Shop class

Paying attention, following directions, and using anything mechanical. These are three things that have always given me trouble in life, and all three of these problem areas joined forces for the perfect storm in Coach Hines' 7th grade shop class. I'm not really sure why they even make you take a shop class. I don't recall ever needing to use a sander, t-square, or skill saw. Well, maybe for a haircut.

It was obvious that I would struggle in this class under even the most ideal circumstances, but throw an ill tempered, hyper critical teacher in the mix and we've really got a problem. In addition to having no patience whatsoever, Coach Hines also had a Magnum P.I. mustache and a country accent as thick as molasses. I'm not really sure how, but these two qualities somehow seemed to further complicate matters. There's just something about a man with a mustache calling you a knuckle-head that exponentially decreases your self worth.

The problem seemed to be genetic, because my younger brother shared my incompetence in shop class. A few years after I had moved on from the class, my brother Brian followed in my blunders. He recounted a day where he was asked by Coach Hines to switch one of the machines on. There were 2 possible buttons, a green one and a red one. Little brother responded by asking, which button do I press? Coach Hines responded with:

"What do you mean which button!? Green means go, red means stop! Green! Punch it! God, I hope I never have you for driver's ed."

But back to my experience...

Our project for the semester was to build a small rocket, which we would shoot off on the final day of class. Just three weeks into production I was already lagging behind the entire class. I think I had begged one of the other less helpless kids, to cut my rocket fins for me. I then spent the next 15 classes sanding the fins. This was not helping my rocket progress towards a launch date, but it was stalling and buying me time before I would have to undergo another stressful step in the process. When I couldn't sand the fins any further without them ceasing to exist entirely, I decided it was time to miss a couple of days of school "sick". It was a very short term solution to the problem, but nevertheless a solution. I returned to class 2 days later to my sloppy rocket parts snickering at me from my locker. In a moment of desperation and panic I devised a plan that would hopefully prevent me from having to finish my work on "The Challenger" (the perfect name for a vessel destined to do nothing but explode). Rather than launching skyward, my rocket was launched into the C hall garbage can at Carrington Middle School by its inept maker.

On the way to shop class I plotted out a story that was by my own admission simplistic, but given the suspension records of several of my classmates, still plenty believable. It went something like this:

"Um, Coach Hines... Someone stole my rocket yesterday after class."

There must have been a smidgeon of empathy lurking somewhere in his soul because he actually accepted my excuse and let me just "help out" (really I just stood silently and watched, waiting to assist if there was any sanding work to be done) fellow students with their rockets.

When the launch day finally came, I was safe with the knowledge that The Challenger lay asleep beneath a pile of rubble in one of the outside dumpsters, instead of waiting to humiliate me with a puff of smoke and a refusal to lift off in front of the entire class. Sometimes in life, it's just easier to avoid disaster rather than to persevere through it.

Wow, this is SO MUCH FUN!

So, my original intention for this blog was to post entries about funny things that happened to me or that I saw happen during my time here in Madrid. There were quite a few during the first month, but I already wrote about those either on Facebook or this blog. So in the absence of fresh material, I've decided to add a few entries about hilarious events from the earlier years of my life. Now everyone please read, then point and laugh at me.

During my early teen years, my father's love of the game of tennis rubbed off on myself and my brother and sister. We all picked up a racket and began taking weekly lessons in an effort to master "the gentlemen's game". With each improved forehand shot I began dreaming of strutting out onto center court at the All England Club at Wimbledon. The soft grass beneath my shoes, the classy Brits roaring my name as I wave and humbly smile. As Becker once said, "I was born on center court".

Flashforward to Durham Junior Novice tournament, age 15. I was ready to begin my quest for super stardom by shredding through a field of amateur teens who would surely be overmatched by my crushing serve and elegant fashion. For me it was more important to look like a professional, rather than to play like one. Rather than spend hours rallying against the practice wall, I preferred to thumb through the pages of an Eastbay catalogue in search of the perfect outfit that would dazzle my oponents to the point that they would simply concede defeat as soon as they stepped onto the court with me. Unfortunately, my opponent on this particular day preferred to actually play the match.

He was a bug eyed young chap, who flinched his eyes as if he was constantly staring straight into a strobe light. During our warmups I could see that his shaky groundstrokes and humble attire would be no match for me. Matt Todd was his name. Funny coincidence. He may share my name, but on this afternoon his number would belong to me.

For someone with dreams of playing on the big stage, I certainly didn't relish the opportunity in reality. I soon discovered that the more people who were watching me, the more timid I played. And the worst possible thing for my psyche during a match is to build a big lead. Once ahead in the score, all I could think about was how to piss it away to the chorus of chuckles and murmers from the bystanders. Before any real crowd had formed around the court, I jumped to a quick 5-1 lead in the first set. I had not really thought about how I was playing at this point, or what I had done to be so successful. On the cusp of closing out the first set, my worst enemy joined the match: my neurotic mind.

I began to overthink each shot, and as the spectators increased in number (including my entire family) the wheels began to wobble. My early momentum that was much like a freight train charging down the tracks had slowed down to something more like a tricycle being navigated by a drunken Ray Charles. Puttering along, erratic, unpredictable, and completely lacking vision. My shots were no longer smooth and sweet, but choppy and tight. The ball is not finding the strings at all, but rather the graphite frame of my racquet. Each mis hit shot made a loud "SHLOCK" or "THUD" sound that echoed throughout the court. I think I overheard my mother say "Is he not looking at the ball?"

My oponent, in the midst of this unforseeable turn of fortune, had no intentions of accepting this victory with humility and class. He began to prance around the court pumping his fists, and yelling out "Whooo! Come on, this is SO MUCH FUN!" I would've smashed a ball right at his fluttering eyelids, had I retained the ability to make contact with the ball. I was in the midst of a full talespin at this point. Meltdown level 5. My mental state at this moment was probably somewhere between Greg Norman on the 18th green at Agusta National and Howard Hughes during his final cracked up years. I'm not sure I knew where I was or what I was supposed to be doing at this point. Probably as close to shell-shocked as a non war veteran could feel. I think I may have even attempted a few left handed shots out of desperation to find success. The remainder of the match concluded rather fast with my blinky eyed opponent rushing the net, way too eager to shake my hand and congratulate me on my collapse. He didn't linger long, for I'm sure he was in a rush to join his family for a celebration banquet at the local Sizzler. This was likely his biggest success since learning to use the potty.

Sadly, I had to show up the next morning for another match in the consolation (nice word for loser's) draw. My shattered ego suffered another drubbing at the hands of some nameless novice player. It didn't matter who it was. On this day, a raccoon armed with a sand wedge could've steamrolled me. On the car ride home while thumbing through an apparel catalogue, my identity began to reform and piece itself back together. Perhaps the plaid Nike shorts and the matching Navy polo were the answer? And yes, with the classic white crew socks with the swoosh so perfectly gracing the top. A $64.99 catalog order later, and I was ready to rebuild my game from the bottom up. If Monica Seles could come back from being stabbed, why couldn't I bounce back from this?

The Amazing Spider Man

The Plaza Mayor in Madrid is a very popular spot where tourists come to take pictures of the Plaza, shop for cheap souvenirs, and visit Tapas bars. As a result of all the tourist activity, you also have many performers dressed up as popular movie or tv characters, hoping to collect a little spare change. While waiting to meet with some friends for lunch this afternoon, I decided to take notes on one particular mascot that caught my attention.

There is a middle aged man dressed up in a crappy spider man costume, posing with tourists for pictures and collecting spare change in a small bucket. If no one wants to do a photo, then he simply poses for the bystanders. Every 5 seconds he turns his body forty-five degrees, and I imagine in his head he asks, "How did my life get to this point?"

About 15 yards away from Spider Man, is what I would guess is his stiffest competition, The Easter Bunny. Decked out in bright blue sunglasses and a Jimmy Carter grin, the Bunny waves and sways to his own imaginary music. He lacks variety, but compensates with diligent consistency. The Bunny never digresses from his tired, two-step shuffle and wave routine.

Spider Man looks dejected and tired. I imagine it's not easy to keep morale up after you realize that your own dignity has been purchased at the price of a fistful of change and a small gathering of gawkers.

He just did the same pose again. Spider Man is running out of ideas. If he were more creative, perhaps he would not be in this predicament. It looks like he's trying to decide whether or not to grab his gear and move on.

If a bloated belly and a tattered costume weren't enough to break the illusion, Spider Man is now lighting up a cigarette. Three big drags and it looks like he's ready to wave the white flag and call it a day. Just another day at the office for the webslinging icon.

Class Clown

I have been reminded by several friends that I need to write a blog while here in Spain. I'm not sure anything I have to say is really worth blogging about. I always felt like blogs should be reserved only for the most perceptive individuals; those with worthwile life lessons that reveal insights about the human condition. Like the balloon boy. He should have a blog. So, it begins...

One obvious nececssity of living in a foreign country is to learn the native language. I studied Spanish for a couple years in high school, but cleared it from my brain to make space for lyrics to a Notorious B.I.G. song and the pin number to my bank account. I found a language school near the "puerta del sol" called C.E.E. Idiomas. Idiomas made me think "Idiots". You would think this would be a turnoff, but actually it sealed the deal. I already felt at home.

After taking a placement exam, I somehow ended up in the level 2 classes. There are level 1, and 1.5 classes and it goes all the way up to level 8. I suspect most people realize they're fluent well before the level 8 class, which is probably in reality the secret time and place for the professors to shoot the breeze and have a smoke over a game of Scategories. Anyway, I liked the late starting time of 12:30, so I figured I would give it a shot.

There are only 2 other students in the class, an American from Chicago named Hannah and a girl named Anna from the Ukraine. The professor is a young chap by the name of Sergio. The class began with Sergio asking each of the other students how their Holidays were. I was only able to piece this together by recognizing the word "Navidad", the Spanish word for Christmas. Hannah and Anna responded to his inquiry in Spanish with little trouble. It was at this moment that I realized I was in the wrong place. It should be noted that I spent my entire student career avoiding class participation. I'm just not very good at thinking on my feet, to be quite honest. It's perfectly fine by me for a teacher to ask me a question. Just be sure to give me the weekend to think it over. Clearly in a class of three I was not going to be able to simply fade into the background.

The class moved on to the first topic, the present subjunctive. Which to my knowledge is one of the trickier lessons in Spanish. I am at this point staring down at my shoe laces, praying that Doc Brown and Marty McFly bust into the class and offer me a ride to 1955. Sergio starts by writing examples and notes on the chalk board, and explaining about how, when, and why to use the subjunctive. It's just unfortunate that I wasn't able to understand anything that he was saying. After each point he would look around at us, and say "entiendes"? To which I would instinctively nod and mutter "Si, si", as if I was hypnotized by my own stupidity. After 15 or so minutes of lecture time, he began going through an exercise in the book and calling on the other students to answer. This is when a bit of moisture began to collect in my palms.

I suddenly heard my name called out, followed by a question in Spanish that I did not decipher. It seemed that we were supposed to come up with a phrase in Spanish on the spot, using the subjunctive according to his lesson that I did not understand one word of. Desperate, I began just saying words that I knew in Spanish, unable to even think about the sentence that I was concocting out of each mispronounced word that I stuttered. My sentence probably translated to something to the effect of, "Friend car my want excited have dog happy you". Sergio cracked a slight grin and shook his head, "no". I was called on again and again, each time producing nothing even close to resembling a right answer. By the last time Sergio called on me, I was simply flipping through my notepad, digging for nonexistent answers and stalling, hoping that time would expire. I looked up to find Sergio lightly massaging his temples in a way that suggested he would probably be having his lunch with a side of Aspirin.