Snow Days Must Live!!

Think back to when you were 8 years old and the local weatherman would deliver the following message:

“We’ve got a big snowfall on the way, folks. I mean, we’re talking somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 to 16 inches of snow in the next 18 hours. Expect dangerous driving conditions and severe traffic. All in all, it’s probably best for you and your family to just stay inside.”

That message, to a child who has school the next day, was pure gold. It, along with the bountiful snow flurries falling outside their window, signaled the overwhelming likelihood that school would be closed. It signaled…a snow day.

Snow days aren’t fun. Or cool. Or nice. No. Those words are insufficient. Snow days are magical. The confluence of conditions that comprise a classic snow day are uniquely special. 

First, there is the sudden, out-of-nowhere cancellation of something every child is happy to miss, at least for one day: school. There’s no classes, no lectures, no reprimands, and no homework. It’s a complete reprieve from responsibility. 

Second, there’s the possibility which a snow day brings. The classic “winter wonderland” conditions we all hope for around Christmastime are, in fact, a relatively rare occurrence in most places. It’s unusual for a child to have their pick of sledding, ice skating, building a snowman, or having a snowball fight. A snow day provides that. Conversely, for those who want to stay indoors, the surfeit of snow outside enhances and amplifies the loveliness of being inside. Reading a book, doing a puzzle, playing a video game, and drinking hot chocolate are all that much better when there’s snow heaped all over roads and roofs. 

Altogether, snow days encapsulate the wonder of childhood better than nearly any other situation or occurrence. They can create memories that last a lifetime.

Unfortunately, snow days are under threat, and if current trends persist, they may soon be a thing of the past.

Covid-19 has changed how the whole world works. We’re all sick of hearing about it, but it’s true. Insofar as education is concerned, remote learning became necessary for most students over the past couple of years. Zoom and other remote learning applications became central to the teaching and learning process, including at the middle school where I teach. Now, even as most students have migrated back to in-school learning, those remote learning applications are here to stay.

Two nights ago in Chicago, snow poured down from the sky in buckets. Flurries were everywhere, and I could almost hear the voice of that weatherman from my childhood telling me to stay nice and warm inside. And, actually, when morning the next day arrived, I was able to do just that. There was no need for me to go into school and teach. 

But there was one crucial difference. We did not have a snow day. No, instead, we had a remote learning day. A remote learning day is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a day when students continue to attend classes, listen to instruction, and complete assignments. They just do so via Zoom rather than in the building, just like they did when Covid-19 was keeping everyone inside all the time. 

To be clear, the desire to continue educating kids despite difficult weather conditions is not a bad thing. Learning is important, and wanting to provide students with the opportunity to learn is noble.

But in this case, it’s just the wrong call. Childhood doesn’t last very long, and students, once they become adults, will ultimately spend their whole lives sitting through meetings and completing assignments. And there will be no snow days to save them from that. Until then, while kids are still kids, snow days provide joyous life experiences that are worth far more than just another day of school. We must protect those experiences. 

Snow days must live!

Things You Hear in Middle School - Part Two

Here, presented with little to no context, are four conversations between me and my students since the beginning of the school year:

  1. While doing an activity in which students have to use the letters of their first name to describe themselves, a kid name Crafton approaches my desk…

    Crafton: “Mr. Bartlett, can A be for Arson?”

    Me: “No, Crafton, that’s not okay.”

    Crafton (disappointed): “Alright.”

    Comes back two minutes later

    Crafton: “Mr. Bartlett, can C be Could have committed arson?”

    Me: “No, Crafton! No arson at all.” You’re freakin’ me out.”
    Carter (very disappointed): “Aaaw, alright”

  2. Jill: “Mr. Bartlett, can I have the fire extinguisher.”

    Me: “Why do you want the fire extinguisher?”

    Jill: “ To decorate my room with!”

    Me: “Okay, first, fire extinguishers are for putting out fires, not for decoration. Second, why on earth would you want to use a fire extinguisher as “decoration”?

    Jill: “For a new style I’m inventing. I call it ‘danger chic!”

  3. The quiet of the room is broken by a child suddenly yelling: “Diabetes for sale! Diabetes for sale!”

    Me: “Hank, what are you doing?”

    Hank: <holds up bags of Craisins in both hands>: Mr. Bartlett, these Craisins have so much sugar in them. It’s wild. <addresses whole class again> Diabetes for sale! Diabetes for sale!”

    Me: “Hank, stop trying to sell people diabetes!”

  4. Me: Class, the internet is down. We do not have internet right now.
    Crafton: Oh, that’s just great. Now we’re all gonna’ get dysentery.

That’s all for now. There is a whole lot more stuff where that came from and I need to remember to write it down more often.

The Strange Feeling of Liking Terrible People (on Television)

Warning: Light spoilers for the TV show Mr. Robot follow.

Recently, in a fear-driven attempt to push the upcoming school year out of my mind, I have aggressively binge-watched the TV show Mr. Robot. Mr. Robot stars Rami Malek as Elliot, a brilliant but troubled computer hacker trying to take down the world’s most powerful corporation. Altogether, it’s a pretty great show. Gripping, well-written, funny, powerful.

And it has some terrific villains.

First, there’s Fernando Vera. Vera is a murderous, meth-addicted drug lord untroubled by killing members of his own family.

Fernando Vera…likable drug lord.

Fernando Vera…likable drug lord.

Then, there’s Phillip Price. Price is the head of E-Corp, the aforementioned evil company. He’s cold, power-hungry and ruthless. To him, people are less people than they are nails to be hammered down.

Phillip Price: Ruthless titan of industry…but honest!

Phillip Price: Ruthless titan of industry…but honest!

Finally, there’s Leon. Leon’s a hitman, and will kill anyone for the right price. At one point in the story, Leon stabs and murders five people in the span of about 30 seconds, and feels no guilt doing it.

Leon…the chillest hitman ever

Leon…the chillest hitman ever

These three awful people?

I’m a huge fan.

Vera might be a drug-addled narcissist, but he’s also insightful, perceptive and eloquent. He is able to read people and connect with them through a sort of weird, twisted empathy. He’s also willing to be vulnerable, and shares things about himself that would not be expected of a drug kingpin.

Price, meanwhile, sees most humans as disposable, as assets or liabilities to be discarded as the situation demands. But he is also forthright about his motivations and desires. When asked why E-Corp’s never-ending growth is all he seems to care about, he simply admits, “I must always be the most powerful man in the room.” He does not excuse or rationalize his own misdeeds. He knows he’s bad, accepts it, and carries on. There is something to appreciate about that.

And Leon? Sure, he might have no compunction about abducting, stabbing and shooting people…but he’s just so chill about it! He doesn’t get mad. He’s actually pretty friendly most of the time. If he didn’t have to kill you, he’d be rooting for you, hoping you have a great day. It’s just that he does have to kill you. So yeah.

Basically, all three of these characters are awful people, but they have appealing qualities. There are aspects of them worth admiring, which is why I’m a fan.

But it still feels weird.

And I’m not sure it’s okay.

I’m now nearing the series finale of Mr. Robot, and Vera has destroyed multiple people’s lives. Phillip Price has reacted to the deaths of thousands with little more than a shrug. Leon has murdered at least 10 people.

Such faults would seem to demand loathing. The level of villainy here is off the charts. These characters should be reviled. But I don’t hate any of these guys. Instead, I actually like them. Vera’s charisma, Price’s pragmatism and Leon’s geniality have nudged me toward their side.

Which makes me wonder what the hell is wrong with me? Am I really willing to overlook objectively monstrous behavior just because someone can turn a phrase or tell it like it is? It would seem so. And that’s concerning.

But I must also remind myself that I am probably not alone here. I imagine every single person reading this blog post has at some point found themselves watching a TV show or reading a book and realized that they really, really love the villain. It’s not an uncommon feeling.

But should we love the villain? Is that okay? For the time being, I am going to tell myself “yes.” It’s not a big deal. But when I really stop and think about it, the true answer probably isn’t so simple.





Why Is There a Social Aspect to Venmo?

venmo.png

My new favorite hobby is to scroll through complete strangers’ Venmo transactions and like them. I’ve liked ones that feature descriptions as benign as “Lawn care” and as salacious as “Girl, you don’t need him anymore!” In the past week I’ve probably done this fifty-or-so times.

I also enjoy liking payments my friends make, and for those ones, I’m even allowed to comment as well. My sister recently paid someone for babysitting. I thought that was pretty great, so I liked it and wrote, “Babysiitting…Classic Jenny!” I have no idea if my sister Jenny even noticed my comment, but that’s beside the point. I cackled with absolute glee after making my post, and that was enough.

Some people just like to watch the world burn.

Now, you might be thinking to yourself, “Why is Colin doing this? What is the point.” You might also be thinking, “Colin needs to find better hobbies and/or a purpose in life.” Both of those thoughts are entirely valid.

But I’m wondering something else, which is Why am I allowed to like or comment on anyone’s financial transactions in the first place?

As far as I can tell, there is no upside to this functionality. As a quick and convenient way for me to send and receive money with friends and family, Venmo is fantastic. It has absolutely improved my life. But as a social utility, it offers nothing. Which is why, in ironically hypocritical fashion, I long ago made all of my Venmo payments confidential. No one can like or comment on any transactions I make.

Because why the hell would I want that?

In a way, Venmo’s social features remind me of the Kardashians. Much like Kim and her family are famous for being famous, Venmo’s social aspects exist to exist. Both are useless.

Except, perhaps, in one way.

Fans of the Kardashian clan seem to follow them because of the drama and chaos that ensue. They are cheap entertainment.

In a similar vein, this is why, in my quarantine-induced inertia, I have settled into liking Venmo payments as a quick 5-minute diversion. I like strangers’ Venmo payments in the hope that, for even a moment, they will see my like and experience a micro-moment of panic. Who is this man? Why did he like this payment? Did he help with that lawn care??  Ever so briefly, anarchy is loosed, and I am amused.

This might be the best defense for Venmo’s social aspects to be present. As a chaos generator. Unfortunately, that’s a poor justification for something to exist.

I Don't Know What Music I Listen to Anymore

BOJACK DOESN’T KNOW, EITHER!!

BOJACK DOESN’T KNOW, EITHER!!

My brother-in-law recently asked me what music I was listening to these days, and I didn’t know how to respond. Eventually, I answered, “Whatever comes up on my Spotify Discover playlist.”  This answer felt both unhelpful and embarrassing.

There was a point in time when my family, if they wanted to find out about good new music, would come and ask me which bands or artists I was listening to. This felt good, both because people respected my taste in music, and because I had something to offer.

These days, I have no idea which musical artists I’m listening to, and no recommendations to give. I simply can’t connect any identifying labels with the sounds that come out of my speakers.

For this development, I blame Spotify, which is possibly my favorite piece of software ever created. When Spotify came out a decade or so ago, and ushered in a legal way of listening to whatever I wanted at no cost, it seemed too good to be true. But it wasn’t. To date, there are over 50 million songs on Spotify, and you can listen to all of them for free, with no restrictions. When I was 12 and Pearl Jam’s newest album, Vitalogy, came out, it cost me $20 and a long walk to the mall. When Pearl Jam’s latest album, Gigaton, was released in January 2020, it cost me zero dollars and three clicks of my mouse to listen to it the hour it came out. That is a quantum leap in value.

However, to this day, Vitalogy holds a very special place in my heart. I listened to that album repeatedly during the months following my purchase, memorizing every lyric and becoming instinctively aware of every swell of guitars and every crash of drums. I knew those songs inside and out, and loved them all the more for it.

If you asked me to name a single song off Gigaton, I couldn’t do it.

Now, some of this ignorance has nothing  to do with Spotify. I’m not as big a fan of Pearl Jam as I used to be. My life is busier and there are more demands on my time; I can no longer sit and listen to a music album over and over again.

But much of the reason I don’t know even a single lyric off Gigaton is attributable to Spotify, and the manner in which it has changed the way people consume music. When so much content is available all the time, there is a strong pull to avail yourself of it. Why would I listen to the same album relentlessly, when a hundred other new albums are a click away? And if an album has a dud or two in the middle (as Gigaton does), the lure of other options becomes that much stronger.

In reality, though, I don’t even go looking for new music anymore. Instead, I let it come to me.

The Discover Weekly playlist is a thing of beauty. Thirty songs delivered to me every week, curated according to the genres, bands, sounds, etc. that I already like. Most of the time, when I get this batch of songs every Monday, I like what I hear quite a bit. Sometimes, I’ll even save a few songs and add them to my main playlist. But in the last five years, after listening to the Discover Weekly playlist every week, I couldn’t name more than a few artists I have “discovered” by listening to music this way. My connection to the artist simply isn’t there. Instead, all I really care about is the sound I hear coming from my radio. Did I really like this beat? Was the guitar solo in that bridge exceptional? Did the singer’s voice hit a perfect note? Those are the elements that make me take notice, but the notice ends there. Rarely do I investigate who made the beat, who played the guitar, or who sang the beautiful note. I simply save the song and move on.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE???

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE???

Which means really this isn’t Spotify’s fault. It’s my own. Spoiled for choice, I have allowed my own musical curiosity to wither. Content to enjoy snatches of songs here and there, without further investigation, my musical literacy has dwindled, and I’m the one who suffers for it. I have no doubt amidst all those starred songs I have in my library sits a musical artist who could become one of my all-time favorites. Likely, there are many musicians out there who I could grow to love. But I don’t put in the work to love them. That takes time, and it takes sitting through the occasional dull song. I no longer seem to have the patience for that.

Unfortunately, this isn’t just my problem. It’s way worse for all the musicians out there, especially ones without a dedicated following. If you produce a great song and a bunch of people like it, but all they do is save it to their playlist and never bother to learn who made it, that’s not good. In fact, it’s pretty detrimental to furthering your music career. Plants need sunlight. Websites need traffic. And bands need fans. Without them, without any sort of acknowledgment that the music an artist creates is worthwhile, they’re liable to stop making music. Not all musicians, but some. And that’s bad for everyone.

I am going to try to be more mindful and intentional as I listen to music on Spotify. When I hear a song I really like, I’m not just going to save it and move on. I’m going to listen to at least a few other songs the artist has made, and if I like those, maybe I’ll listen to a whole lot more. Then that musician will have a new fan and I’ll have a new favorite artist.

But at the same time, you’ll have to tear the Discover Weekly playlist out of my cold, dead hands. Maybe I don’t know who I’m listening to 90% of the time, maybe when people ask me who I’m listening to I’ll have to answer, “beats me,” maybe I’ll be viewed by my family as a musical ignoramus. But sonically I’ve never been happier than I am today. Music I enjoy endlessly pours out of my speakers. And that’s not about to stop.

I Got Into a Fight Over Bed Blankets with a 6-Year-Old

Have you ever whisper-yelled, “No, it’s my blanket!” at a small child, and then grabbed a blanket away from him?

I have.

About a week ago, I went on a family trip to Door County, Wisconsin. It’s great up there. There’s a beautiful coastline, all sorts of aquatic activities to do, and tons of fun shops and restaurants.

Unfortunately, on this particular trip, the house we rented was smaller-than-expected. The main problem was that there just weren’t enough beds, leading to some unlikely bedmate combinations.

Enter Wyatt, my 6-year-old nephew.

Wyatt is a great kid. He’s sweet, fun and silly. He can also, at times, be a bit bossy and demanding, and doesn’t really like to hear the word “no.” When he has his mind set on something, redirecting his course is not easy.

When it came time to go bed on our second night in Wisconsin, it was decided that Wyatt and I should bunk together. This was fine with me. As his uncle, I was a sensible option.

Privately, though, I knew there could be trouble.

Things started off okay. We got into the pull-out bed and evenly draped the blue comforter over ourselves.

“Goodnight, Wyatt,” I said. “Sleep well, buddy.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Colin. I love you,” he responded.

“Love you, too, pal.”

For the next 2-to-3 hours, everything went well. We both dozed a peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.

But then, at about 1:30 am, things took a turn.

I’m not exactly sure what woke me, but suddenly I was conscious, and as I looked down at where the blanket was supposed to be, I saw no such thing. I was uncovered, vulnerable, exposed to the elements. Blanketless.

Meanwhile, Wyatt could barely even be seen under the mountain of blanket that lay atop him. The blanket-to-child ratio was probably 6-to-1. It was absurd!

This had to be rectified immediately. Fifty percent of that blanket (at least!) was rightfully mine, and I was determined to get it back.

At first, I took a genial approach, and tried to carefully repossess my portion of the blanket. But as I was pulling the cover back toward me, I heard a low-pitched grunt, like the sound a bull might make before it charges at a matador. Simultaneously, Wyatt’s grip on the blanket tightened, and his knees slammed shut around it like a vice. No more of the precious cover could be withdrawn.

“So,” I said to myself, “This is how it’s going to be.” The slow-and-gentle approach was not going to work. More drastic measures had to be taken.

I reached back to the edge of the covers and firmly gripped it in both my hands. With a moderately strong pull, I wrested a solid third of the blanket back into my possession. And one third of the blanket, honestly, was enough. I really just needed a small bit of fabric to cover me. That would suffice. And for about 10 seconds, it appeared the conflict was over. Wyatt and I could now fall back into slumber.

But it was not to be.

“Hey, that’s my blanket,” I heard from the voice next to me. “That’s my blanket.”

“No, Wyatt, It’s our blanket, pal. We need to share it.”

“Uncle Colin, it’s my blanket,” Wyatt intoned, the frustration rising in his voice.

“It is not your blanket,” I retorted, the frustration rising in my voice as well.

To this, though, Wyatt did not respond with words, but with actions. In one swift, aggressive lurch, 100% of the blankets were once again Wyatt’s. He had recaptured them.

“Okay,” I thought to myself. “Playtime is over.”

Reaching back over with by arms so I had one on each side of him, I grabbed the blankets as strongly as I could and wrenched them away. If Wyatt wanted a war, he was going to get one. And it was a war he couldn’t win.

Game. Set. Match. And all the goddamn blankets.

Uncle Colin: one. Wyatt: zero.

Except, of course, this wasn’t really a good outcome. After about half a second of pride, basking in my victory, a wave of shame, self-loathing and reproach came rolling in. Me, a 36-year-old man, had just aggressively stolen all the blankets from a small child, leaving him entirely uncovered in the middle of the night.

Wyatt didn’t feel good about things either. I could hear the heavy breathing; the beginning of a sob begin to emerge.

“Hey buddy, I’m sorry!” I said, throwing most of the blanket back over him. “I shouldn’t have done that. I was just a bit frustrated, because I need some blanket, too. Neither one of us can have all of it.”

The breathing stopped. There was a pause.

“Okay, can we share the blanket?”

“Yes, buddy, we can absolutely share the blanket.”

“Okay, let’s share the blanket.”

And we did. And it was beautiful.

Until the morning, when I woke up to having not one goddamn inch of that blanket on top of me.

Wyatt, meanwhile, was still sleeping like an angel, the comforter piled over him in about seven layers.

Uncle Colin: zero. Wyatt: one.

YouTube: Where Expertise Goes to Die

Lately, I’ve been having some pain around the outer part of my right knee. I’ve experienced this pain before, and know it involves my IT band, a piece of connective tissue that runs along the leg.

Naturally, in looking for a solution to this pain, I went to YouTube. Unfortunately, this is what I was met with:

Probably about 1% of the total results

Probably about 1% of the total results

That screenshot actually only encompasses a small fraction of the hits I got off my “fix IT band pain” search. The immediate deluge of information was overwhelming. Moreover, as I attempted to filter through it all, it became evident that many of the videos offered conflicting information. Here are some of the video titles I encountered:

“Foam Rolling Your IT Band”

“Fix Your Lateral Knee Pain with a Foam Roller”

“Permanent Fix for IT Band Pain (NO FOAM ROLLING)”

“The Three Best Stretches for Foam Rolling”

“FIX IT Band Syndrome (No Foam Rolling or Stretching)”

In the space of five videos, I am being told to:

  • Foam roll my IT band

  • Not foam roll my IT band

  • Stretch my IT band

  • Not stretch my IT band

Additionally, many of these videos are extremely alarmist in just how bad it could be to foam roll your IT band. Or, they’re extremely adamant that I definitely foam roll my IT band everyday.

In the end, do you know what I did to my IT band?

I’ll bet you can guess.

Not a damn thing. I mean, I looked at it for awhile. I gently stroked it while grimacing. I experienced anxiety over the pain, and then much more anxiety over the myriad conflicting ways I was instructed to alleviate the pain. But ultimately, in terms of actionable steps, I did nothing.

My experience here is just a microcosm of a much larger problem: YouTube is where true expertise goes to die. The openness of the platform means there is essentially no barrier to entry. Hell, right now, if I wanted to, I could film myself slathering mayonnaise all over the outside of my knee, throw it up on Youtube, and title it, “MAYONNAISE: THE REAL IT BAND SOLUTION,” and it would just sit there. Nothing would happen to it. There’s so many damn people on YouTube, and such an enormous amount of content, that the quality assurance team YouTube has no effective way of policing which videos are worthwhile, and which are misleading drek.

These intractable, systemic problems inherent to YouTube’s essential function aren’t the only thing leading to a lack of confidence in what’s true and what isn’t on YouTube, though. For years, if not decades, American faith in expertise has itself been on the decline. Many people seem to recoil at someone even labeling themselves an “expert,” even if that person has a PhD. in their field of study (which is about as literal an embodiment of expertise you’re going to find). This has opened the door for just about anyone to say, “Sure, I know how to do that,” and have a bunch of gullible people believe them.

Is this devaluing of expert knowledge solvable, especially in a massive content farm like YouTube? On a large-scale, I’m not sure. It seems like this country is very poor at coming together to fix macro-level problems these days.

But on an individual level, yes, we can deal with the questionable legitimacy of many YouTube videos.

Remember my IT band pain? Well, ultimately, I revisited all those videos and eventually found one made by a medical doctor:

Hey look! An actual expert!

Hey look! An actual expert!


After looking at Dr. Courtney’s video, I had faith that her recommendations (“yes” to foam rolling) were trustworthy. I then looked up a licensed physical therapist’s videos of foam-rolling exercises. After doing these for a couple of days, it’s hard to say if my IT band feels much better. but I’m positive it doesn’t feel worse and have faith it will improve over time.

It appears the onus is now on us to ferret out what is true and what is false, especially on YouTube. This is somewhat of a drag, but it’s also well worth it.

The Enduring Deliciousness of Campbell's Chunky Clam Chowder

Mmm.

Mmm.

When I was in high school, I once ate over 100 cans of Campbell’s Chunky Clam Chowder in a single year. About every third day, I’d grab a can, pour it into a microwave-safe bowl, toss it in the microwave for three minutes, and chow down.

Why did I eat so much Campbell’s Chunky Clam Chowder? Because it was really delicious. The creamy broth, moist potatoes, and ample helping of clams never failed to hit the spot.

Eventually, though, after consuming an excessive amount of this soup over a period of 3 or 4 years, we parted ways. I had abused the soup; abused its deliciousness. There can be too much of a good thing, and I learned this the hard way with Campbell’s Chunky Clam Chowder. The viscosity of the broth became overbearing; the amount of potatoes oppressive. I pushed it away and said, “No, thank you.”

But years later (the lost years, one might say), Campbell’s Chunky Clam Chowder and I reconciled. With age has come wisdom, and I know now that the best things in life need to be enjoyed in moderation. Around age 33, I welcomed the exquisite soup back into my life, and we have lived in harmony ever since.

Sometimes, after an especially hard day, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. What will comfort me? What will make me say to myself, “Y’know what, Colin? It’s gonna’ be okay.”

And then I open up my kitchen cabinet, and I see that clam chowder sitting there. My old friend.

And I know everything is going to be alright.

The Dangerous Allure of Mid-Afternoon Coffee

“I’m so delicious, mwahaha”

“I’m so delicious, mwahaha”

2:00pm. That’s when the thoughts start to creep in.

“Hmm. I’m starting to feel a bit tired.”

“Y’know, just a little more energy would help me power through the rest of this day.”

“I mean, just a small cup of coffee will do the trick.”

And that’s usually all it takes; all I need to hear to break open those grounds and brew another cup.

Such is the dangerous allure of mid-afternoon coffee.

Of course, come 11:00pm, when I’m still somehow wired from a 12oz mug of coffee, I will regret having made and consumed more caffeine. I will tell myself, “Idiot! Now you can’t go to sleep.” And the next night, when I will once again have made a mid-afternoon serving of coffee, I will admonish myself more. And the next night, I’ll do it again.

The problem is that this desire for an afternoon energy jolt stems from a good place. I want to be productive. I want to be responsible. I want to accomplish things and grow as an individual, and coffee will surely help me do this.

Except oftentimes it doesn’t. Instead, I’ll spend the majority of the rest of the day loping from one activity to the next, some ostensibly worthwhile, others manifestly not. Most of these tasks will go incomplete, or barely even begin.

The reason for this is that at 2:00pm I don’t, in fact, lack energy.

What I lack is purpose.

In the first half of the day, I generally do a good job of taking care of my errands and tasks. I’m a pretty responsible human. But by the early afternoon I’m usually not sure what to do with myself. I lack direction. This leads to too much leisure time. Reading a book, playing a video game, watching Netflix: these are my fallbacks.

But when I do these for too many days in a row I start to feel pretty lousy. “I need to be more productive!” I tell myself.

And what stems from productivity, in my mind? Coffee!

But that’s a lie.

I don’t need coffee.

I need purpose.

That’s what we all need if we want to become our best selves.

Things You Hear in Middle School

Middle School.png

Here, presented without context, are 5 things that were said by my students (or me) during the course of the last school year:

  1. Jimmy: “If you don’t stop doing that I’ll barf on you.”

    Travis: “Well then I’ll just barf on you back!”

    Jimmy: “I’ll barf on you again!”

    Travis: “I’ll barf on you again!!”

    Me: “No one is gonna’ barf on anyone. Understood!?”

    Jimmy and Travis: “Fine.” (grudgingly)

  2. Tiffany: “Mr. Bartlett, I thought of a great idea for a class project!”

    Me: “Cool. What’s that, Tiffany?”

    Tiffany: “Work together to burn the school down!”

  3. Me: <observes child tightly wrapping string around finger>

    Me: “Javy, stop cutting off circulation to your own finger.”

    Javy: “Awww.” (very disappointed)

  4. Zack: “Luciano Pavarotti is trash.”

    Me: “Zack, do you even know who Luciano Pavarotti is?”

    Zack: “No. But he’s definitely trash.”

    Me: <annoyed>

  5. Me: “Hugging is a privilege, not a right!” (loudly, to the entire class)

So there ya’ go. Five gems right there. Honestly, so much more great stuff than this was said, but I didn’t write it down. Next year I’ll do better.

Note: All names have been changed to protect the (not) innocent.

Some Haiku

I wrote some haiku. I believe it is probably the best and most profound haiku ever written. Here it is:

Apple Core.jpg

Desiccated corpse

Bright red apple it once was

Now: a lifeless husk

 
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Little swords of hair

Shoot out through my neck like knives

“That shit hurts!” I yell

 
boring work meeting.jpg

Here at this meeting

The projector stopped working

And I have no snack

 
mushy pasta.jpg

My precious pasta

I have cooked it for too long

Now it is mushy

 
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My colleague Laura

Said there was candy downstairs

She is a liar

How to Be John Wick

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For fans of the film series, John Wick needs no introduction. But if you are unfamiliar with the movies, here is all you really need to know about the famed assassin:

He is a man of...

...focus

...commitment

...and sheer fucking will.

He is...the Baba Yaga.

But I think it's time we dig a bit deeper into the legend of John Wick. It's time to take a dive inside the man, to get a feel for his psyche. What makes him who he is? What compels him to do the badass things he does? 

Furthermore, what must a person do to be John Wick? What traits, motivations and skills must they possess?

Without further delay, here are the five characteristics you must possess to be John Wick.

1. You must love your puppy very much

adorable puppy

adorable puppy

The first requirement for being John Wick is owning a puppy, and feeling intense love and adoration for it. You must look at the puppy meaningfully, and let it sleep on the bed with you. You must buy it kibble, and drive it around in your muscle car at a high rate of speed. Ideally, this puppy will have been gifted to you posthumously by your wife, who died of a terminal illness or something.

Even more importantly, though, if your puppy is harmed, you must execute no less than fifty Russian men who were really only tangentially related to the puppy being injured. You must do this ruthlessly and without hesitation. The culmination of the murderous revenge for your lost puppy should result in the death of your former employer, the head of the Russian mafia in New York City.

2. You must shoot people from no further than three feet away

Look, any highly-trained assassin can shoot people with a gun, but if you want to be John Wick, you need to shoot people with a gun from no farther than 36 inches away. That is how John Wick shoots people.

If you see your prey from across an extremely loud and crowded nightclub and draw a good bead on him with your Glock, or whatever pistol you have available, you must exercise self-discipline and abstain from pulling the trigger. Instead, you must navigate through a gauntlet of insignificant Russian lackeys, striking them with your fists while grunting, until you are within one solid arm's length of your original target. Then, and only then, can you shoot.

close shooting

close shooting

3. You must be good friends with Willem DaFoe, who is a highly-trained assassin

A lot of you probably think you could be John Wick by now, which is understandable. But you're not considering one of the cornerstones of being John Wick: Willem Dafoe, who is also a highly-trained assassin, must be your friend.

b-f-f sniper

b-f-f sniper

Taking it another step, Willem DaFoe must be an expert sniper, and he must conveniently show up on a rooftop near your location whenever you have been outmatched. 

He then must bail you out of trouble with a highly improbable, pinpoint-accurate shot from over 75 yards away. Twice.

This is no problem for Assassin Man Willem DaFoe.

4. At some point, you have to murder three people with a pencil

Look, there's no getting around this, and it's pretty grisly. If you want to be John Wick, at some point you have to murder three people with a pencil.

I suppose there are a number of different ways you could do this; we don't need to dive into the nitty-gritty of the whole task. Just be sure to have a durable pencil. Like, a really durable pencil. Maybe work on your hand strength, too. I feel like pencil-killing probably requires strong hands.

This is the point where a lot of people will back off trying to become John Wick. Owning a cute dog? Sure. Having Willem DaFoe as your BFF? Sounds great. But pencil-killing? That's gross. But maybe, just maybe, this last trait will reel you back in

Murder pencil

Murder pencil

5. You have to be Keanu Reeves

It's all been leading up to this moment. If you want to be John Wick, you actually have to be Keanu Reeves. And to be Keanu Reeves, you must do these things...

keanu winking at you

keanu winking at you

Wow! That's pretty impressive. Have you done all this stuff? I don't think I've done all this stuff.

[goes and checks]

No, I haven't done all this stuff.

But if you have, congrats. You're John Wick.

Bad Invention of the Day: Accordion Post-it Notes

At least once per day, I jot down a note on a post-it note, some critical detail or tip that will prove invaluable later on, and then I throw that post-it note in the trash. Why? Because I wrote the thing upside down, goddamit. Or, at least, kind of upside down. Here is an example of what I mean:

 
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DO YOU SEE THAT!? The sticky part, the part that adheres, is at the bottom, leaving the top half of the note to just sort of float and flutter about. That, my friends, is unacceptable. I mean, the aesthetics are just awful. How am I supposed to look at that? Moreover, it’s simply less functional. A post-it note is designed to be hung from the top. That is where the sticky part belongs. But the inventor of the accordion post-it note, soulless monster that he or she is, clearly didn’t care about that. No, they just thought it would be cute to have the sticky parts rotate on each and every sheet.

 
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THAT IS MADNESS! Sheer derangement. When I write out a post-it note, I write it on the pad, while the individual note is still affixed. Not before. Who does it before? Then you’d already be sticking it on something. Asinine behavior, that.

No, you do it before; then you pull it off the pad. But with an accordion post-it note pad, it’s nigh impossible to detect which side is up and which is down; which contains the glorious sticky goo and which does not. So, about 40% of the time, I write the note upside-down. Now, some of you might be thinking: “Colin, why don’t you just check which side can be pulled off before writing the note?” And to that I say: FOOLISH! Foolish and inefficient! I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to be checking for loose ends every time I want to write a note. I simply want to put ink to paper and get on with it. And you should, too!

So join me, friends. Do not fear your Evil Accordion Post-it Note Overlords any longer. No longer! We will rise up, we will round up the accordion post-it note pads, and burn them—-burn them in the flames of hell, from whence they came, and where they shall return. JOIN ME!!

 
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Who is Actually Going to Read This?

My mom. My mom will read this.

Starting a blog is an immediately humbling experience. There are hundred of thousands of blogs on the internet right now. Granted, a lot of those are dead, and many aren’t regularly updated, but still. Setting blogs aside, there are millions of websites on the internet; too many for any one person to read through.

So who on Earth, with the myriad options on the internet competing for their viewing pleasure, would decide to read this blog?

I have some ideas:

  1. My mom (previously mentioned)

  2. My sisters (thanks, sisters)

  3. My dad (maybe)

  4. My friends (one time)

  5. My acquaintances (maybe one time)

  6. Randoms (by accident)

  7. Me (obsessively, everyday, over and over again).

On first glance, that’s not very encouraging. But in truth, this blog isn’t for you, the reader (which is probably me…wait, what?). It’s for me, the writer. I’m here to write shit and put it on the internet, where anyone might come across it, and possibly write terrible things about it. Unless it’s done in a journal or diary, writing needs to be shared. That’s the point. Stephen King once said that writing was like a form of telepathy; a way for what’s in one person’s head to enter another’s. And that’s what I want to try to do here. Put what’s in my head into a space where it can enter someone else’s. Maybe what I write will entertain someone else, or resonate with them on a meaningful level. If that happens, terrific. And If it doesn’t, at least the attempt was made.