and personnel, tossing some needlessly away without ever actually involving them in the business at hand, keeping them on the edges, even though they could be of better use elsewhere, or in the next job. This guy hopes to finish things cleanly, but he has gotten his hands dirty a time or two, usually if he has gotten into too big of a hurry or forgotten to check to see if there were adequate supplies at the beginning of the project.
Is the precision folder, and her close cousin, the three square conservationist, as neat and detailed in her personal life? Does she lay everything out, from clothes to meals to the route she will walk that evening? Precision is the goddess who guides each and every act of her day. No waste (Ok, there is waste, but no unnecessary waste). Every task is important enough to plan and every detail deserves attention. Clean. Precise. Efficient.
I will not go through each and every TP technique variation, but I hope the picture is becoming clearer. Actually, no, not the picture. That would be weird. I hope the concept, the idea is becoming clearer. However, there is one major issue, one aspect of my theory that does not quite work out. This theory is extremely hard to test. The act of using TP is, by its very nature, extremely private and unobserved. It is an extremely vulnerable time. A person is exposed, literally, and at his most human. Therefore, I truly know absolutely nothing about how a person does his paperwork. If I did know these intimate details, it would seem excessively intrusive. And kind of gross. And there, as The Bard would say, lies the rub. Or the wipe, if you will. I have no idea if the TP technique one chooses is even remotely representative of that person's lifestyle, principles, or outlook. It is a ritual performed in the seclusion of the stall, behind closed doors, alone. No one else should want to know or needs to know what occurs. Some things are not meant to be revealed, examined, or analyzed. There is always going to be something about a person that others do not know. One can take a swipe at figuring it out, but it would be only a guess, and nothing more. There are aspects of each person's life, each person's character, which most people keep hidden, either by choice or necessity.
It is something to think about, while one sits with little else to do.  In the end, however, does it really matter? In the end, does anyone really give a, well, hoot?

Observation Made While Writing by Hand

As I look down now at my hand, a hand which has pulled to me a beautiful woman who brightens my world, a hand which has held two miracles born of that angel and this poor mortal, a hand has felt my father’s firm handshake and has been clasped by a loving mother, a hand which has offered friendship and aid as well as disregard and belligerence, as I look down now at this hand, I am struck by this observation: a modern writing pen is constructed so that the printing on the side is upside down if one holds it in his left hand to write.  It does not matter the brand or the quality. It matters not if I am scribbling my name on a gas receipt or signing an insurance policy: the printing is upside down.

That doesn’t seem right.  It seems unfair. It is as if those who possess the strength of the left hand and the sharpness of the right brain are somehow unworthy of this tiniest bit of information. I must twist my head awkwardly, almost comically, just so I can see who produced this fine scribner's instrument or which drug company chose cheap ballpoints to push the latest antidepressant or erectile dysfunction silver bullet. Honestly though, is there a more fitting tool for advertising ED meds than a pen?

Still, I must ask: What have I done to deserve such treatment? What is the genesis of this bias? How am I, and those like me, to take this slight, this subtle “spit in the face”? Am I to feel inadequate, unappreciated, or belittled because I cannot effortlessly glance down to see that Bic is the culprit that produced the gloppy, smudgy, barely legible collection of scribblings on the page before me? Are we, those of the left-handedness, to be forever relegated to second-class status by an entire society that assumes that because we are nondominant in that manual dexterity which said society has declared dominant, we should not even be considered in low level mass-marketing strategic decisions? I am I doomed to write ever-lengthening draw-out, convoluted, confusing sentences as I rant about a topic which no one truly cares about, all the while unsure of who has crafted my writing utensil?

The answer? Probably not.  

After all, let’s face it: it’s just flippin' a pen.


*I actually wrote this last spring at Prairie Winds Writers and Artists Retreat, and had not looked at it for a year.

'Sweg' or 'Down the Youtube Rabbithole'

I sat down this morning to put together a lesson for this Friday. It is spring break (or spring burp, or spring pause, or whatever term you want to use) after all, so, as most teachers tend to do, I have been working on lessons. I am going to be out on Friday at the annual Writers' and Artists' Retreat at Rock Springs, so I need to have an enlightening and engaging lesson ready for my kids, especially my freshmen. So, I was looking for a couple specific video clips that would fit nicely into the what I had developed in my mind. Then it happened. I should have felt the Earth beginning to give way beneath me, but before I could stop it from happening, I was descending into a swirl of lights and sounds that washed over me and took me deeper and deeper.

This has happened before, and I have somehow managed to swim to the surface, gasping for breath, wondering how I could have given up the minutes, sometimes the hours, of my life to that vortex of bits and bytes. And then I would do it again. And again. Sometimes, I am not even draw in by its blackhole-like gravity; sometimes I jump in headfirst, happily, and swim as deeply as possible, smiling and laughing the whole time. Some of you know of what I speak. You have been there too, haven't you? You have tumbled down the Youtube Rabbithole.

Youtube is a seemingly endless universe of videos. Some are professionally produced. Most are not. Most are ameteur offerings of questionable quality. However, there are some truly entertaining, educational, and enlightening nuggets among the heaps of worthlessness. One of the greatest aspects of Youtube is that I can access videos that I would otherwise never see. Sometimes, that is amazing. Sometimes it is frightening.

On this fine morning, I started with TED Talks. These videos are lectures, lessons, presentations, and discussions by quite possibly the most varied collections of educators ever assembled. Many of them are not what we would call "traditional" educators, and they offer some of the most interesting insights. One presenter is a part of the Hip Hop Shakespeare Company, and his name is Akala. I have used one of his presentations with my classes, and I really enjoy what he has to offer.

I easily found one of the clips I was hoping to use in my lesson for Friday, mainly because a valued colleague of mine, Laura Miller, had found it first and emailed it to me. It is a boiled down and yet meaningful explanation of slam poetry and the process one might use to write it.  From there, I was able to locate a talk from Sarah Kay, a spoken word poet and teacher. That is when I should have felt the whirlpool beginning to rotate beneath me. But I didn't. I was doomed. Youtube has this little feature on the righthand side which suggests other videos one might want to view. Sometimes this list makes sense, and it is extremely useful in locating related clips. Sometimes, it is just the gateway dealer standing on the corner of the alley, not yet in the shadows and the filth, still safe and in the lamplight, but on the edge of something shadowing, something shady. Once he shakes your hand, slips you that first taste of what looks harmless and fun, there is no turning back. You are hooked and will only go deeper. At first you think you can handle it. It's just a video man, and I know what I am doing.  Yeah, right. Then three hours later, you look up, bleary eyed and numb, your coffee cup still half full but cold, the laundry still piled on the window seat and in need of folding, and kids wondering where their daddy went. Ok the last part is hyperbole; Dylan is still in bed, and Emily just came in and asked me a questions, but still, you get the point.

I had "wasted" three hours looking at videos ranging from TED Talks, to ADD Poetry, from "Rap God" to Def Poetry Jam, from lyrics video (full of grammatical errors and misspellings) to rambling video blogs. Was it really a waste though. I had never heard of ADD Poetry's channel before, and it has some great pieces on it, although I cannot use most of them in class. I found the "Fat Guy Poetry" clip that a student had told me about and that I wanted for the lesson. I found numerous new songs that I had never heard, and I saw examples of some truly horrible poetry. Was Alice's trip down the rabbithole a waste of time? Definitely not. And neither was this tumble. I will admit that I would be hard pressed to explain why some of my previous trips through the "suggestions" lists should be considered worthwhile, although I am sure I can develop a definition of "worthwhile" that would, in turn, support each and every internet excursion as somehow valuable. However, today's tumble yielded so many useful gems, few could argue that it was not time well-spent.  Odds are, I will end up diving headlong into the tempest once more, looking to repeat the outcome, and, more importantly, the adventure.

I feel that I owe any of you who are still held here some sort of reward for staying here this long. So, here you have it. George Watsky is a spoken word poet and artist who have a wide variety of clips on Youtube. He is interesting, and, I think, talented. His list of suggestions of the right led me to this video. It made me laugh. You will probably know why fairly quickly. Enjoy.

Well, now I did it.

Well, now I did it.  This weekend, I posted an entry about the competition that exists between siblings, most specifically between my sister, my brother, and me. It sprang from my brother Darrel's  (but not my other brother Daryl's) sharing his workout on Facebook. This prompted a rapid series of one upmanship that raced through our extended family, brother to sister to cousin to aunt. Today, Darrel had to carry it on with another workout status which included a specific mention of his older brother. That is just how this works.

And that is a good thing. I was not going to work out tonight. I had a meeting after school, we had to attend conferences with Dylan's teachers, and my sinuses had been killing me. Besides, it is a lifting day (Do you even lift, Bro?). However, I just could not let Darrel's volley across my bow go unanswered in some way.  So, I hit the bricks. Slowly, but hit nonetheless. I took a light walk on this glorious evening, just at dusk, as the sun sank to the horizon as it can only in Kansas. I did not match Darrel's distance, nor his pace. I did not match Kim's distance from her last workout either (which I am sure she increased based on my challenge; you're welcome.). I did, however, get out there. It cleared my sinuses to some degree, and my mind to an even greater extent. In short, it was good for me.

Thanks Darrel.

Sibling Competition

I hit the streets this morning in an effort to burn a few calories, enjoy the beautiful day, and feel a little better about myself. As I ran/jogged/walked briskly through my my workout, I gauged mt progress with a handy little app called Map My Run. I love this app because it uses GPS to map out my route, it keeps a record of the distance and duration of my workout, and my speed. It even allows me to share my workout with my friends on twitter or facebook. It is pretty neat.
That last feature of the app is one that I seldom use. I am not a big fan of sharing the details of my workouts on social media. My workouts are more solitary, more about me and myself. My shoes are not synced to a lifeband that measures my heart rate, blood pressure, and rate of perspiration. There is not connection between my iphone and my footwear that controls my music playlist help speed up or slow down my pace. In fact, my shoes are not synced to anything except my feet. Today, however, when I tapped "Save Workout" on the screen of my iphone, I paused, and took the time to also click the button that shares the workout to my Twitter, and due to my Twitter settings, my Facebook page.  I had one reason and one reason only for breaking my prohibition on social media workout boasting, and that reason is named Darrel.

You see, yesterday Darrel, my younger brother, posted through Map My Run to his Facebook that he had just completed a 3.63 mile run. There are few forces on this green and blue ball we call Earth that initiates competition more strongly than a sibling popping off about doing something, even if he or she is not even popping about doing anything. So, as I progressed through the streets of Hutchinson this morning, I was motivated to continue my trek a bit further. I am early in my workout calendar. I have been running a little as a basketball official, I have been lifting when I can with the kids after school, and I have been walking when the weather has permitted it. Today was my first outside run of the spring, however. So, when I saw Darrel's shared workout record, I had goal that I had to meet today. For the record, I went 4.04 miles this morning. So, I had to post it. 3.63? Weak.

AS I tend to do, I thought a little bit as I worked out. The thought that swirled today was about the sense of competition that can only come from siblings. Siblings basically compete whenever possible, even if they are not aware that they are competing. We compete to see who will be the first to call Mom on Mother's Day. Kim, my sister, has resorted to having Mom and Dad over for dinner on such occasions, but that does not really count. Darrel went so far as to send flowers last year. Fine, but I was still the first one to call. A few years back, Kim decided, for some reason, to begin training to run a half marathon. She ran a couple, and those feats became a popular topic at family gatherings, until Darrel popped off and told him eldest sibling that it was not that big of a deal, that one did not truly have to be an athlete to run a half marathon. A person just had to have the intestinal fortitude to go out and do it. "Jason or I could go out and run one after month of training if we wanted," he said. For the record, I never said that. But he did, so, Kim signed him up for a half marathon and he ran it.  DArrel then started training and competing in short sprint triathlons. Those require much more athletic ability, he said.  For the record, Kim has now run a full marathon, and I have not yet even considered running a half. As justification, I go back to sibling competition and point out that I ran when I was young, when a person is meant to run, and even held track records at Kanopolis Middle School for quite a while. I believe my 7th grade 800m record stood for nearly twelve years before it was broken, by an Orosco I believe, who would go on to run at an Ivy League college. Neither Darrel or Kim can say that.

This sibling competition thing goes back a long time. It has pushed each of us to become better students and stronger people, but it also led us to do some incredibly ridiculous and often idiotic things.  We used to see who could read more books at the library in the summer. We passively competed to be the smartest (my sister claimed to have invented the word doubleknot). We competed to see who was the fastest and the bravest on the frightening hill across from Bender Apartments that was called Dead Man's Hill. Ok, no one else may have called it that, but they should have. We would race sleds down that hill, and we saw who could jump the farthest on the crudely constructed bike ramps amid the piles of grass clippings. Darrel may not remember much or any of those afternoons, since he went ass over elbows more often than anyone, even Jim Carson.
The competition between siblings never really ends. Darrel has definitely claimed the fertility portion of our lifelong contest as he and Jana have pushed their offspring total to four while Kim and Dee and Heidi and I hold steady at two  children apiece. However, I fathered a girl first, and we had a boy second, so i was the first complete mixed set of perfect children.

Stupid? I do believe so. Productive? Usually not, although the competition, as evidenced earlier, does sometimes push us to workout harder and push ourselves. Near an end? Absolutely not. Whether we realize it or not, we are competing with one another. Darrel may not have meant to set the competitive wheel a'turning, but he did nevertheless.

And just so everyone knows, I am the first one of us to write about sibling rivalry in my blog. Oh, and if you are reading this Mom, Happy Mother's Day 2014.
I win.