Back to School

Today is my first day of class. 

 One guy brought a baby.  She's six-months-old and cute and less noisy than some of the other non-trads.  Already there's that lady who talks too much about nothing.  She just finished her unsolicited oral dissertation on how her living in Boulder makes it difficult to get to class on time.  Sometimes when I eat too much cheese I can't poop.  But she's taking up all the class time so I may not be able to announce it.

Dr. Ying, who's real name is Yin, but it was translated incorrectly at Ellis Island and his wife is mad at him about that because now their kids are carrying out a family name that really isn't theirs,  is my professor.  This is my third class I've had with Ying.  I've taken a total of three at University of Colorado at Denver.  I have a 4.0 GPA.  Last semester we forewent our final presentations and he bought the twenty or so of us beer at Brooklyns. 

Most of that same group is back for more Ying.  Except Michael, who has discovered he can make more money selling condos than sitting in a circle discussing various theories of teaching ESL students English. 

It is remarkable how big boobs are getting.  I don't know what my problem is, maybe I was never properly weaned, but I can't help but repeatedly notice that the class is full of healthy bosoms.   The six-month-old and I might share notes about this phenomena.

Now the guy who thinks he's really smart and precedes words like 'pedagogical' with phrases like 'if you will'--when clearly we'd rather not--is sharing with us something of utmost importance.  I'm going to start spacing out now.  Only three hours to go.

Mom's Money

On Sunday I went to my high school alma mater's commencement ceremony.  This year 12 kids graduated from North Park High School.  I gave one of 17 scholarships. 

As I walked up to the podium I told myself to say one thing and only one thing and then give the award away.  All I wanted to do was thank the Ann's Fund committee.  

But once I come in contact with the cold steel of a microphone...I lose myself.   

Inaugural Ann's Fund Scholarship awarded

Memorial Day

Here's to Uncle Bruce and my brother Pete, to Jeff and Conrad and Brian Geer and all those men and women who went from their American farm to crawling through the mud in some place they couldn't pronounce.  Thank you Red, Galvin, Glen Miller, Elvis, Jim Murinko and the countless faces bronzed forever young in black and white snapshots.   Thank you.  I can be as cynical and sarcastic as I want.  I can recklessly spill a thousand heretical thoughts a day and get to live in a place with doors that lock from the inside.  I'll not take it for granted.

Mystery Novel

So last night my wife and I were busying ourselves being mesmerized by the pretty flickering of the television (I had no idea ER was still on.  It's so old that yesterday's episode featured a groundbreaking procedure called a 'lobotomy') when I noticed a book on one of our shelves.  I'd never seen it before.  The title on the binding is in a strange, kind of glowing font so I asked Sarah if she could read what it said.  Neither of us wanting to get up we tried to make out the lettering from ten feet away.   "Eeyore on a Leash?"  I asked.  Sarah took a stab..."Yes No Geisha!"  That wasn't it.  Finally I assembled myself from my lazy sprawl and got up to read the correct title, "Eyes on Elisha."  Much more boring than our speculation. 

But we have no idea where the novel came from.  More remarkable it seems to be a work that has defined an entirely new genre:  "Christian Suspense."  Really.  

"'Eyes of Elisha' grabs you from the start and doesn't let go.  Brandilyn Collins is a welcome addition to the Christian suspense genre," says James Scott Bell, winner of the Christy Award for suspense novelists.  

With that clue, the Christian thing, Sarah and I started to narrow down to whom the book might belong.  She has Christian relatives (who I've vowed to never again mention on my blog) and I have an aunt who's kind of born again and new agey.  But how would it end up so conspicuously placed above our television?  And why, if someone wanted to leave we heathens with an important religious message, would they not announce to us that they'd found a wonderful book we should read and they were going to squeeze it between our Star Wars pop-up book and Suze Orman's "The Money Book for the Young, Fabulous and Broke?"

As our own mystery began to unfold, we realized we needed Chelsea Adams.  Mrs. Adams can see things that most cannot and she may have had a vision of who put "Eyes on Elisa" on our shelf.

But who will believe her?  Certainly not the police, who must rely on hard evidence.  Nor her husband, who barely tolerates her newfound Christian faith.  Besides, he's about to hire the man who Chelsea is certain is the killer to be a vice president in his company!!!   Torn between what she knows and the burden of proof, Chelsea must follow God's leading and trust him for protection. 

Standing their with my wife, holding this mystery book in front of the tenth leading doctor since George Clooney, Sarah and I could only feel a chill.  A fear of the uncertain took hold, and we knew we were no longer alone.   

Maybe this is a sign of a bigger problem

But every time I roll up an extension cord I rack myself.  One of my 'guys' is more aggressive and protrudes out further then the other.  He always takes the hit.  It's not like I spend a lot of time rolling up cords in the nude but whenever I do, fully clothed and mostly aware, the little plug swings around and nails me.  Ice, please.

Diet Soda

This whole War on Drugs is overlooking one of the most addictive substances known to man.   Diet Soda.  I love it.  I  love it's cold, crispy bubbles, I love it's taste and I love that I can drink ten a day and not look like Jared before Subway.  I could be the Diet Soda Jared.  I haven't lost weight and I don't look any better but I my big pitch could be that I haven't gained weight and don't look much worse. 

I love it so much.  The cold can--Diet Pepsi's baby blue and Diet Coke's glistening silver--is just like fancy wrapping paper around that gift you've longed for since the last one ten minutes ago.  

Everytime I lift the ambrosia to my lips I see that one ingredient in red letters.  CONTAINS PHENYLALANINE.  Red is usually a color of warning, or STOP!  But I don't. 

If I knew there might be Diet Soda in your blood I'd bite your neck.  

 
However, after reading this article, a picture of this week's recycling shows I'm living well and staying away from the Diet Soda.   

You Knew This Would Happen

President Enters Debate over Fate of Racehorse

Russell Deraj
Roolb Press
Washington D.C.--President George W Bush has signed a law designed to force doctors to keep Barbaro, the racehorse that last Saturday millions saw limp out of Triple Crown contention with a shattered back ankle, alive.

After spending Sunday evening viewing Dakota Fanning and Kurt Russell in Dreamer: Inspired by a True Story, a teary-eyed Congress passed legislation later approved by the president in the early hours of Monday. 

In order to sign the historic legislation President Bush was forced to cancel a meeting with injured soldiers just returned from Iraq. 

The bill calls for a federal court to review the case of Seabiscuit, who legendarily came back from injury to capture America’s heart.

The debate over Barbaro rang reminiscent of the Terry Schiavo case.  Schiavo, the woman who became a centerpiece of national right-to-die debate, suffered a debilitating heart attack and lived in a vegetative state for fifteen years before being pulled from life support and dying in March of 2005. 

Senator Bill Frist (R, Tennessee) who, after watching a video tape of Schiavo, used his medical background to ascertain that she was showing signs of recovery, and then later used his political experience to deny he ever did, backed Bush on Barbaro.

“I saw the race on Saturday, and the horse looked like it was alive,” reported Dr. Frist. 

Veterinarians around the world signed a letter urging President Bush to consider equine physiology.  Highlights of the correspondence include that “a horses digestive and circulatory systems depends on the ability of the animal to stand for great lengths of time.”  It went on to say that “even if the leg heals a horse will often put too much pressure on the healthier limbs causing further medical problems.”

President Bush thanked the animal doctors for their concern but earlier today from the White House lawn shot back with some of his own advice.

“For too long we’ve relied on medical science for answers.  Now it’s prayer’s turn.  We can take this horse’s chances from 50/50 to 70/40, or better.” 

Barbaro’s father, Tricky One-Shot Rocket, and his mother, Rambling Man, offered whatever affection available to animals kept alive solely for breeding.

Vice President Dick Cheney initially offered to shoot the horse.  But after meeting in an undisclosed location with Focus on the Family’s James Dobson, Cheney retracted his plan to personally euthanize this year’s Kentucky Derby winner.

Meanwhile, crowds of people from both sides of the debate streamed to Barbaro’s new home, the University of Pennsylvania's New Bolton Centre for Large Animals.

With his face illuminated by the round-the-clock candlelight vigils, tears visibly streamed from popular horse racing bookie Roundhouse Jackson.

Amidst a flurry of sniffles he shared his regrets.  He said, “I just wish I'd put money on the favorite going out gimpy,” lamenting the big-money longshot of Barbaro’s early exit from the Preakness Stakes.