Across the country

I drove across the country for the Thanksgiving weekend. It was a long, long drive. A few Oklahoma cowboys challenged my poker game. I tried to read Kerouac for the umpteenth time, but I managed only the first two chapters in 18 riding hours.

Let me tell you about the card game. I made the dumbest poker mistake of my short career. Playing more conservatively than my elderly opponents, I called very few blinds and only raised to steal a couple small pots on the river. I was down a little. I was about to cash out when I got pocket rockets on the big blind. Here it is, I thought. Focus and play this right. Seven players were still in the game when the action got back to me. And you know what I did?

I checked the aces and flinched. I knew it was a mistake when I did it.

Dumbest poker mistake of my short career.

Two nines came out on the flop. A cop pulled me over for doing less than 70 in a 55 several hours later. I've been reading Super System and driving slow in construction zones ever since. I'm in a slump.

_________________________________________

I found a story on The News & Observer site about a flash dance party in the undergraduate library during final exams. Nearly 1,000 students suddenly swarmed into the lobby and danced to rave music for several minutes. If this sounds like a small stunt, you must watch the video.

The inspiration was a spontaneous group with the URL http://improveverywhere.com. They froze people in the middle of Grand Central Station, flew a blimp at an unsuspecting Little League gathering and sang a musical in a shopping mall food court.

Who was that?

I looked at some personal files from years back. Thank you Gmail for archiving my awkwardly developing writing hobby. While Facebook puts our meaningless daily activities and embarrassing pictures in the public sphere for friends to see, you, Gmail, hide away our past but allow us to bring it screaming back with your unlimited storage space and "search mail" function.

You know, I used to write. I used to write like an analogy I can no longer write. I used to study the places of my life with eyes, nose, hands and heart and put it all on paper. My words will be around to haunt me for years. When I'm gone at the ripe age of 92, my words might haunt the young collegians who haven't yet arrived.

Don't write anything down if you don't want to read it yourself when you're not the same person you were when you wrote it. Or maybe you should. Just know that it's not always pretty. Life moves.

Breaking a tie

Carolina controlled its own road to the Orange Bowl going into Saturday's game against Maryland, but the Tar Heels lost. We almost won, but we did not deserve to be in the game.

Yesterday's loss all but dashes our hopes for a trip to the ACC Championship and Orange Bowl. I found an article that explains the few scenarios in which Carolina would win a trip to Tampa. I can't take it seriously now, but it's a good resource in case things fall into place again. This has been the season of many chances. Anything could happen.

Simple

I finally found a regular card game. I lost, so I think they will welcome me back in the future. They play a moderate dealer's choice, so I learned to play Omaha Hi-Lo and Stud Hi-Lo on the fly. This was a bad financial decision, a good social decision and an excellent learning decision.

"You're only down four?" the host asked when I decided to leave. "Not too bad." I suppose I did OK despite forgetting thrice the one rule of Omaha they warned me not to forget: you can't play more than two hole cards. Idiot.

If students won or lost money based on course performance, education would work. I suppose students do win or lose future earnings, but that argument rarely works as a motivational tool. They need to see those chips, the plastic value holders that instantly show the power that comes and goes with knowledge and ignorance. Apathetic students might cling to the belief that nothing really matters and fold at every opportunity, but the antes would eat them alive.

"I'm sorry, Johnny," I would say in such a setting. "The blinds have gone up this semester, so now you're down to the felt. Would you like to rebuy with a loan? We'll put you on the juice."

Goodness is poker simple. I will play free online Omaha and Stud before retiring because you have to do your homework to be successful on the test.

It could happen to us

No. 17 Carolina will go to the ACC Championship if Virginia Tech loses one more game and we win our last three. The Hokies play at long-time rival Miami Thursday evening. The Hurricanes are the Hokies' biggest remaining threat since the Hokies will play Duke and Virginia at home in the final two weeks.

I know we have to handle our business first, but the Miami game is Thursday night. We can't handle our business first. We'll need to wear some green and orange (and blue) and be real fans in an ACC game without the Tar Heels because we are now a part of the picture.

The truth feels good

I found a delicious article in The Chronicle, the Duke student newspaper. The columnist unsurprisingly wrote that she wants to be a Tar Heel instead of a Blue Devil. She can't. It's sort of a commitment.

But I'm glad she got a taste.

Election

I forgot to vote early Saturday. The polls closed at 1 p.m., so a friendly canvasser rang my doorbell at 12:50.

"Are you going to vote early?" he asked.

"I guess not," I said. I was so glad he came to my door to remind me to vote. How refreshing it was to see democracy as a simple thing like punching a chad or touching a screen. It seemed so easy. But I doubt voting is the litmus test for democracy.

I was passionate about politics at times in the past decade, but my guys kept losing. My girls did too. I learned my votes did not make a difference but that I might change the world in other ways. So I taught. I tried to be a rock when I could have rolled.

"It's supposed to be hard," Jimmy Dugan explained to a tired Dottie Hinson in A League of Their Own. "If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great." Anyone can vote, but at least one candidate this season has the sense to know that Americans have to sweat to make freedom for each other. Democracy is not about the guy in charge. It's about empowering the people to be in charge. The right to vote is necessary for democracy but not defining. Democracy is selfless. Democracy should be selfless even for the president.

Carter and Kennedy knew all this and told us so. True leaders do not give; they demand. Drew Carey said the American dream was to make money while sitting on one's ass, and maybe it is for a lot of people. But those people don't defend democracy. They sit on their asses.

So, in the words of Jimmy Dugan, use the lump three feet above your ass to vote tomorrow because you can. Then do something good.

Who set my sun?

The sun went down early today. I forget who is responsible for this shift in time. Was it Congress? Was it God? Only a capitalized entity could make my bedroom a dreary place before 6 p.m. I would give my hour back for a little sunshine in the early evening hours.

Bored

Today I will write the petulant complaint of a bored twentysomething avoiding a day's work without pay. My kids tested poorly, but I cannot bring myself to finish grading them. I woke up hours ago looking for any distraction: college football wrap up, online poker, an irrelevant book about the horror of fatherhood and a back massage tool that can only be used for the chest and stomach when alone.

I am hungry. I would like to eat a heaping plate of Allen & Son barbecue while watching Carolina Rewind with friends. I could do something resembling this if I finish all my work before 6:30 p.m. We'll see. First I'll have to stop writing and shower.

I wanted to go to the Cat's Cradle alone for the first time on Halloween. That might sound like an extension of boredom, but flying solo at the Cradle is not unusual. Instead a friend connected me with a free ticket and his sister. The Everybodyfields were my best MySpace whim yet.

Saturday I finally went to Fuse, a nighttime lounge for people like me in Chapel Hill. I avoided it for years because of its proximity to Nightlight, a kind of crummy music hall that recently changed ownership. The music was folksy. I will go again soon.

The Tar Heels are No. 19 and the highest-ranked ACC team. Whoa. It means nothing unless we win out.

What will make me feel better

I will get over driving eight hours to watch the Tar Heels end an impossible historic losing streak only to see them lose in the final minute to Virginia. Here's how.

I will drive eight hours in 2010 to watch us end an impossible historic losing streak by an embarrassing number of stab-in-the-heart touchdowns. You will go too. Gas will cost a fortune, so sign up for the carpool list now.

Go to hell Virginia.

Three guys in a car

I am in a carpool to save the environment. No, I am in it to save money. Or maybe I need the company of two other guys who do the same hard job for a few bills more than minimum wage. They are good guys.

Seth came to North Carolina by way of Indiana University. He is laid back and tall and wears blue jeans and sandals to work. Underneath his shirt he has a small pi tattoo. He is polite, but he'll defend the Indiana Pacers like a rabid dog. He is the antithesis of a first-year teacher but admits he lost weight. His short 'a' sounds like that of a tongue-depressed Southerner. My consistent lateness does not bother him yet.

"It's OK," he said. "I like saving money on gaaaas." Me too, Seth.

Montgomery is an energetic disc jockey for the college radio station. He anguishes over things like Cormac McCarthy's unusual sentence structure and the 2004 presidential election with a thoughtful Southern drawl.

"No smokin' on campus!" he lamented as we drove past a sign on South Columbia. "I don't smoke."

Montgomery and I stopped at a thrift store a couple days ago to browse books, clothes and barbershop chairs.

"I found a book for ya," he said, thrusting a copy of Living with Herpes in my direction. He did the same thing to Seth the next day. I laughed harder than I did the first time.

I called his radio show last week to hear a reasonably popular song. His enthusiasm would have followed any request. I have an idea for next week.

"Big balls!" he'll say. "AC/DC rocktoberfest!"

Notre Dame clarifications

Carolina continued to win last weekend against Notre Dame, but this time they won amid two controversial calls. The Brooks Foster overturned reception actually was a reception as the field officials initially called. The replay officials did not look at any angles that you cannot see in this video, which clearly shows Foster putting down two feet before the ground caused the fumble.

I cannot understand how the replay officials called this an incomplete pass. If you do, tell me so I will stop shaking when I watch it. The subsequent Irish drive and second bunchy-underwear review would not have happened if they got Foster's catch right.

Notre Dame receiver Michael Floyd fumbled the ball before he touched the ground because a Tar Heel was underneath him when he fell on his back. This was also evident from a highlight video; click on the game highlights feature. You will have to pause the video at the point of the fumble to convince yourself that Floyd was not down.

Go Tar Heels. Beat Wahoos.

Knock knock

My boys arrived two weeks later than I predicted, but they arrived. Say hello to the No. 22 Carolina Tar Heels. Say what's up to all-time NCAA career return yards leader Brandon Tate. Say hola to Bruce Carter, who blocked four consecutive punts against Miami and ranked Connecticut. Take a look at a defensive secondary that leads the NCAA in interceptions and a Shaun Draughn running game that balances the most talented receiving trio in the nation. Heed our three-headed quarterback that has proven perseverance in a time of doubt. Beware our sense of humor . . .

Knock knock.

Who's there?

The bell.

We've been waiting for you to call again. We're here.

Two stories of a grain

I struggled to eat my dinner as a 6-year-old. I didn't like vegetables, and Looney Tunes distracted me a room and a half away. I didn't sit on my butt, preferring instead to fold my legs underneath a restless, skinny body. I took several trips to the bathroom, but I doubt I peed each time.

I anxiously awaited a call from athletic Patrick, gorgeous Lindsay, dorky Doug or even punk Nick from across the street. He took MC Hammer dance classes. Even as 6-year-olds we knew that was a plea for attention.

"Come out and play baseball," the caller would say, and I'd ask my parents if I could without waiting for an answer. Off I went to smack a tennis ball around a suburban backyard until one of us got pissed off enough to call it off.

"Go home!" Doug would say after Nick knocked off his spectacles. We would scatter back to our parents and anxiously await the next night's call to action.
____________________________________________________________________

I got home last night after a long week of work. I had plenty of cleaning to do around the house since my parents would arrive in a few days. I couldn't focus on the task at hand. I browsed Internet news and read a random page from The Catcher in the Rye. I took a shower. I heard my phone buzzing in my bedroom while I dried myself. It was a voicemail from Ryan. He wanted to talk football and drink with the boys.

I called Daniel. He told me he was already throwing a football at the field. I left the house 30 seconds later and sped to campus.

We threw until Daniel and Ryan wore sweat stains and I messed up my pants. Then it was off to Franklin Street for sports, girl and family talk over $2 well drinks at Carolina Coffee Shop.

"Let's go home," I said a little after 1 a.m. We went back to our places and anxiously awaited the next day's festivities: family, hot dogs, beer and Carolina vs. Connecticut on a sunny, crisp October Saturday.

Routine physical

The Old North State requires all its public servants, including me, to pass a physical examination. This initiation should not worry a healthy person like me. I brush, floss and rinse with Listerine. I apply Neosporin to razor lacerations. I drink in moderation. I eat what is convenient. I skip staircase steps with my left leg to keep it as bulky as my right. I once (or thrice) waxed my overgrown eyebrows. I used to benchpress my body weight.

My appearance at work does not represent this healthy lifestyle. I am usually hungry. My ever-present baseball cap is left at home to expose thinning hair to adolescent masses. My tie hangs loose from an undone button. Dry erase marker powder discolors my hands and shirt, smudges my face and darkens my eyes. I am a business-casual soldier of the trenches who fights the enemy with inky knowledge. From one of these daily battles, I arrived at the doctor's office 10 minutes late.

"Are you stressed?" my new doctor asked me.

"No," I whispered. "I love my new job. You should have seen the last one I had." The week's laryngitis had reduced my voice to a car-start wheeze, the kind that suddenly alternates between inefficiently soft and offensively loud without apology.

"Are you a smoker?" he asked.

"I've had one cigarette my whole life," I mustered.

"Was it big and nasty?" he asked.

"It was Black and Mild," I said. "I swear the pack said mild."

"You look like a coal miner," he said.

He looked like a Duke doctor, but I didn't say anything.

Surprise landing

Carolina opened the season Saturday night with a strange win. A new Rameses mascot debuted after killing his father and predecessor in the off season. Athletic officials halted the game in the second quarter for nearly two hours because of a passing thunderstorm. Halftime lasted five minutes. Soundless lightning struck the press box in the third quarter and disabled the scoreboard. A large chunk of concrete fell from the upper deck, scaring many but injuring none. Malfunctioning elevators trapped at least one member of the press for hours. Brandon Tate gained a school-record 397 all-purpose yards on only 11 touches. His total slightly surpassed Carolina's total offense.

The strangest event of all of these rivals the Harvard vs. Yale vs. MIT stories. Two parachutists were supposed to deliver the game ball and fly a Carolina flag from high above Kenan Stadium, but they never showed up.

The parachutists had already canceled the jump mid flight when they saw an occupied football stadium through a break in the clouds. They jumped and landed minutes later in Wallace Wade Stadium for Duke's home opener against James Madison. I do not know if they displayed the Carolina flag, but I hope they did. They missed their intended mark by eight miles and 15 yards. Whoops-i-daisy.

Click here for the aerial miscue story: http://www.newsobserver.com/sports/college/unc/story/1200990.html

Click here to grow hair on your chest: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXrbfgf8r18

Streaker love

I was out with a recent Carolina graduate who told me about the resurging tradition of streakers in a campus library the night before the first day of finals. She told me I could find it on YouTube, so I did. The video is not censored, so I cannot put it here. This is a family show. I somehow found another video about two streakers who fell in love. This is one of my favorite news features of all time. Enjoy.

Sports fan license

Sports fans have a license to be fanatic, which isn't pretty. We can act in a way that would get us ridiculed, fired or killed in most contexts. For instance, I can't insert half of a hot dog in my mouth and shout at my students while spewing out beef bits. I can't tell a poker opponent that he sucks. I can't drunkenly chest bump strangers on Franklin Street. I just can't. Only superior men playing sports allow me to do these glorious things.

I was recently an ass. I said something that even sports fans should not say. I suggested that certain sports fans should stifle their enthusiasm because their team will play against mine. That is never acceptable under any circumstance. I would be crushed if only Carolina fans were fanatic. Home-field advantage does not give a school exclusive rights to pride. I wear my colors on Duke's campus, and I would expect them to wear theirs here. And when they do, I will tell them how I feel about their institution. I hope they tell me how they feel about mine because that is the beauty of sports; they turn ordinary people into passionate attorneys. We are as numerous, loud and disrespected as lawyers. But we have more fun.

The best of us have a loyalty that will not flag, and I defend those allegiances. I defend Alec Macaulay's Blue Devils bow ties, Shawne Hammett's Clemson flag and Caitlin Poore's Illini heart. I sometimes pull some Blue Hen spirit out of my sister. At least I try.

I may have said that a certain school was overrated hogwash, but of course that's only a passionate opinion. N.C. State, Virginia, Wake Forest, Clemson and Notre Dame make being a Carolina sports fan fun. What would Carolina be without those guys? I'll slam them without apology from now until forever, but that's my privilege. It's also theirs.

But if Duke University pulled a hairy lip over its gargoyle face and swallowed, we'd all be better off.

I'm kidding.

Go Tar Heels, and go sports fans. May we always be loud and free.

Out West

I visited my girl in California last week. I might not love California with my Carolina heart, but you just cannot do some things anywhere but the Golden State.

You cannot hop in a car and drive to Vegas. We attended Zumanity, the sensual side of Cirque du Soleil. I thought it was decent except when a guy wearing horns and slitted contact lenses grunted at my girlfriend while shaking his grapefruit-stuffed Speedo in her direction. I shook back, but nobody noticed because I don't pack my pants with produce.

I played poker at Treasure Island and promptly lost $40. Of course I had to win it back, so we played in downtown Vegas, which I now prefer to The Strip. Downtown had showgirls walking Fremont Street, cheaper blackjack, spray paint artists, $12 steak and lobster, less walking, better poker and people who were friendly in their Camels-and-Schlitz way. Those were my people and that was my place.

On our last day I hit a $100 jackpot with four 7's in the TI poker room.

"Buy us drinks," my table suggested.

"Naw," I said. My girlfriend had been waiting at the pool for awhile. Now I had a story to justify my absence.

We floated around until a middle-aged Florida Gator fan saw my Carolina hat and told me I should have gone to a real school. He said Carolina is snooty and Virginia is Harvard. Whoops-i-daisy. Guess which school doesn't want his daughter. Guess. Guess. I hope she transfers like me and either fixes her old man or divorces him.

You cannot be in an earthquake anywhere but California. I was brushing my teeth on the second floor when I heard a low rumble below. At first I thought someone was bombing my girlfriend's house while we were in it. I thought teaching would kill us, but terrorists were doing it instead. The whole bathroom swayed back and forth for six seconds while I nervously brushed.

I cannot enjoy the Santa Monica beach with my best high school bud and his fiancee anywhere but California. I will be a groomsman in his September wedding. I had to pee at the beach. My friends told me you had to pee in the ocean, but I could not do it because the water was cold. Maybe my prior unshakable training was to blame. Flustered, I hiked a couple miles to the nearest disgusting bathroom.

You cannot be a member of The Price Is Right studio audience anywhere but California. I recommend the show to anyone who has seen it on television at least once. That means everyone. The studio is like a time machine stuck in a groovy 1960s dance party. We did not go on down, but I got on the tape. Watch carefully when the cameras pan to the friends of a small, unsure contestant in a neon yellow T-shirt that says "Dena knows the price." I'll be jumping as high as I can behind them in my favorite hat.

We saw Drew Carey and Bob Barker chatting on the porch of Maggiano's after the show. No, we did not follow them there. They must have followed us.

You cannot go to In-N-Out four times in one week and promise your girlfriend not to tell anyone anywhere but California. This is the best fast-food franchise in the country. The menu is a manageable three items, and they make fresh burgers everyday. I recommend the Double-Double with grilled onions and a chocolate shake.

Sign this and get geeked up

The Atlantic Coast Conference kicked off its football media season this weekend. A couple players from each team gathered in Greensboro, Ga. for golf, dinner, foosball and Wii. Each player pair answered questions from the media. Carolina safety Deunta Williams and wide receiver Hakeem Nicks politely answered their moronic questions.

Most Carolina players and coaches give vanilla answers because the athletic department trains them to. I have another idea. I would like to answer their actual questions with uncensored honesty. Italicized text represents real questions from this weekend.
____________________

J, thank you for being here this weekend.

No problem.

We understand you're an unconditional optimist, a fan who has predicted conference championships for eventual losing seasons. You must take losses hard. You were very close to beating N.C. State last year. And I mean very, very close. Like this close. Do you think about that? Is that on your mind?

What's on your mind, you rubber-eyed dump bomb? We won four games last year and still almost beat those tobacco-spitting farmers. Maybe you don't know this, but we've beat them in 11 of our last 14 meetings. We hold a 63-27-6 record against State. They have a pathetic inferiority complex, but I can't blame them. They were picked to finish last in the Atlantic this weekend. We stuffed Touchdown Almost McClendon in 2004, and you can stuff it right now.

I know you also support the basketball team. I don't care what you say, Hakeem and Deunta play at a basketball school because you know how the fans are.

What do you mean I know how the fans are? Have you ever been to a game at Kenan? Look, I went to the Notre Dame game in 2006. Their fan experience is respectable, but the Carolina fan experience is better. We already set attendance records for the 2008 season, and it's July.

You should see the drum corps on Polk Place. Cheer the team on the Old Well Walk. Play beanbag over brats. March into Kenan with the band. Go to the Tar Pit and have 20 Tar Heels climb all over you after a touchdown. Close your eyes for a game-winning field goal. Exult when the Heels make that final goal line stand. Race onto the field when it's over. Trip over the hedges. Hang on the goalposts. Hug the players. Rush Franklin Street. Eat a beefmaster frank. Answer the bell. Then you can tell me you know how the fans are.

You're right. I haven't been to a Carolina football game. I live with my mom and knitted the nancy sweater I'm wearing on football Saturdays. Enough about me. Do you feel like the football players have to live up to something or prove something to the basketball team? Do you feel like you have to tell the fans that Carolina is a football school as well?

No. They know we are a football school. Are you from the Republic of Djibouti?

No. You mentioned Notre Dame earlier. You played them last season.

We played them two seasons ago. Are you a journalist?

I'm not a journalist, but I have a blog. You're over the culture shock of playing Notre Dame. You've got them again this season. Are they just like any other team?

Notre Dame is a different kind of team because they suck more than any other team. They lost nine games last year. They have lost nine consecutive bowl games since 1995. We will eat them alive and spit them back out to NBC, a company that recently drafted the most illogical sports contract since the Red Sox lost Ruth. Notre Dame is overrated hogwash.

Can you tell me what it means to be ranked second in the Coastal right behind Virginia Tech?

I wonder how the votes would look on Sept. 22 when we will be 3-0 with a convincing home win over the Hokies. Stuart Scott will be the special guest at ESPN GameDay in Chapel Hill for the Notre Dame game. Everyone will hop on the bandwagon. But if you need a list of the original faithful, the men and women who are not just fans but sons and daughters of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, then look no further than the comments and testimony below.
____________________

Click here for the press conference: http://www.ocsn.com/media_server/play.smil?school=acc&media_type=audio&content=http://mfile.akamai.com/8108/wma/cstvcbs.download.akamai.com/8108/open/acc/07-08/audio/m-footbl/07jul/080720nc.asx

Click here for the story on the ACC preseason projections: http://blogs.newsobserver.com/accnow/surprise-clemson-picked-to-win-acc

A nice vice

I enjoy a home poker game. Although slower than playing online, a home game has unique amenities: clinking chips, beer buckets, food, music, banter and friendly competition.

I failed to find or host a regular game in Charlotte. Poor etiquette deterred one-time players. Nobody wants to play if one person thinks the game is a joke. It's not about money. Poker is pride. Buckle down, cowboy.

The game in question is freeze-out, no-limit Texas hold’em. It is a game of skill that tests intuition and recognition of betting patterns. The cards matter a little but not a lot. I predict the participation of a few poker stars in this old town.
________________

Melissa is a slow player who beats me consistently. She rarely bluffs and plays her cards mostly straight in tight and loose games. A friend said he liked to see me wriggle when Melissa moved her chips. I don't think I wriggle, but I feel hungry and thirsty when she bets.

Daniel aggresses and tends to lose everything or build up a good stack early. Don’t expect him to wait out the tournament. He thrusts his chips into the pot with an aim to frighten anyone who does not know the Daniel rule: he probably holds nothing but thinks he’s tough. He was the most valuable lineman at South Davidson High School in 2001.

Ryan is a rookie who has one thing in common with Coach K; he likes to see the flop. Ryan plays a lot of hands when the blinds are low and will make conservative attempts at early pots, hoping that his early stack will last him through the bigger blinds. However, his basketball prowess forces him to appease friends with soft play when the margin becomes too much. Ryan is most vulnerable with a commanding lead.

Will is a veteran player with a brief history of bad beats. He is not afraid to bet the blacks before the turn when he knows he has the edge. The opponent sometimes draws alive, but Will gets back on the horse right quick.

Emily is a talker who might ask to see your cards or, in a blunt effort, your chips. She is a fierce competitor who attends Duke University for grad school, but her heart has always been where ours are.

Victor is the Hevad Khan of Chapel Hill. He started playing poker after watching Casino Royale, a movie in which the players draw nothing worse than a flush. If Victor puts a couple hands together, he will make a New York show of it. He knows he can beat anyone except Reyshawn Terry.

Tom is the sleeping giant of the local poker scene. He is smart, patient and observant. He has every trait necessary to blow a table away. He does not know this.

Kathryn boasts a poker history with girlfriends and cigars, but she is not sure if she played stud or hold'em. The story seems unlikely. She bluffs.

Dani is probably too sweet for cards. I never saw her take advantage of anyone's weakness. However, Dani recently got an Australian shepherd that forces her to clear her throat with disapproval. It's not the scariest sound, but it will give anyone who knows her an earnest double take.

To those who put it on the line

Teach For America is done. I wrote a summary of the good and bad parts of these past two years. Send me an e-mail if you would like a copy. I cannot put it here. My mother read it and said I did not write like myself. She said it had no personality.

"It's an objective piece," I explained. "I reported without emoting." It was true, but Mom had a valid point. I must have felt something in these two years even if I did not write about it.

One of my students murdered two of his classmates this week. He and I got along well, but I did not shed a tear. The online news report did not phase me. I am the emotional equivalent of a marathon runner who puked for most of the race; I finished but not in great shape.

At first everything floored me. Nearly every corps member got the biggest reality check of his life in the first weeks of training. Once I got to Charlotte I saw late students, absent teachers, school violence, academic apathy, low achievement, low expectations, low colleague morale and almost no opportunity for my school's most needy students. Staff gave up on students. Students gave up on staff. Students gave up on themselves. I stayed at work until 7 p.m. each day, trying to come up with something that would improve my routine. I nearly went nuts. I consistently forgot to fasten my seat belt. My friends could not drag me out on Friday nights. My friends could not drag me out on Saturdays. Life was tougher than I had ever had it. I wasn't much into being me anymore. A few college friends told me I was off.

Then, after awhile, stuff stopped bothering me. All the shit seemed to continue if not worsen, so I flipped my emotional switch to OFF. Teach For America would have you believe that I learned to limit my efforts to my locus of control. I think my tranquility was an unavoidable instinct: survival.

Most corps members seemed OK like me, but the ones who did not were a troubled bunch. Chemical addiction and absence of social interaction riddled some I knew. The few I knew who quit probably did the right thing. Some who should have quit did not. Those are sad stories.

Here was the danger: Teach For America accepts proud people. We are not the types to believe we cannot get a job done. You want us to close the achievement gap? OK, would you like sweet-potato fries and a sweet tea with that? We'll have it done by the end of the week.

All corps members failed a lot. Each of us was like a straight-A student with overbearing parents, getting an F after sincere effort. We knew why we failed but felt like we couldn't do anything about it. Some of us, including me, worked through failure and saw why we taught by the end. I can honestly say this: I taught to the best of my ability, and my students were lucky to have me in the classroom.

That's coming a long way from not going out on the weekends. I've never considered myself a proud person, but I feel proud right now.

Of course the marathon puke still dangles from my chin. I am certainly not who I was 25 months ago. Thank God I happened to fall for a great girl in these two years who put me back together when I was in pieces. She is the person who can flip my switch to ON and tolerate my own set of coping addictions: writing, reading and poker. It's the new me.

I want to dedicate this post to anyone who has ever changed his life, for better or worse, for a cause outside of himself.

Offseason menu

The Tar Heels fell in the College World Series last night for the third consecutive year. The Carolina offseason began this morning. Here are a few cartoons that might interest you Carolina fans in these dog days of summer. All credits go to The News & Observer's Grey Blackwell.

The last part of the Butch Davis cartoon is not appropriate for children under the age of 30.

Butch Davis needs more victory bell: http://videos.newsobserver.com/index.php?a=player&id=1736386

Coach K and Roy in commercials: http://videos.newsobserver.com/index.php?a=player&id=1736109

Ripping on Billy Packer: http://videos.newsobserver.com/index.php?a=player&id=1782183

The Incredible Roy: http://videos.newsobserver.com/index.php?a=player&id=1804909

Whitewater

My girlfriend organized a trip with friends to the U.S. National Whitewater Center. I pictured lazy rivers and inner tubes before we got to the facility, which was the site of the Beijing Olympic trials a month ago. I underestimated.

We sat for an accelerated course on whitewater safety when we arrived. The instructor was brief and informative.

"Do not stand up in the rapids because your foot could get stuck and you'll be doing underwater push ups," he said. He seemed mostly disinterested. I was extremely interested in how to avoid things like underwater push ups.

Most of his stuff concerned what to do if you fell out of the raft. A friend told me that not many rafters fall out of the boat, so not catching his shtick was probably OK. I signed the waiver of liability with something less than confidence.

We put on our equipment and met our raft guide. He was the guy who did quite well at summer camp 15 years ago. He was the one who water skied while I fumbled with the drawstring of my swim trunks. I was a skinny kid. I still am. He was tanned and said "dude" a lot.

He led us through exercises in calm water. We learned the "all forward" command, the "all back" command and the all-important "all in" command. He then led us down our first run. I was positioned in the front of the raft, and the guide sits in back. I could not hear any of his soft-spoken commands when we hit the rapids nor benefit from seeing my raft mates. Nearly everyone else heard him easily and thought I had, at best, slow reflexes. Or a suicide mission. Or a dangerous sense of humor. I was also the tallest person in the raft, which was kinder to those with lower centers of gravity.

I got nervous quick, leaning toward the middle of the raft even without the all-in command. Every time I turned around for reassurance after a good soaking, the guide dude led the laughter. He recommended I take smaller strokes.

"Come on," I wanted to say. "I'm big. I'm long-limbed. I can't hear anything." I couldn't say it. I was the unwitting entertainment.

The guide dude communicated a plan to collide with a wall on a certain rapid. I squinted my eyes at the approaching rapid. I saw lots of walls.

"When we are approaching the wall," I politely asked, "could you say something like 'wall'?"

Laughter. Ouch. Any of those walls could contain the bullet.

We missed the wall altogether. In my elation, however, I allegedly missed an "all in" command. I flew out of the boat. I remember sloshing around for a couple seconds and plunging down a rapid head first. They told us not to do that, but I'm such a damn showboat. The guide dude rescued me with a rope.

"Cool?" he asked with a raised hand. Both my shoes were gone. I dove headfirst toward possible death minutes earlier, but I also knew that my response to his gesture would define our relationship and the rest of the experience. Could the drawstring kid make peace with the outdoor sleuth?

"Cool," I said awkwardly quick.

"Dude," he said, grinning and shaking his head. I think he meant he was glad I was OK.

The guide dude fell out later, and I would like to think he tumbled on purpose. The dude handshake had solidified our status as unequal friends in secret pursuit of equal aspiration and, more importantly, appearance.

Or maybe he just fell out and picked on me the whole time.

http://photos.usnwc.org/gallery/5202307_VmJW2#315683185_vMbKi

Toots

My girlfriend and I have dated for 18 months. Recently I noticed that I toot around her more than ever before. We thought back to how we handled these situations previously and outlined a five-step evolution for courtship toots.

Step one: Subconscious toot restraint.
The human body does not allow itself to toot when close to unfamiliar company. This involuntary restraint condenses a man's toots to moments of solitude.

Step two: Conscious toot restraint.
The human body ceases to conceal toots from conscious thought prior to release. The human brain senses the toots. However, the brain is not conscious of the existence of step one, so the man is convinced that he has tactfully concealed toots since the beginning.

Step three: Tooting downwind.
The man maintains the awareness of step two but surrenders the will to hold it until social isolation. This change usually takes the form of tooting in another room or, in fewer instances, lifting the distant cheek and letting go. Step progression could retard to step two if the partner detects these secret toots. In lesser men, toot detection in step three could result in a jump to step five.

Step four: Fair warning.
The man is familiar enough to the woman so that she can understand he toots. The man gives a courtesy warning a few seconds before the release. The woman may or may not move but appreciates the prior gesture.

Step five: Unfair warning.
The man and woman are so familiar that the man releases toots without warning. The man issues a post-toot declaration of fault. The woman generally prefers step four to step five.

What happened in Cherokee will not stay in Cherokee

My girlfriend and I ventured to the gambling capital of the Old North State for a holiday weekend of outdoor fun. I wanted to shit in the woods like Bill Bryson. I never did.

We settled at Jellystone Park, a family resort with a costumed Yogi that rides through camp in the back of a pickup truck surrounded by children. We stayed in a sleeper cabin that wore the label "bear bones." Actually, the cabin had cable television and air conditioning.

Saturday morning we went to a bear zoo that advertised itself as "the best in town." Bear viewing is in high supply in Cherokee. We fed black, cinnamon, asiatic and grizzly bears while some of them performed for our half-rotten apples. A couple clumsy kids couldn't keep their food in their trays, so we stuck around picking up scraps for an hour.

Saturday afternoon we hit the casino, which happens to suck because it has no poker room. The blackjack minimum was set at $15. Saddened, we spent $10 on video poker and left. The weekend would have to be defined by outdoor adventure.

Our cabin neighbors were father-and-son bikers from Macon, Ga. They, of course, were more seasoned campers than us.

"You shit in the woods yet?" the son asked Saturday night after I had explained my hope for the weekend the night before. The truth was that I hadn't had a bowel movement at all despite some earnest effort. I made a mental note to pick up some fiber bars at the nearby Food Lion. We cooked well despite not rounding out the food groups. We set our own campfires, which were always smokier than our neighbors'. We ate s'mores and turkey dogs. I was fine with it; my body was not. Grant and his father were friendly and humorous until more bikers, who were cooler than us, showed up.

"Where's your bike?" a grimy biker asked me.

"I have a four-wheeler," I said without bringing attention to my Accord directly behind him. I shirked back into my cabin to watch three consecutive episodes of Law and Order.

The bikers recommended that we spend the next day at the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Motorists wait along the 11-mile auto tour to watch the park's famous elk step into grassy clearings. That was fun until I realized that waiting for elk is an incredibly slow process. We got restless and walked through the mountain's three century-old buildings: a well-preserved wooden house, a two-classroom schoolhouse and a church with an enormous Bible and working bell.

I have only one regret from the weekend. We passed a mechanical bull every time we drove to and from the town. I promise to write about my elimination of that regret reasonably soon.

F-U-N-N-Y

I watched the Scripps National Spelling Bee last night. The final few kids were not the nerdy gems I expected. Second place went to 12-year-old Sidharth Chand, a polite South Asian kid with a moustache. He had the outcast edge in my rooting heart. Chand tripped up on prosopopoeia, a word that you do not know as a grown man or woman with body hair that sprouted on time. Do you feel guilty? God allowed you to develop normally, and you don't know how to spell prosopopoeia. Chand did not cry after his blunder; he is a dignified mustachioed champion in my eyes.

He is especially dignified when compared to last year's idiot champ, Evan O'Dorney. This one seemed to be home-schooled off his bespectacled ass.



Many of you might remember 1997 champion Rebecca Sealfon, the grand marshall of the nerd parade. Sealfon had the strange habits of smelling her fingers and shouting into the microphone like it was a muzzle. In the words of one commentator, you never knew what would happen when she went to the mic, but you knew it would be awesome. She certainly meant nobody harm like O'Dorney seemed to, so she is my favorite spelling nerd.

Watch her most famous celebration and the ensuing interview below.





"Many children are in grief because they lose."
~Rebecca Sealfon

Lleno on prom night

My girlfriend sliced strawberries into sparkling white wine to begin our night. Richard Gere told Julia Roberts that the fruit brings out the flavor, so we tried ourselves.

The occasion was our last high school prom. I intended to ask her last night in Libertyville form by dropping a messenger golf ball in a putt-putt hole. "Prom?" the golf ball would ask hopefully. It never got a chance. My planning was fine, but the execution fell embarrassingly short. I blamed the weather. Shit. In six years since my last dance, I am rustier than Quentin Thomas after a steady rain.

We swigged our drinks in haste to speed to a pre-dance dinner with our 68-year-old assistant principal, dressed in a white suit and tie, pink shirt, black top hat and a cane. He is the color of our school and fashion's cautionary tale. Most days his belt encroaches his belly button and his tie hangs loosely to his upper thighs. I figure I will look a lot like him someday. He also started balding when he was 24. But you know, he looks good. He told us the story of how he married his wife, who had previously been a nun. He loves to tell that story. I like to hear it.

Another math teacher sat opposite me, and we talked poker. He said he played well until he read a poker book. I knew exactly what he meant. I spent the next couple minutes trying to get the following parallel statements out of my head. If you read a poker book, you will suck at poker. If you read a book, you will suck at writing. I also used to think playing golf would kill a baseball swing, but a broken face will kill it faster.

After dinner my girlfriend and I tagged along with another teacher to her student's Quinceanera. We drove past the place about four times but eventually found an expansive yet quiet neighborhood of trailers. Self-consciously dressed for the prom, we approached the family as they prepared the grill, which lay behind a set of long, folding tables underneath a blue plastic tarp. Five little children ran happily around, beating sticks into the ground and smiling at us. One little girl stood still and frowned at me for five minutes. The birthday girl was not present.

"She went out to brush her hair," her affable father explained. "She'll be back in a few minutes. Would you like something to eat?"

"We all just ate," I explained. Five minutes later he had set a hearty plate of chicken and rice before each of us. My food somehow disappeared within a few minutes. He attempted to feed me more, but I pleaded out of it with awkward English. I was lleno and felt like Alex's hapless parents in Fools Rush In. I am still terrified yet capable of speaking Spanish.

The Quinceanera arrived and spoke quietly with her teacher for a few minutes. She looked like she was going to the prom like us, but instead she was ready to see 100 family guests.

"You can stay for the cake?" she asked or explained. I'm not sure which.

"We have to go because we are supposed to be chaperones at the prom," our friend explained.

The girl said something in Spanish to her mother.

"You can come back for cake tomorrow," she explained imperatively. The final settlement was that she would bring leftover cake to school Monday, but I honestly knew the family would have been delighted to have three 24-year-old teachers drop by for any part of their weekend. I was kind of touched.

Prom was cool. Being a chaperone is about seeing your kids dressed up and on their best behavior. Every now and then a teacher would get geeked up, move some limbs around and perspire a little. But I frown on it.

I'm kidding. I got down a bit.

Radiohead and books

Radiohead made their Charlotte debut tonight. The hillbillies finally came to their logical home: the American South. I waited for 11 years since OK Computer to see these guys. I could hear Thom’s depression in “How To Disappear Completely” before I ever read about it. I have quoted cryptic lyrics about lions eating me for the benefit of others and laughing my head off my body at the bottom of high school student government agendas. I fell asleep, night after collegiate night, to the piano cover of “Let Down.” I am a fan.

The show was excellent, but I was never farther from a stage.

I have read quite a bit in the last five months and can confidently recommend Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods, an account of his frightening yet optimistic venture on the Appalachian Trail with a hapless friend and many strangers.

Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 is decent, quick and still relevant. The most recent edition includes a great interview that adapts the novel to a contemporary meaning. This is not a story about government censorhip like I thought. Bradbury's world became more visual, impatient and vulnerable with the invention and hyperdevelopment of television. People chose not to think. I still prefer 1984 as a story but admit that Bradbury’s novel is more prophetic.

Wolfe’s Look Homeward, Angel is a big boy book. Like reading Kerouac, reading Wolfe is a chore. He doesn’t just talk about himself; he dedicates entire chapters to the infant years of his life that I know he cannot remember. I’ll read it someday but not this day.

Paula Deen's restaurant

My girlfriend and I went to The Lady & Sons, Paula Deen's restaurant in Savannah, Ga. If you don't know who Paula is, go to YouTube to find her shaking inexplicably with her eyes crossed while eating a pumpkin loaf. It is . . . so good.

Stranger than Paula's eating habits was her employee and our waitress, Morgan. Morgan approached our table with her eyes on the ceiling, and they never moved. Only her twitching shoulders and nose distracted us from a two-minute, run-on sentence that announced the specials for the night. We applauded her when she finished as if she was four.

Oddly, Morgan did not act sheepishly around her other tables; she acted normal.

"She has a crush on both of us," I said.

"She thinks we're famous," my girlfriend said. "You look like Jim Carrey, and I look like Katie Holmes." That seemed only half true and unfair to me, but I didn't have time to complain. At that moment Morgan performed a burlesque show masquerading as a birthday gesture for the table next to us.

"Moon River, wider than a mile," she belted with the jazzy, low chords of a lounge singer and the courage of a threatened lioness.

"Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker . . ." she continued, tossing her hair and shaking her breasts. The diners continued to clap to the beat but with less enthusiasm. Their mouths opened with genteel surprise.

We arrived at a third explanation for her behavior: a functional mental disorder resembling Mary Catherine Gallagher. And then we arrived at a fourth: Candid Camera. Look for us on television.

A letter to my kids

Dearest mathletes,

You did it. You passed the Algebra 2 end-of-course test to demonstrate mastery of the most accelerated mathematics course in high school. Yes, the scores arrived wicked late, but who cares? You passed. You must feel like you could run laps around the 100 building or conquer the world to spread your math knowledge to dutiful constituents. I mean, you must feel good. What comes next? Do you see yourself walking toward the stately Phillips Hall in beautiful Chapel Hill to attend a morning of differential equations, a class that will solidify your standing as a competent math major among humble peers? I hope so. Do you see yourself at Duke, plodding along among strange stone gargoyles? I hope not. But if that’s your thing, then that’s your thing. Seriously, what could possibly be more challenging than what you have just done?

Well, a lot of things. That’s not the point.

You have pushed yourself over a hump, and you might not realize it because you have only begun your descent from this achievement. I know it’s a hump because it was for me. Allow me to tell a true story.

Once upon a time, there was a high school boy named Mr. Hermann who wanted to drop out of his Algebra 2 Honors class just because he did not get it.

“Stay with it,” said his teacher, Mrs. Long. He dropped the class and enrolled in a standard section instead. Things worked out OK between math and Mr. Hermann, didn’t it? That one cowardly moment did not prevent him from earning a math degree, did it? No. Things turned out OK.

My point is that you are a step ahead of where I was at your age. You have walked through a heavy door of potential into a decorated room of success ahead of schedule. As you look around this room, you will notice three things: a beautiful cake, windows and more doors. Ignore the cake. Look through the windows. Do you see the adjacent rooms of success? Now look at the doors. They are big. They might be heavier than the one you just walked through. Don’t push on them. You are not strong enough yet. First you have to do a thousand pushups. Go!

Just kidding. Pull yourself together! Slow down. Enjoy the moment. You just did something great. Look at the cake. Now write this down: I will eat cake and celebrate my enormous accomplishment Friday, March 7, at 2:15 in room 103.

What is success if you can’t enjoy it? I will see you again soon.


Your truly grateful teacher,
Me

The bad news first

Written at 6 a.m.
Back in the good old days, we thought we handled everything. We were in bands of friends that sometimes numbered in the teens, and we were determined to succeed and help each other succeed. And we succeeded.

But I can tell a difference now. I drank white zin, ate chicken enchiladas laced with cinnamon and listened to Elliott Smith to understand that our place is now smaller and, strangely, less controllable. Someone released us from the factories of thought and privilege. Now the luckiest ones make it in a place that our friends might stumble through, and the certainty on which we unknowingly depended is gone.

Written at 10 a.m.
Now I feel better since discovering that Duke lost a second straight game. After the first, Coach K threw a sucker punch at Carolina to make himself feel better. In the words of Roy, K should worry about his own team. He didn't take the good advice and dropped another one last night. Too bad. I hope he takes it like a grown man and stops embarrassing himself. http://www.charlotte.com/129/story/501256.html.

The difference between losing and being a loser

Losing sucks. The only thing that makes it suck this much is the ease of winning. I am not talking about the season. Yeah, right. The season does not matter in the days following a loss to those guys. I mean taking three games in a row from a self-righteous team that, ahem, is a little more righteous in victory than defeat.

"Walk off the court when the game is over," Coach K said loud enough so the mic could pick it up and spill it across the nation. What class. What poise. May I rewind for just a brief moment?

We could always talk about The Foul. I went for 11 months as undecided on Henderson's blight. I watched it before last night's game on YouTube. I have no more doubt. You want me to describe it? Watch this instead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C04fSlYTGzI.

Rewind a month earlier to Josh McRoberts crying at home. Is it too much pressure to play in the greatest rivalry on Earth? I hesitate to offer the following link because it makes me cringe to think about it. Life gets tougher than getting nailed by the Heels, Josh. Pull yourself together. Next time punch yourself in the face to at least draw blood like Gerald would. Poor guy. http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=josh+mcroberts+cries&search_type.

Some would say this post is a sore loser's display. Hear this. We lost. We lost fairly. It doesn't matter that Ty wasn't there. It doesn't matter that Wayne and Danny struggled nor that Quentin continued to turn it over. Those aren't excuses. Those are mistakes, and mistakes cost us the win. We lost. And further, Duke won.

Tar Heel fans, remember this fact. A little less than half the country actually enjoyed the outcome of last night's game because Duke didn't embarrass themselves with a hissy-fit loss. For America, they are damn cute when they win. It takes a team that beats them more than anyone else to understand what they really are. Losers.

Duke, bring it on from now until forever. You won't see our lip quiver. We won't need consoling. We won't dish out any season-ending cheap shots because we are Carolina. We lose with class and win with class.

Deal with it.