Kona Hoss Deluxe

I’m crazy out of shape (so bad I found myself walking up singletrack I would have cleared without a second thought during my collegiate heyday of hammering up Galbraith Mountain twice a day) but what really took my breath away was just how freaking amazing hydraulic disc brakes are… not to mention the plush ride this things monster (to me) fork provides. And the pedals.. oh my goodness the pedals are exactly the sort of thing I used to wish for in the bad old days of struggling to click into my mud-filled SPD torture devices. I’ve already ordered a set for my wife’s bike and I’ve become an outspoken evangelist for Mallet pedals — better than sliced bread!

Mallet C up close and personal

I’m gonna race this thing if I can manage to get into something better than the couch potato physical condition I’m currently blubbering around in.

Frank Miller’s 300 is a graphic novel (what grown-ups call their comic books) that offers a fantastical retelling of the classic battle in which a mere handful (300, natch) of Spartan warriors held off the invading Persians long enough for the various Greek city-states to mount a defense. Pop history holds that this desperate and heroic sacrifice allowed the flower of democracy to blossom in Ancient Greece and is emblematic of the triumph of freedom over tyranny. Those who have read Miller’s 300 will know not to expect much in the way of historical accuracy in its film adaptation. It’s a fantasy retelling of history that favors style over substance, which happens to be right in line with mainstream Hollywood’s capabilities and preferences. So if there are any history geeks out there, try not to get your panties in a bunch over the movie’s inclusion of such things as a battle-rhino, a mutated swords-for-hands executioner, or the fact that the Spartans don’t really use a phalanx when they fight the ninjas. That’s right, ninjas.

Fans of the comic will grin when they see the best frames faithfully reproduced in the movie’s cinematography but they will also grind their teeth at the fact that Snyder apparently felt the need to include some extraneous scenes that add nothing to the story and, in fact, detract from the viewing experience. Without spoiling any plot details from the movie, let’s just say the film’s credits include such roles as “Armless Concubine,” “Transsexual (Arabian) #3,” and “Transsexual (Asian) #1.” Yeah - - that was an ‘avert the eyes’ sort of scene.

If you have difficulty with blood and gore, to borrow a line from the movie: “You. Will. Not. Enjoy. This.” The battle scenes (and there are plenty) are a beautifully choreographed dance of death and carnage with the camera zooming in for slow-motion spurts, fountains, and geysers of bone and blood. In short, this movie is almost as violent as the Old Testament.

The film’s R rating is well deserved for its graphic violence as well as three different scenes featuring some very prominently displayed breasts. The nudity in 300 can be most accurately described as artfully done rather than pornographic in nature and viewers can easily avoid seeing any naked bits they don’t want to see thanks to some pretty obvious audio cues during the scenes in question.

While blood and boobies are pretty much the cornerstones of 21st century American entertainment, it’s really a shame that violence and nudity would be the aspects of this film most religious types will fixate on as proof of our culture’s depravity. The greater issue with this story is its portrayal of human reason as the great hope of mankind set against the corrupting influence of mysticism. The obvious message here is that rationality is king and the superstition of religion is the usurper of mankind’s birthright. Whether this theme makes 300 a subversive element in a young christian’s life or a valuable starting point for conversations about faith and truth lies entirely with the perspective and maturity of the viewer.

You see, as ASB Advisor I’m responsible for overseeing all of our school’s clubs and non-athletic activities (our Athletic Director gets to deal with all the soccer moms and monday morning quarterbacks). I teach the Leadership class, advise the student council, and pretty much coordinate all the school dances and open gyms and talent shows and assemblies. This means I’m the guy teachers and students and parents complain to when kids at the last dance were shaking their… um… pirate treasure* too vigorously. Or when too many kids at the last dance chose not to dance. Or when the concession stand nachos are too big. Or too small. Or when there aren’t enough pep assemblies. Or when there are too many. I could go on whining, but I’m sure you get the picture.

Anyhow, we had a sophomore class meeting planned for what would wind up amounting to half of third period one day. Several teachers were understandably unhappy. I wish more teachers valued their class time enough to get worked up when it’s abbreviated. One, however, was a little bit too unhappy for my taste.

As I made my way through the halls before school last Tuesday (the day of the 3rd period class meeting) this teacher made eye contact with me and asked if she could ask me a question. I know her well enough to know that my preferred response of “you just did!” would not be met with laughter so I simply smiled and said “sure!”

We stepped to the side of the hallway as it was getting close to the first bell of the day and some students were already making their way through the halls towards their morning classes. When she didn’t return my smile I had a feeling this might turn out to be a Difficult Conversation.

I should take a moment to explain that this particular teacher is one that I’m usually thrilled to work with. She’s an experienced teacher who really knows her subject area well. She’s a masterful instructor who has high standards for her students and works hard to help them achieve. Students grow in their knowledge, skills, and understanding because of her classes. So all that made this next part especially… difficult.

She really didn’t waste time with pleasantries. As soon as we’d sidestepped to the side of the hall, she demanded that I “fix this ridiculous schedule.” I knew she was talking about that day’s third period sophomore meeting, but I wanted to be sure.

“Are you talking about having third period cut in half today?”

“What else would I be talking about? I want to know what you’re going to do to fix it!”

Now, unlike most assemblies and school activities, this one wasn’t mine. It was something the principal was bringing in, but I don’t believe in passing the buck so I didn’t feel like throwing my boss under the bus on this one. Knowing that it wasn’t possible to cancel the thing but not wanting to make this teacher feel ignored, I asked her what she would like to see happen. Of course she wanted it cancelled. I told her I didn’t think we could do that at this late date.

“Well, at least have it at the end of third period so we can actually teach something today.”

This sounded like something I could actually help with so I told her I’d ask the principal about it right away. Somehow this was a mistake. Her face flushed and her volume increased dramatically.

“DON’T YOU TRY TO PASS THE BUCK ON THIS!” Several students scurried past, eyes fixed studiously on the hallway floor. Other students gathered on the periphery, perhaps waiting to see if I was going to get beat up. Spittle began to fly from this teacher’s mouth as she began to rant at me: “DON’T YOU KNOW MY STUDENTS HAVE A QUIZ ON FRIDAY HOW ARE THEY SUPPOSED TO BE READY? YOU KEEP HAVING ALL THESE STUPID ASSEMBLIES THIS IS WRONG, WRONG YOU KNOW HOW ARE KIDS SUPPOSED TO LEARN ANYTHING WHEN YOU’RE ALWAYS TAKING THEM OUT OF CLASS” and on and on and on and on she went.

When she ran out of breath, I waited a moment to make sure she wasn’t just reloading for another salvo. She wasn’t, she expected a reply. To which part of the diatribe, I wasn’t entirely sure, but I knew she wanted a response.

“I understand what you’re saying. I feel the same way when my classes get interrupted or cut short because of stuff like this. That’s one of the reasons we’ve really limited the number of assemblies this year.” I figured this was a decent start to a reasonable response. I mean, she had literally just been yelling at me, nearly at the top of her lungs. My response was measured and careful. It was also not what she wanted to hear.

“YOU’RE CRAZY IF YOU’RE GOING TO TELL ME WE HAVE FEWER ASSEMBLIES! THEY HAPPEN ALL THE TIME. A WEEK DOESN’T GO BY THAT YOU’RE NOT CUTTING MY CLASSES SHORT!” She was objectively wrong about all these things she was shouting at me, but I’m old enough now (or maybe I’ve just been married long enough) to know that even when you win an argument, you lose. So I chose not to point out her faulty reasoning or flawed information.

“I hear what you’re saying and I’m sorry today’s class meeting causes problems for you. Can I tell you why we chose to do it this way?”

“DON’T YOU WORKSHOP ME!”

“I’m sorry.. what?” I was honestly confused.. I had no idea what she was talking about.

“YOU HEARD ME, I SAID DON’T WORKSHOP ME!” She was half right, at least.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t understand what you’re saying.” Maybe I should have had more coffee.

“I’VE BEEN TO THOSE WORKSHOPS! YOU’RE DOING THAT LISTENING THING, I’VE BEEN TO THOSE WORKSHOPS, I JUST WANT YOU TO TELL ME YOU’RE GOING TO FIX IT!” At least now she was making sense, if a bit loudly still.

“Wow.. I’m really sorry I made you feel that way, I want you to know it really wasn’t my intention.” Seriously it wasn’t my intention to ‘handle’ her, but then again I’m not sure what she would have preferred… for me to lose my cool and shout back at her?

“STOP IT! I TOLD YOU TO STOP WORKSHOPPING ME! I’VE BEEN TO THOSE WORKSHOPS!” It was clear now that we weren’t going to make any further progress in this discussion. I shrugged and said “I’m sorry” as I headed for the office mentally kicking myself for not asking her to step into the library at the onset of the discussion where the students wouldn’t have had to witness her meltdown. I was also replaying the whole exchange in my head, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong to make her think I was merely using “workshop tricks” to manage her rather than actually communicate with her.

When I got to the office, I asked the principal about moving the class meeting to the end of 3rd period rather than the beginning. He agreed and we made the change.

I know this particular teacher has a lot of stress factors in her personal life right now and I’m smart enough to understand that those stress factors are most likely the true source of her rage, but I’m still pretty miffed at her for such an unprofessional display. It’s been just over a week now since the hallway explosion and I haven’t followed up on it. I feel like she owes me an apology, but I’m not sure that I’m willing to spend the energy to resolve whatever conflict there is between us. I’m torn between writing her off as a bitter old mound of rage that isn’t worth my time and working to build a better relationship with her since bad vibes just aren’t a good thing to have around.

*For anybody still reading and who is still wondering what the heck pirate treasure has to do with dancing, it’s BOOTY.

Lately, however, I’ve been considering becoming one of those annoying letter-writers who contacts the networks, the NFL, and really anybody involved with the recent practice of inserting all kinds of horrific advertisements during commercial breaks for NFL games. These are particularly insidious because there’s no way to know what you’re in for. You think you’re sitting down with the family to watch a football game where the most risque thing will be a mouthed curse word or a gyrating cheerleader. Instead, you get to see a graphic ad for Saw III or The Hills Have Eyes or whatever slasher-rape-fantasy-horror flick is coming out next.

Traditionally, watching NFL football on TV has been a family-safe activity. It’s even on during daytime/primetime when networks tend to keep the racier shows off the air until the later hours when the young kids are supposedly in bed. Now, however, it seems like every NFL game is sullied with graphic and disturbing commercials for the latest Hollywood slasher gore-fest. And I have to either hope I get the channel changed before my young kids are given nightmares for the next week, banish my kids from the room when football is on, or choose to not watch it. And that sucks.

I’m not against the crappy slasher films being made if that’s what people want to pay to watch. I’m against the graphic commercials for these movies being aired during otherwise family-friendly programming in the middle of the day on a Sunday or smack-dab in the middle of Prime Time on a Monday evening.

Maybe becoming a parent has turned me into a bit of a prude, but I don’t remember ever seeing the level of depraved violence being graphically portrayed during NFL commercial breaks as there have been this year. ESPN, Fox, and CBS are all equally culpable.

Take Dairy Queen, for example. Somehow, someway, in whatever cultural vacuum DQ lives in, they thought it would be a good idea to make a drink that’s part coffee (dark) and part milkshake (light) and name it the MooLatte. Go ahead and say it out loud. Sort of boggles the mind, doesn’t it? Either that or it warms the heart to see a major retailer coming out in favor of mixed race children…

It gets better though (or worse, depending on whether or not you’re the schmuck paying for some pinhead to write your ad copy). I really can’t add anything to make this product sound more inappropriate for children. Heck, I can’t make it sound more inappropriate for adults! Hasbro has “upgraded” the super-soaker water gun with their all-new Oozinator.

Here’s the marketing verbiage in case Hasbro comes to their senses and does a rewrite:

“Sneak up on your opponents with a surprise bio-ooze attack! Just when they think you’re coming at ‘em with water, blast ‘em with a shot of icky bio-ooze! Shoot out globs of gooey bio-ooze and then drench ‘em with water! It’s a double blast attack that’ll keep your opponents on their toes and running during every water fight. With the OOZINATOR blaster you don’t just get soaked, you get drenched!”

My enthusiasm grew as I learned of the way Nintendo would continue to work on their own special type of quirky-yet-addictive games while also devoting resources to third-party developers so cool things like excessively violent games could also launch with the new system… a notable departure from Nintendo’s too-cutesy game design culture that left gamers suffering from saccharine overdose.

But now I just want fill a pillowcase full of… I don’t know… meatballs and frogs… and beat the snot out of whatever Nintendo marketing weenie decided the name for Nintendo’s new console would be the Wii. That’s pronounced “weee” as in what you do shortly after drinking a super big gulp. Or, depending on how juvenile your anatomical nomenclature: what the pee comes out of. Just imagine it: “Hey guys, want to come over to my house and play with my Wii?” I don’t think so.

At first I hoped this was just a clever marketing ploy. You know, make jaws drop with just how stupid the fake name sounds before unveiling the real name — the codename-that-should-have-become-the-real-name Revolution. No such luck. Here’s the official press release

I know, I know - all the experts point to that season as the year that saved Major League Baseball in Seattle. The year that got Safeco Field built. But it was also the year all the poseurs showed up. The jackals and rats and vultures of sport: the fair weather fan.

You know the type. Hell, you might BE the type. They never used to care for the home team. Their favorite team is whatever team won the World Series last year. And after ‘95, they all started buying Mariner hats and putting Mariner stickers on their car windows. They don’t know how to watch baseball but they always get up and dance during the seventh-inning-stretch. Parasites.

Anyhow, thanks to dreadfully poor decisions (or indecisions) by Mariner management, the team has been on a downward slide for the past few years. And despite the fact that Safeco Field is The Best Place In The World on a sunny July day, attendance began to drop last year. And now the Mariners have dropped their home opener in a style reminiscient of their pre-’95 Bad Old Days.

It made me smile.

It gave root to the hope that my children will get to experience the character-building misery that is rooting for a losing team. Plus, I figure one more losing season will be all it will take to drive the last of the rat-bastard fair weather fans away. Then I can teach my kids the other great baseball tradition: buying cheap seats and sneaking into the more expensive empty ones!

It was funny because it was true. It exposed the hypocrisy of the pseudointellectual - the sneering know-it-alls who actually don’t. And while I made it a point to memorize every possible definition of irony after watching the movie, I certainly haven’t veered very far from my hypocritical roots as a pseudointellectual.

I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill faker, no sir! I’m no smartypants dilletante who settles for weaving twenty-five-cent words into otherwise normal conversation. I take it to the limit. And I know when I’m quoting cheesy songs.

I take intellectual hypocrisy to the next level because I’m a teacher. Every day I lecture my students about the importance of personal organization and time management. I preach on and on (and on and on) about the absolute necessity of writing regularly in order to hone their craft. I even mark up their papers with lots of red ink when too many sentences begin with the same word.

Then I go and neglect my own writing so badly that my blog goes months without an update, my novel remains stalled in its second chapter, and every other sentence I compose begins with the most self absorbed of pronouns.

I am the Pot.
Goo goo g’ joob.

I just broke an eight-year-long-no-puking-streak. If we eliminate vomiting for… uh… collegiate indiscretions the streak would stand at ten years. That’s right, it’s been ten years since I’ve had the puking flu, and I got it BAD this week. We’re talking gut-wrenching, dry-heaving, Exorcist-like Retching. My son, who isn’t scared of ANYTHING ran away and hid under a chair when he heard me hurking up in the bathroom.

The manner in which I broke my streak… repeatedly… was so violent that I burst the blood vessels around my eyes, leaving me with puffy red eye sockets that looked as if I had just lost a boxing match and a completely bloodshot right eye. I’m not talking about a few red veiny areas on the eyeball — I’m talking about the entire white of my eye turning deep red… it’s actually kind of cool looking in a Death Rock Metal Band kind of way.

Anyway, I’m better now, though significantly weaker and lighter. Hmm.. now I don’t need to diet after the holidays! I’ll just pig out at Christmas and break even due to the week of the flu!

Don’t get me wrong, his arguments are tantalizing for a teacher like me who’s also something of a closet gaming geek. How cool would it be to play video games in class? That’s about all it would be though: cool… as in nifty rather than useful. Make a case for the actual educational benefits of games in school and I’ll be the first in line to champion the cause. But just because some games might possess narrative elements does not make them stories worth studying. Heck, there are countless stories in print form that would be a waste of class time to discuss… and they’re better written than 99% of the dreck that passes for narrative in today’s video games.

What the heck — why not replace literature with video games? We’ve already replaced math with graphing calculators. I guess I better make sure my kids learn how to speak Punjabi so they can have a shot at a McJob in twenty years.