Big Ugly Man Doll

So there I was, innocently trying to make a buck or two here (since this blog doesn’t exactly pay for itself and if we shut down the BUMD, the terrorists win), when out of the clear blue Internet comes an email from Answers.com.  “Dear BUMD,” they say, “we think you ought to put our ad for our new coupon service on your blog.    We’ll pay you up front!”

Now, since I have long been an advocate of the idea that people who write should only sign checks on the back, they of course received my undivided attention.  I checked out their website and realized that it really was the same Answers.Com folks who are always popping up in my Google searches for random facts.  Since they looked legit and had cash, I had to decide:  Could I be bought? 

Ha!  So, having pondered that for nearly 275 milliseconds, I nearly broke my keyboard installing their little ad on the side of this site and thanking them for their money.  And then it hit me – that nagging voice that says, “Is this an ad you can actually stand behind, you mammering swag-bellied pignut?” 

Since I can’t stand being called such names, least of all by the voices in my head, I resolved to try out the service, by which I mean, of course, that I asked SOBUMD to do it.  She promptly reported that they have great coupons for interesting things, and that the site and service worked just fine.  She was able to prove this by spending the entire advance that they’d so graciously sent, which while not a large sum was sufficient for us to report that it’s a viable ad that I can stand behind.  Alert reader Tony also clicked through, and declared it to better than the musical “Cats.” 

Which is important, since they’ve already given me the money.  But don’t just take my word for it – go click!  Look!  See!  And click the other one once in a while as well, if you have a second; every nickel helps!

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So there I was, a few nights ago, in the 8th Grade classrooms of the Human Tape Recorder.  It’s “Back to School” time, that annual opportunity for parents to relive their most horrifying nightmares of middle school directly, instead of through the usual vicarious viciousness we absorb from our unfortunate offspring.  SOBUMD went to this one last year, so it was my turn.  This was particularly excruciating horrifying poignant for me, since the HTR is attending the same secondary school from which I escaped matriculated in 1987 a long damn time ago. 

First up, Spanish.  First time back in a classroom in this benighted school since 1987, and I’m late.  (Who’s surprised?  Not this dad.)  OK, so, Spanish.  At least I’m not having flashbacks; I speak about as much Spanish as the man in the moon, assuming the man in the moon can order a beer and ask about the bathroom in Spanish.  Since el SOBUMD can habla Espanol pretty well and the HTR is learning, I think I’m going to need to learn to habla as well.  Hey, not like I had anything else to work on, right?  The teacher is, shall we say, not what I expected.  And by not what I expected, let’s just say I was looking for Sofia Vergara and found Paula Dean.  But hey, I guess she’s a good teacher.  De nada, right?

The other thing I noticed was the extent to which this and most of the rest of the classes are less focused on cramming everything into the classroom and more on guiding and shaping what is becoming a self-guided study session off-line.  Welcome to the electronic classroom, and god help you if you don’t have a computer and a decent Internet connection at home. 

Next up, Theater!   There are certain advantages to living in this area that the local schools take full advantage of.  The HTR’s Shakespeare class – and it’s listed as theater, somewhat generically, but it’s a full-on Shakespeare course – is going to have a field trip to the Folger Shakespeare theater.  And by “field trip,” they mean “you will perform on stage at the Folger” for a local Shakespeare competition.  The class has picked A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which while often overdone is still probably a better choice for 8th Grade than, say, Titus Andronicus, which is what I would have picked.  They’ll also be learning Sonnet 65, breathing their hot summer’s honey breath, while studying blocking and yoga. 

Whoops, your 12 minutes are up – time for Health and Gym!  The gym teacher seems like a nice guy – now drop and give me 20.  What do they study in gym these days?  Ping pong, Ultimate frisbee, and something called Alcohol Ball – this is not your father’s gym class, if they’re busying learning why Daddy shouldn’t drive after that 3rd Scotch.  

A bright note in this story:   Switching between classes, I got a cheery hello and a hug from an old friend who was the prettiest girl in the school when I was in 11th Grade.  Since I no longer even really remember 11th Grade, this is definitely better.

But enough reminiscing, it’s time for math!  There’s a big sign at the top of this room:  “Fractions are your friends.”  It’s not quite “Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” but it’s close.  This is applied algebra through geometry.  The description of the big project left me a little shaken – they need to build a full multi-dimensional tesseract for an A.  Trust me that if you have to derive the area of the convex hull of the vertex-first parallel-projection, this is not your father’s math class.

Next up, Civics!  I don’t know about you, but my high school civics teacher didn’t sport undergrad degrees in Economics and PoliSci from Yale and a Masters in Business from Wharton.  This woman is hard core smart, but comes across as highly accessible as well – she seems passionate about getting these kids ready for not just high school but life, making them resourceful.  I was impressed. 

Now back off, man, we’re going to do Science!  This poor woman’s name is Divya, and while she’s really probably not a Diva, I’m sure she hears that all the time.  This is the standard Matter, Energy, and Motion class that will introduce kids to physics, chemistry, and how to blow stuff up that we all remember.  What’s new is that as part of the grade, these kids will have to enter a national science contest; it’s a yearlong exercise in choosing a partner, choosing a topic, and beating every other 8th grader in the country for an A.  But hey, after winning the Tony award in your Theater class and building a functioning matrix for Time And Relative Dimension In Space through all of space and time in Math, just winning an International Science contest should be a piece of cake.

Finally, it’s time for English!  This former Peace Corps ESOL teacher is teaching the kids to think through literary analysis.  While she’s focusing more heavily on non-fiction, she assured us that research and poetry are embedded throughout all the lessons.  Mind you, these lessons are embedded throughout the students’ wikis and blogs – once again, this is not your father’s English course.  At least they don’t need to win this year’s Pulitzer for an A in the class. 

I left school with a sense that technology is creeping ever more quickly into the classroom, a sense that the classroom is creeping ever more quickly into the real world, and a sense that I’d forgotten my assignment notebook and left my gym shorts at home again.  I’m sure it will be a great year for the Human Tape Recorder, but I wouldn’t go back to 8th Grade for all the cardboard cafeteria pizzas in the world.  Not even if my Spanish teach looked like Sofia Vergara.

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Happy Friday on the last day of summer!  Tomorrow, the Equinox.  Tomorrow, the beginning of the end of the year.  Tomorrow, it all comes apart.  Or, maybe it won’t, but either way it’s another chance to catch up with your own personal astrological future. Your upcoming week will be poor, nasty, brutish, and short – but don’t let it get you down!  Read on!

Aries (The Ram):    That 3rd drink isn’t going to look like such a good idea when viewed through the bottom of the fifth.  I’m just sayin’, is all.

Taurus (The Bull):    This is the week to fess up to Aunt Em that you haven’t lived in Kansas for a long time now.  Hey, who knows, she might be more open-minded than you think!  You’ll never know until she kicks your ass to the curb.  Live a little.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Conjunctivitis.

Gemini (The Twins):    This week, you will become reacquainted with your old friend Raalph.  It’s so good to see him again, so to speak. 

Cancer (The Crab):    The price of being good at everything is that you have to keep doing it.  This week, you will break the bonds that chain you to your glorious destiny and take your willing place with the rest of us second-string slackers.  Hey, we have cookies!  Your high-risk disease this week:  Lymphocytic Choriomeningitis Virus.

Leo (The Lion):   Remember that guy who always complained that the disinfectants smelled worse than whatever you were disinfecting?  Remember the job interview you have lined up for this week?  Small world.

Virgo (The Virgin):    Do you remember the feeling of having your nose dripping just a little in a socially awkward moment and you can’t reach the tissues and you don’t dare pick your nose and you can’t tell if your upper lip has started to glisten with the trail coming down your nose and it itches?  Your whole week will be like that.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Curtobacterium Wilt.

Libra (The Scale):   Count the books on your shelf this week.   Count them a second time.  More, aren’t there?  You picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue, because you won’t know if it’s the DTs or if you’re really losing your mind this week. 

Scorpio (The Scorpion):   And that’s it, I’m afraid. There’s no more from you on the transcript, that’s the last I’ve got.  I don’t know what stopped you talking but I can guess: they’re coming.  Don’t blink.  Don’t even blink.  Blink and you’re dead.   Your high-risk disease this week:  Cedar Virus.

Sagittarius (The Archer):   This is a good week for trading material goods for happiness, or at least calm.  Even if it doesn’t last, you’re putting your past behind you.

Capricorn (The Sea-Goat):  You run a very real risk of being arrested this week, just for having bootleg VCR tapes of Shogun behind the couch.  Hint:  stop pissing off your babysitter.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Erysipelas.  

Aquarius (The Water Bearer):    The clear crystal blue waters of the canals of Venice are beckoning you this week, singing, sighing, calling – come to me, come to me.  Enjoy that dream, because if you ever get there you’ll find that the sludge in the Venetian canals is made of equal parts coffee and urine. 

Pisces (The Fish):    You’re coming down with the handy bug, which is making you think you can build, fix, or upgrade things that you should really know better than to touch this week.  You’ve got an itch to hammer, a fever to ratchet, and a jonesin to screw.  Good luck getting over the border.  Your high-risk disease this week:  New World Screwworm.

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Flying Out of the Sunrise

Wrapping up the vacation tales, since August is only a distant memory and the urchins are back to school…  When last we left our tale, we were heading back to the shore house from the crazy dayz at Wildwoods.  The next day dawned hot, as August will, and as ripe with promise as a seabird flying out of an ocean sunrise.  We heard tell of a trail for birds and shore viewing, and decided to let the younger few skip it in favor of the pool.  SOBUMD, the HTR, and I piled in with the Very Industrious Uncle as he drove us to what I think is probably some state park or other, but should be known as The Great Meeting Of All The Herons Everywhere As They Prepare For The End Of Days.

“Damn it, I told them No Pictures!”

I’ve never seen so many herons – gray ones and white ones, but mostly white – in one place in my entire life.   In addition to the birds, there were more greenhead flies and gnats and mosquitoes than I would have thought a state the size of New Jersey could support.  The were keeping up with the truck, flinging themselves at the windows, trying to bore a way in through the hood.  Alfred Hitchcock could not have had a better ensemble cast than these bugs – they epitomized evil from wing to thorax. 

Skimming The Water

But the view of the birds was worth it.  You’re getting off easy – I’m only posting a few of them.  Call if you need me to hook you up – I’ve got hundreds more! 

As I type these words, I’m wearing a button that says “Ask me about my heron pictures!”  (Why would that not actually surprise most of you?  Yeah, well.)   My favorite was probably the heron version of the Dirty Old Man, who seemed quite upset that we were taking his picture – he looked like he was up to no good.  Catching a heron catching a fish was a nice touch as well.  There were a few other good shots, with big grey herons and white ones flapping at each other, but these are the highlights. 

Snack Time!

 The other really fun thing to watch as you drive anywhere in this marvelous country is, of course, the road – and the bits of flotsam and jetsam that accumulate around it on both sides.   The Patio Drive In is a terrific example of a roadside business that didn’t know when to stop.  They offer Italian, hot dogs,  clams, pizza, hogies, Philly cheesesteaks, wings, ice cream, nachos, BBQ, and Mexican, all for dining in or taking out, with a set of benches and a brace of triangle flags that scream “notice me or my cousin will slash your tires while I’m scooping your kid’s ice cream.”  Heck, they’ve got Philly Water Ice (as opposed to what other kinds of ice, I’m sure I don’t want to know), and an ATM for you to give them more cash.  What’s not to love?    

The Patio Drive In

Land Includes Bottle!

And then there’s a bottle for sale, just down the road from the Drive In.  It’s filled with concrete, but hey, it comes with 3 acres of land!  Who doesn’t need a 20-foot concrete bottle next to the side of the road?  I was going to buy it myself, but SOBUMD didn’t think we could secure it on the top of the car too well.  Spoilsport. 

Seriously, who wouldn’t want that?  I love it!

But eventually the bottle of our vacation started to run dry, and we turned around to head home.  We bid the beach and the cousins and aunts and uncles a fond farewell, and set out for the New Jersey Pine Barrens.  I was going to take a picture, but you’ve probably seen a pine tree, and there’s a reason they’re called “Barrens,” if you get my drift.  It’s nice to see that there are still areas where people haven’t bothered to cut everything down and build, well, 20-foot concrete bottles everywhere, not that there’s anything wrong with that.  It reminded me of some of the sights we passed heading down the shore in the first place.  For instance, there’s a Museum of Rural Life in rural Maryland on the Eastern Shore.  Hard to imagine why they’d need one.  We drove past a field of grasses with an old dilapidated basketball hoop in it, still tall but leaning, covered with rust.  How quickly nature presses full court to reclaim her own. 

Rivers with names like Pokomoke and Wicomio remind me that Europeans weren’t the first people here, and the 78 Cracker Barrels we passed (plus a new one opening soon out by the bypass!) remind me that it just doesn’t matter anymore. 

On the Eastern Shore of Virgina, we noticed right away that Virginia is much bigger into pushing tobacco – I don’t remember many, if any, signs on the MD side of US 13 for cigarettes.  In VA, you can’t throw a rock 10 feet without hitting two tobacco discount outlets and a fireworks store.  Closer to the shore, the signs start to morph – “Clams, tobacco, fireworks!”  We also proved that if you drive far enough in any one direction in this country, you’ll eventually find a Walmart.   

This proved even more true than usual when we were out of the Pine Barrens and approaching Philly.  There are plenty of reasons to go to Philadelphia, including “it’s on the way to my house,” but our main reason was to perform a public service for that city, our great nation, and in fact the world.  As we all know, as the Big Ugly Man Doll, I am the final authority on style and good taste in this country, and it had come to my august attention that there has been a debate raging in the heart of the City of Brotherly Love for many years:  Pat’s or Geno’s? 

In case you’ve been hiding under a culinary rock for the last 46 years, Pat’s King of Steaks and Geno’s Steaks are two Philly Cheesesteak walk-up joints located across the street from each other on 9th Street and Passyunk Avenue in South Philadelphia.  As the final authority on style and good taste, I drove my family to Sowt Filly and tried them both.  Just to make sure things were fair, we order the same sandwich at both places:  “One wit, add onions.”   The ‘wit’ tells them you want it wit da cheese on it.  We started at Pat’s, split one sandwich 5 ways, and crossed the street to Geno’s. 

Pat’s.  The answer is, if you’re parachuted in to South Philly and you’re nearly broke and on the edge of expiring from hunger, spend your last few bucks at Pat’s.  It costs 50 cents more than Geno’s.  Pay it.  Geno’s was dry, even with the cheese, and the bread was harder.  However, if you’re NOT about to fall over from hunger, the real answer is that I’m damn sure there are better places to eat in Philadelphia, even South Philadelphia, than either of these over-hyped tourist destinations.  They seem to be more interested in carrying on their longstanding granfalloon rivalry than in paying any attention to what they’re serving.  They no longer even see their customers; they see only each other and the reflections of themselves.  I’m willing to bet we’d’ve had a better and more engaging meal back at The Patio Drive In.

The Angel Moroni Trumpeting Us Home

And so having eaten, and having found the answer we came for, more or less, we loaded back into the car and started down the long slow wending and winding that is southbound Interstate 95 on any given day.   We wended through and out of Philly, wound around and about Baltimore, and eventually fell back to the old familiar sights and sounds of the US Capitol Beltway.  The best reason to take the north path down and cross the Cabin John Bridge (as opposed to the south path and the Woodrow Wilson Bridge) is that as we near the 270 split, the Angle Moroni trumpets us home from the top of the DC Mormon Temple.  Despite not being Mormon, I’ve always found the temple a breathtaking piece of architecture.  Towering over the trees shading the road, it provides yet another testament to the constant element of surprise that you will find if you take your eyes from the eternal road, stretching in front of you forever homeward, and glance up as you pass the world. 

As always, dear friend, fond relation, gentle reader, thanks for joining us on the journey!

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Oh god.

So there we were, enjoying coffee and a perfect morning on the back deck, sunshine streaming through the trees, trees swaying in the slight breeze, myself, SOBUMD, the Human Tape Recorder, and the Reigning Queen of Pink.  We had some bread diced fine scattered on the railing for the birds, who were waiting impatiently for us to get out of the way so they could eat it – some of them actually weren’t waiting, and would land, peck a crumb of bread, and flap off again, right in front of us.  This being more than the cat, Albus the Gay, could bear to watch, the girls relented and let him out on the deck with us.

This shortly lead to a predictable round of song about “who let the cat out, who, who, who,” which was mercifully brief, and then morphed into a description of how the birds view the large, lazy, 20+ pound cat.

“They think he’s the wind!”

“They think he’s the oncoming storm!”

“No,” says the 10-yr-old Reigning Queen of Pink, “he’s the oncoming chubby!”

SOBUMD and I dissolved in laughter.  “Wait,” quoth she, “I saw one of those already this morning!”  For my part, I think “The Oncoming Chubby” is the best name for a band I’ve ever heard.  We’re still snickering.  The girls, again mercifully, don’t know why.

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