I had never been to Tucanos before. I thought it was just another place of eating. No. It is not. It is a glimpse into heaven. As my physique will attest, I am not the most diet conscious gentlemen. I enjoy food very much. If all the money I spent on Chinese buffets were put into a savings account, I’m pretty sure I could pay a mortgage using only interest.

Then there is Tucanos. Walking in, I was glad to see that it was a buffet. That means I can skip the boring stuff that restaurants use to make me not get full on steak. So long vegetables; so long salad. The buffet table had lots of delicious foods to choose, but the brother-in-law warned me, “Be careful. I know it looks good, but you don’t want to fill up on buffet.” What!? Don’t fill up on buffet? Was I in a parallel universe where propriety was…you know…there?

We sat down and turned a little wooden block from red to green. This was a signal to the meat servers to approach us. “Meat server,” I thought. “I like the sound of that.”

Sure enough, within moments, the first gentleman appeared. “Who wants some rib eye steak?” Now, this gentleman did not carry a pad of paper upon which to document my meal. There was no time for that—not in heaven. Instead, he carried a hunk of rib eye steak on a skewer. My lunch mates were acquainted with the customs of heaven, so they lifted their tongs and pulled off a piece (or three) as the meat server cut it off the hunk.

Being the linear eater that I am, I thought I should finish my buffet items before beginning on the rib eye. But before I could even finish my half-serving of mashed potatoes, the meat server was back. “Sirloin tips for you?” Again, the tips were hanging from a skewer. He started slicing, and we started pulling fresh meat from a tender and juicy hunk. I had to make a priority shift. The buffet was there to fill in the gaps—both spatial and temporal—between the meats.

Before I go on, I must describe the meats in general. Everything was cooked to perfection. Even on each hunk, there was a gradation from rare to well-done. The seasoning was perfect. The quality was divine. There was pork, chicken, turkey, and beef that never quite. There was brisket, hot wings, garlic, sweetened, and bacon wrapped. As I ate, two words were battling in my mind for the right of description: decadent and heavenly.

After round four of the meat delivery, I started to feel like the word decadent was going to win out. The food was so rich and delicious. I found myself chortling at common humor. I felt the room changing into an ancient roman dining hall where I was reclined on my eating couch, sagging out of my loose fitting toga.

The meat server came around with another round of steak, and I waved him off. The meat server looked at me with a hint of disapproval. “You’re not slowing down, are you, sir?” Suddenly, I was thrust out of Rome, and into heaven. The harp music stopped as my own personal angel encouraged me to keep eating. “No, Steven,” I said. “I’m not slowing down. You are just not bringing what I need.”

Steven smiled, lifted the skewer of steak, and walked away with a spring in his step. “I’ll bring you what you need, sir. I’ll bring you what you need.”

As time when on, I learned to savor the sweet pork, the turkey wrapped bacon. Sure enough, Steven kept these things in great supply. After learning that I didn’t like the brisket, Steven stopped bringing it. With every approach, Steven begged me to keep eating. It seemed his only source of pleasure was watching me stuff my fat face.

Eventually, my mortality started to creep up on me. I could not continue this eating spree forever. Steven started softening the blow by bringing out more chicken and less beef. Then, came intermittent slices of roasted pineapple. With great emotional labor, I turned over the wooden block from green to red. The trip to heaven was coming to a close.

Like a guardian angel, Steven made one more approach to the table. “Are you sure you are finished? I can bring you anything you want.” After refusing him, he re-doubled his strength. “Maybe just some pineapple?” Again, he was turned away. He thanked us for eating and asked us to return. Then, he unfurled his wings and flew back into the clouds.

As we waddle to the car, my brother-in-law told me that we should revisit heaven on my birthday. We talked about how amazing our experience had just been, and I realized that the reason Tucanos is my idea of heaven is not only that the food is hair-raisingly delicious, but that the restaurant itself strokes my ego on both sides. First, it tells me that my need for social forbearance is not welcome. Then, as my belly is inner tube-tight, I get to reclaim my social forbearance to another human being. In this case, Steven. “Sorry Steven, your food is delicious, but I think I’d better stop,” I say. “How prudent of your, sir,” he replies. I can’t wait to go back.

Is it October yet?

There are eight boys that are dividing up into teams.  Four of them (the Reds) are wearing jerseys that bear the name of the athletic flavor of the week.  The other four (the Blues) are trying to figure out the rules.  Johnny Red is interested in winning and looking like a star in the process.  Timmy Red is interested in playing a fun game.  Johnny and Timmy end up getting into an argument that sounds something like this:

Johnny: Four (Reds) against four (Blues).  That’s fair.

Timmy: No.  (Looking at the Blues and trying not to hurt their feelings.)  It’s not fair to have the best players on the same team.

Johnny: In football you have the same amount of players on both sides.  If both sides have the same number of players, it is fair.

Timmy: No, it’s not.  Let’s re-pick.

Johnny: You’re just afraid.

Timmy: I am not.

Johnny: Fine.  You go be on their team.  Three against five and we’ll still beat you.

Timmy: But that still isn’t fair!

Johnny: I know.  Your team will have more than our team.  It’s not fair to us, but we don’t mind.

Timmy: Fine.

When Mrs. Whatserface calls the class in Johnny celebrates a 49 – 0 victory with the other three Reds, while Timmy tries not to be labeled as a Blue.  “The teams weren’t fair,” he mutters under his breath.

I suppose every teacher has a discussion about what the word “fair” means.  There is the comparison between the difference between “fair” and “equal.”  Simon gets rewarded for turning in his homework while Peter does not.  It isn’t equal,  but it is fair because Simon has ADHD and only sees his single parent on weekends.  Peter gets the blue ribbon at the science fair that Simon cannot attend.  As a teacher, it is hard to figure out what is fair, because every teacher wants each student to advance one step every day.  The meaning of “step” differs with every student.  We might not be good at it all the time, but I like to think that it is our aim.

I watched a bleeding-heart, left-wing, propagandist, liberal, [insert Hannity-esque adjective] documentary recently about water.  It showed how water has become one of the hottest commodities on the market.  Water is the source of life, and whoever controls the source of life, controls life itself (an exaggeration, to be sure, but a valid thought).  In third-world countries, human beings cannot afford to drink treated water.  Why not?  Because the companies have decided that water can be owned.

Yes, companies that treat the water should be compensated for doing so.  However, the documentary points out that the bottom line cost for treated water is equal to about two dollars per person per year.  Citizens of third world countries that cannot afford water cannot afford the mark-up.  The Corporations that sell the water sell them to third-world country citizens at the same price that they charge Americans.  Much of the water that Americans drink (in bottled water, soft drinks, etc.) comes from third-world countries.  They have to drink from rivers into which their own waste is dumped, but we get to drink the treated water from their aquifers.  Why are we so lucky?  Because we can afford to be.

In the end, everyone pays the same amount for the same product.  It is fair.  Right?

Well, after two weeks of continual (but not continuous) calls to Wells Fargo, I think the issue is resolved. I’ve got new cards, I didn’t have to close any bank accounts, and I got a free lollipop from one of the bank workers at the local branch.

Then there are the movies. I wrote Columbia House an email explaining the predicament and asked them where I should send the movies. Their reply was simple: we’ll close the account; you keep the movies. Cool, no?

So, if you are interested in any of the movies, make me an offer.

The No Child Left Behind Legislation (2001) was geared toward helping those with linguistic and social barriers that prevent their success in school. A noble end, no doubt. When one looks at the new High-Stakes Tests developed for measuring NCLB initiatives, it is easy to see that NCLB is working at improving NCLB test scores. In the past six years, NCLB High-Stakes scores have gone up consistently, narrowing the gap between the knows and the know-nots.

By contrast, the National Assessment of Educational Progress–commissioned by the US Department of Education–has been gathering reading scores since 1971. Educational professionals started to see the gap between the knows and the know-nots. Educational methods started changing and the gap started to narrow. It continued to do so for decades. That is, until about 2002, when President Bush thought that he was the first one to ask the question “Is our children learning?” So, according to NCLB, NCLB is working (Click for Shameless Jab), but on the other hand, according to the NAEP, NCLB isn’t. This, I’m not sure that NCLB statistics are any more reliable than those I make up on my blog.

But, the law is the law, so educators have to be on guard that they are teaching to the lowest common denominator. While I believe that no child should be left behind, I also believe that no child should be held back (from reaching his/her potential). Because of my stay in Public Education Penitentiary, I know how frustrating is can be to be held back. I wanted someone to push me academically, not just give me more homework. This is why I liked Mrs. Walter’s Physics class, yet never took A.P. English.

So when I am teaching, I don’t mind using terms and concepts that are too complicated for most students. I have a handful of students that will find me in private times and ask me questions like, “What is a clause?” I had slipped that word into one of my spelling tests. Not as a spelling word, but as white noise. While most students are still trying to grasp subject and predicate, others figured that out in Kindergarten and are aroused when they hear that there is more to language than a is for apple.

One thing my father did for me was to teach me riddles. The trophy riddle was the albatross sandwich riddle. Memory fails me as to whether the answer was EARNED after rigorous Q&A over the course of Sunday or just CONCESSION after an intellectually fatiguing Sunday. Regardless, father taught me that my intellect could be used for something. I could find simple answers to complicated problems. This was an empowering feeling for a child.

So, ever now and again, I will give my students a very difficult riddle. After a few minutes of knee-jerk guessing, they give up. They say “we give up.” Then I say, “that’s too bad. If you give up you will never find the answer.” You see, in their experience, giving up was a way of getting the answer. I don’t play that game, but I will reward mental exertion. After posing a riddle I can go days without giving a solution. It drives them crazy at first, but then it drives them to thought. I like that.

Part of the fun of a riddle is it’s syntax. “What gets wetter the more it dries?” The phrasing alone is provocative. Even if the answer were obvious, I would still respect the question. The mystery of solvency is a secondary–albeit more potent–source of pleasure. Once the secret to a riddle is revealed to the Eyos, they smile quietly. There is a satisfaction in watching reason pour its way through every crevice of their former puzzlement.

During a bus trip with the Eyos, I gave a few riddles. They loved it, and thus, tried to produce their own riddles. Just like a 14-year-old’s first attempt at a standard transmission, it didn’t go well. Here are some of the early submissions:

What slithers? What is white and falls from the sky? What restaurant starts with r and ends with Tuesday?

At first, I let them get away with saying that I got the answers because I am so smart, but after “riddle” #3, I was morally bound to explain that riddling isn’t just another kind of guessing game. An effective riddle has only one answer, and that the descriptions are cryptic, making the answer difficult to find.

At this point, most students returned to their games of rock, paper, scissors. But not “Jacques.” He processed the instruction for a bit, then came out with “What’s bigger than a house?” I said the name of a dinosaur, and he was pleased to have finally “stumped” me. “Nope, it was an airplane.”

“No. A brontosaurus IS bigger than a house too. Your riddle did not require me to select ‘house’ as my answer.”

“Jacques” thought a little bit longer, then came back with “okay, what is smaller than a house but bigger than a piece of dust?” Rather than guess, I showed “Jacques” how that riddle also failed. He tried to impress me with his answer. I wasn’t impressed. This was disappointing to him. Sad, no doubt, but I didn’t want to reward shoddy work; “Jacques” was capable of better. I showed him a few elements of riddles and sent him on his way. We were both satisfied.

Jacques tell me riddles every now and then. They are good. Oh, did I mention that “Jacques” is pulled out of class every day for 30 minutes to get his English as a Second Language lessons? He gets pulled during our creative writing lessons because we don’t want to leave him behind.

I have found that learning more abstract concepts takes a few days to process. Students can tell me definitions, but the true meaning of those definitions isn’t realized until those application moments that teachers pray for. My simile application moment came during the the daily ritual of smacking around two of my students.

We have a class rule against violence, but there is one exception: the Paper Passers. I have two paper passers that…well…pass out papers. The spoonful of sugar that helps this medicine is the paper passers’ request for a beating. I goes something like this. Mr. Bushman: Paper Passers? Paper Passers: Yes, sir? Mr. Bushman: Come forward. [The paper passers walk to the front of the room. Mr. Bushman looks at paper passer #1 in the face.] Paper Passer #1: Hard. [Mr. Bushman takes half of the papers and hits him/her over the head, then looks to the now-chuckling paper passer #2.] Paper Passer #2: Hard. [Smack. More giggling.]

For the first few weeks, there are three choices. Hard, medium, and soft. As the year goes on, hard becomes very hard, then very, very hard, then super-duper hard. And so on. I am still amazed when little “Florence” asks for a hard smacking. “Florence” can’t project her voice from the third row to my ears. She is extremely shy and does her best to not be noticed for anything–except when she is paper passer. When she is paper passer, her face gets really red, but she still walks to the front of the room, removes whatever hair appliances are making her look so very cute, clutches her eyes closed, then says “Hard.” She doesn’t laugh, but her smile informs me that she won’t be shy forever.

“Jacque” is the kid who is always looking for the boundaries. I like him for this reason. One day, he pulled a fast one. I looked into Paper Passer #1′s face and she said “Very, very, very, VERY, very, very…” and was interrupted by a smack over the head. She joined the class in a hearty chortle. “Jacque” liked his, and so began into his string of verys. I gave Jacque his smack on the head, then he looked up at me and said through his grin “soft.” The class erupted into a chorus of gleeful ohs. As I said, we have a rule against violence, and the only reason I get away with the paper passer beatings is that they ask for it. If a paper passer doesn’t give a request, I just hand him/her the papers and it is over. For “Jacque” to ask for very soft and to get very hard–although it was his full intention–was a violation of our agreement. I took a moment to apologize to “Jacque” and ask for his forgiveness. I put out the idea that I was afraid I might make this mistake again, and so verbally considered abandoning the beatings. This was booed down out of hand. “Jacque” won and so did I.

Then on one fateful day, “Janice” was my paper passer. She got to the front of the room and said “Soft as a feather.” My face lit up. “Did you hear that everyone? Janice just used an excellent simile. Say it again Janice.” Sheepishly, but proudly, Janice repeated her simile and the students gave the obligitory shout out (w00t, w00t). She handed out the paper and we did out math. But now, the precedent was set.

My paper passers continued to say “soft as a feather” for a few times, but it didn’t take long to discover that the value of a metaphor was its novelty. This is when similes were actually understood. They’ve come up with dozens. As hard as a rock, as soft as falling snow, as hard as Arnold (Schwarzenegger–their phonics teacher), as soft as a hair. Time passed and “Jacque” was a paper passer again. He marched up to the front and spoke with the confidence of a saved evangelical:

As medium as a bull!

I still catch myself putting on sandals whenever I leave my room. When you live in an automobile, it is good to keep a pair of sandals handy so that leaving the “house” to use the bathroom doesn’t require putting on socks, lacing up shoes, and then repeating the process in reverse a few seconds later. Since the “house” is just one room, it becomes a habit; when I leave the room, I put on sandals. Now that I live in a house, I walk across the room to put on sandals just to go to the bathroom. I have to verbally remind myself, “No, you don’t need sandals just to go next door.” I tell myself, but I still won’t listen.

I remember the giddiness I felt when I first put on a pair of pajamas. I removed one pair of clothing and put on another pair that was designed just for sleeping. Wow. Sleeping clothes! Not only that, but I could both remain standing AND have privacy while doing so. Before it was a choice: either I would change clothes while inside a sleeping bag or I would stand up and wait for no cars to be driving by. And sleeping in a sleeping bag fully clothed gives a new level of meaning to the term frumpy.

One activity that I enjoyed while homeless was the listening of audiobooks. The library has no short supply of them, so I would spend many night getting a bedtime story from Jeffrey Devers, David Sedaris, or some no-name up-and-coming. It was great. When I became homed again, I found “Life of Pi” on my computer hard drive. I was so excited to listen to it again. I spent a few minutes trying to decide if I should put it on CD or copy it onto an MP3 player. The former would be more convenient later, but then I would have a stack of CD to carry around until…wait a minute. I had to shake myself. Why not just listen to it? Go ahead, just play it. I double-clicked on the first chapter and sat back to listen. I had forgotten that I could have recreation time in a place that didn’t have a steering wheel.

Then there was the day that I went clothes shopping. I wanted to make a good impression on the parents of my first crop of students. I knew that I would need some respectable clothes. Earlier that month, I had been putting the finishing touches on a play that I had been working on. I was volunteering at a homeless shelter. I had been working with several homeless children at a summer school program, but since the program shut down, these kids had no where to go. I decided to put on a play and use these homeless children as the cast and crew. One step to putting on the play was getting costumes. I had made an arrangement with Deseret Industries to have black T-shirts and denim pants given to every child that didn’t already own such. I felt like Santa Claus on the day that I delivered them. There were slim pickins at D.I. when I went there, so a few of the boys had to were girls’ shirts. They didn’t care. They were so grateful to have a real costume. And then there was me. I went into a mall and purchased $200 worth of clothes in 30 minutes. When I got out to my car I felt sick inside. Why do I get so much? I called my brother right away and he talked me through some cognitive re-framing exercises to mitigate my guilt. That was over a year ago. I haven’t purchased jeans from a mall since.

Yes, coming back was difficult. I still find myself choking on the excess and gluttony with which I am surrounded and involved. Life is simpler without. Sometimes I wonder how much I have reverted back into apathy. But a few days ago, I got home from work after a long day to discover that the power had gone out in my part of the city. Life wasn’t much different that night from any other night. When the power came back on, I didn’t change what I was doing. I didn’t catch myself saying “Finally!” or “Thank goodness!” Instead, it just happened.

To me, that was evidence that you can put a boy in a house, but you can’t make him homed.

As I child, I would lay in bed and put my full concentration into turning off the lights with the power of positive thinking. Minute after minute of scrunching up my face and trying to will the lights off resulted in nothing but disappointment. How do the Jedi do it?

Now that I am an adult, I am surrounded by devices that dry the eyes of the disappointed child. I still get excited when I activate an automatic grocery store door opener. The paper towel dispensers at my school operate only after waving my hand in front of them. So, of course, I wave my hand as if I were using a Jedi mind-trick to overpower the dispenser–the force of my will demands that paper products be provided. Auto-sinks, hand-dryers, and motion sensors all give me a sense of childhood delight. I allow myself to believe that there is something about ME that makes these devices work. If you watch me closely, you will probably notice some subtle body language to support this claim. Watch my eyebrows and the pacing of my strides. Those are the biggest giveaways.

I wish I could say that it is embarrassing to admit, but it isn’t. I don’t mind being a Jedi.

I know it is a good day when I find a sandwich waiting for me in my classroom closet.

This sandwich inaugurates me into a new class of citizenship.  I am now a long term, moderately aggressive investor who considers domestic and global mutual funds which are diversified and rebalanced annually.  I know it’s true because the guy who left me the sandwich said so.

So there.

The van was parked outside of the end of semester Utah State University “yard sale.” The University sells a bunch of stuff that it isn’t going to use anymore, so I like to stop in and see what cool stuff they’ve got. (Incidentally, I spent seventy-five cents on used office supplies.)

I looked at the sticker on the windshield of the van. $250; sold as-is. Awesome. I looked in through the window of the full sized van. There were two bucket seats in the front, a center bench, and the rest was open space. That’s when I felt The Itch.

I just finished having a conversation with friend of mine about a Christmas dilemma that I am facing. I don’t want stuff for Christmas this year, but I don’t know how to explain that to my family. If I say “please don’t get me anything,” they still will. The problem is, they will be left to their own imaginations to find out what I want. They will buy me something for my personal life or my classroom, neither of which will be very valuable to me. I have what I need. Most anything else would just get in the way. On the other hand, if I tell them, “I don’t want anything, but if you MUST get me something, please get me this and this and that”, then they will listen more to the second part and not the first. What’s a brother to do?

So, here I sit in my eerily bare bedroom, typing this message. My room is WAY to big for me. I don’t have enough stuff to fill up a room. If only my landlord would let me rent out the closet like I offered, he could make more money, and I could have a more appropriately sized living quarters. All I really need is an area about the size of the back of a van.

I’ve been homed (home-ed) now for four months now. It’s terribly boring. So when I see a “mobile home” on sale for $250, my mind starts racing. I pay more than $250 for rent. I could convert one month of rent money into a home that would last for a year at least. I have a nice enough car that I could just park the van wherever I liked and live there at nights. I have plenty of connections. I could park it in Paradise (the city, and the state of being) by Georgianne’s place. I could park it at Rich’s farm. I could park it on Pat’s property. I wouldn’t even need to register it and use it as a van. It would be a tent that would be weather sealed against the rain and snow. Awesome.

One of the big reasons I bought my convertible was to discourage me from living out of my car again. In all, I have lived in a Lincoln Towncar, a Mazda 626, a Pontiac Trans Sport, and a Chevy Blazer. It is just too easy to be homeless. I had to find something that couldn’t protect me from a Logan winter. I thought the convertible would protect me from The Itch. I was wrong.

I got huge paycheck this month, and I have a Christmas bonus on it’s way, so buying the van wouldn’t affect my budget. I could keep the room I rent and STILL be a homeless guy. You know, just on weekends and holidays. I could have an easy place to shower on Sunday, but still have the simplicity of homelessness. This way, I could be “in the home” but not “of the home.” I could honestly tell people that I am not homeless, but I could still live the homeless way.

I know that I shouldn’t think about it. But every now and then, I just feel The Itch–a call from the other side of the hill, reminding me how green I feel when I am homeless.

Maybe I should go camping this weekend.