And you and I

You guys are just going to have to wait awhile for a real post; I'm simply way too busy to be entertaining you.

Chris Paul from the University of Wake Forest. I'm so proud I could cry happy little tears of joy, except that he's going to the blackhole of NBA franchises, so we may never hear from him again.

One year ago from today. I mean yesterday. One year ago from yesterday.

I remember the first time I met Andy, a greenhorn newsy from the South side of Chicago, a kid down on his luck, someone with few friends and a chip on his shoulder for the hand life had dealt him. He wore a pink shirt and a smudge of dirt upon his face, the mark of a rough-and-tumble life on the streets. It must have been pretty intimidating, what with me being the towering giant of aplomb, the Adonis of cool that I was (and am, if this blog didn't make that clear), but his stout little heart never faultered as he approached me and chanced an introduction. I told him to take off the giant sombrero and we'd talk.

Heeding my advice, our first meeting was marked with deep discussion. We spoke of life, love, and ping-pong before hazarding a stab at politics.

We bonded instantly.

He soon became one of my best friends--even through my quirky Dead Poet's Society phase, where I'd wear long, woollen overcoats and scarves deep into the summer months as we took long walks in the evenings across campus with some of Louis Hall's less-than savory characters--my roommate of 3 years, and a constant companion through college and beyond.

Then the bastard snubbed me for bestman.

Megs and I share the odd distinction of having emerged from the same uterus, so that's how I know her.

Megan and Andy: Congratulations on one year with no divorces. Love could not have found two more deserving people, unless of course one of those people was me. And probably the other person would have to be someone else too, because otherwise that would be gross. And while you have succeeded in finding each other, you've failed dismally at finding someone for me. Until such time, this present will have to do: happy anniversary.

Being a Christian school, we are required to give short, sometimes inspiring speeches about once a month. I gave my first a few weeks ago (I'm late, I know, but I had other more pressing matters to muse). Usually they're preceded by the reading of a Bible verse that says something like God loves you and then you precede to create some simplistic analogy about this time when you were really scared of the dark and your mom turned on the lights, and that's just like God turning on the lights in your heart or something inane like that. I didn't want to do that. I decided I'd play it a little differently, literally as you'll see. I chose a verse from Ecclesiastes:

I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God. (Ecclesiastes 3.13)

I like Soloman's writings; they're poetic, but more than the beauty, there's just something very human about them, he gets scared, depressed, loves, hates; he even questions God--says we can never be certain of anything in life or death. I like it because I think we all feel like that, and often many of the other writers of the Bible seem sort of out of reach, and too sacrosanct to be human (I'm reminded of a quote from one of my favorite movies, Amadeus: Come on now, be honest. Which one of you wouldn't rather listen to his hairdresser than Hercules? Or Horatius, or Orpheus...people so lofty they sound as if they shit marble!).

I chose a slightly out of character topic (out of character for these speeches) in "the meaning of life", and decided I would play it a little differently. And by that I mean I would actually play it. On a cello. With my penis. Wrapped in bubble-wrap. (Not my penis, of couse; I coated it in resin to give it that wonderful vibrant quality that cellists are always able to produce.) I decided I would turn this into a performance-art piece, stretch the known limits of speech giving, and redefine art.

*I climb the stage; assistant follows with my cello. I add additional resin and test the tuning. Good.*

What is the meaning of life? *Low, sforzando G*

Indeed man has been searching for the answer to this question since the very dawn of his age.

*rising series of 4ths and 5ths representing man's accendance from ape to modern day human*

What do all our efforts amount to? At the end of our days, will our lives and accomplishments hold any more meaning than that of a mere blade of grass, or than the life of a water droplet from river to sea?

*arpegiated 7th chords that represent the river; a flute trill backstage represents the wind against the grass*

There is truly nothing new under the sun: what is has been and will be again. This is a most disturbing thought: there is nothing permanent in our lives and actions; we hold almost no significance in the whole of the cosmos.

*I take a dump onstage. I don't know what this represents*

Where then do we find meaning?

*Some trippy, multicolored fractals are flashed on the screen above me. A Richard Grieco bobble-head appears on-screen offering sound financial advice.*

Perhaps it is not ours to worry about greater meaning, *knock twice on cello* after all, what could we possibly know about such a mammoth *"mammoth" is sung in falcetto with a playful, operatic voice* undertaking as the creation of the world? Life is too great a concept for us to comprehend its meaning.

*signal the sound of a car crashing and I outline a c-scale while letting my tongue flap against my upper lip, making a jocular, trilling sound.*

And yet here we are in life, *the "here we are in life" is sung to the theme of Close Encounters of the Third Kind* trekking through all its ups and downs, *slide penis up and then back down strings* its hills and valleys *pop two bubbles for "hills" and "valleys"* with no real insight into the purpose behind its creation; what more can a man do but enjoy the passage of time?

*I roll around on the floor, letting bubbles pop while I sing the theme to Schuberts Trout Quintet*

If life is short, then we must make the most of it and enjoy each fleeting moment because it is fleeting.

*pop one bubble for brevity*

This is especially important to remember during those valleys of life, those lowest and most hectic of times. *sacrifice small goat* It is during these times in life, *"these times" is sung in a barber shop style, building a major-minor 7th chord* the times we’re feeling overwhelmed with work and stress, that we not forget to live.

*slap penis repetedly against side of cello while chanting "don't forget to live"*

So, as you prepare for testing this next week and as the work and stress become greater and greater, *again flash the multi-colored fractals on screen above, but this time they're spinning, and have a trance-like quality; Richard Grieco is off somewhere being a has-been* during these times don't forget to live, and to live fully, and may God be praised as you do.

*"and may God be praised as you do" is spoken in a robotic fashion as I arch my back and make sweeping motions with my arms and legs in an interpretive dance. I sit back down and play another sforzando G to bring us full circle.*

*lights are cut and fade to black as I whisper:* Amen.

They asked me to co-teach a music class and shortly thereafer co-advise the chorus club here. This was all well and good until I asked the head of the music department when their practices were held. He informed me that they meet three times a day--one hour before school, during lunch hour, and an hour after school. He asked me to attend all. I told him to go f*&k himself (censored for family; I really did tell him to go f&^k himself) and said I could come to one practice a week. I've tried to keep my end here, going one hour a week to plunk our parts on the piano and helping to direct. I think the guy was encouraged and asked if I'd be advisor to the hand-bell club as well. I said no.

A few weeks ago I was told that the director had other obligations at graduation, and would I mind conducting the choir next graduation. I said I would love to, as I've nearly a year's notice. This past week the guy asked if I would permantly take over conducting the chorus. I said I knew how to conduct, but had no real experience. I also said I didn't have time. He tried again with the hand-bells. Again, no. We'd have a meeting, he said, soon with the other co-advisor to discuss who would conduct hand-bell and chorus permantly. I told him I thought that was his job.

The guy's all but handed me the reins of the music department--something I would have relished 6 months ago--but I simply haven't the time to do this, not while I'm teaching English as well. The guy's really weird too--he stutters and speaks super fast like he's on speed or something--and the kids respect me much more than he. Could be because of his speed habit.

Anyway, sorry I haven't blogged recently. I've been absolutely swamped trying to find excuses to become less involved in the music program and reasons why I can't take over the director's job.

Also, sorry this post was boring.

I accidentally punched in an extra zero, taking out 300,000 yen (around 3,000 dollars) intead of 30,000 (300 dollars). Now my wallet won't close.

Well, the date with the Australian beauty was a bit of a bust, much like the "beauty" moniker I attached to her nationality. And it was that that ended up being the deciding factor. I told everyone that I knew very little about her--her beliefs, politics, feelings on minorities, etc. What I discovered was that we differed on just about everything--she wasn't at all religious, was a lib, and was generally friendly toward minorities. But I'd certainly be amiss if I said that would have stopped me from making whoopy if I found her attractive. But I didn't.

But life goes on, and at least I'm back in the game.

And...

I've found myself a new target. I don't remember her name. Maybe Mai? Not sure, but she's Japanese, and a damn cute one at that. She's a student-teacher here, a senior at the neighboring college, which creates a few problems I'll touch on in a bit. As a full-time employee of this school, I am required from time to time to watch and critique student-teachers' classes, sort-of observe them in their natural habitat. The following is a transcript of my notes from one such observation.

I have no idea what to write, but this girl is gorgeous. I wish she'd quit tossling her hair, or keep doing it, I can't decide.

I know I'm supposed to write criticisms or something, but I'm not a teacher, or not a real one at least. I have no training and generally have no idea what I'm doing in front of my students. Not that I could recognize teaching talent if it took a dump on my head and then slowly gnawed my arm off, transmitting fecal bacteria into the wound and causing the slow, painful process of gangrenization (is that a word?) BUT, she's got twice the experience that I do and twice the training, so I'm assuming she's probably twice the teacher, thus raising the question of how do I criticize a superior? Plus, she's got a nice rack.

Whoa, just blanked out there for a bit; images of a tryst in the utility closet.

I can't tell, but I think she keeps staring at me. I hear she has a boyfriend--some loser with erectile dysfunction, no doubt. I think I'll have to play my gaijin card on this one. Punk, consider yourself