Stairs.
I once said that I’d know when I was getting old when I started taking stairs one-at-a-time. I’ve always hated stairs, they are always between me and my goal, even if that goal is simply the food court. My attitude in the past was that they were put there to slow me down and I wasn’t having it. So, I always took them two or sometimes three at a stride if I was feeling particularly spunky. I’m not sure when I started the one-step method, but it must have happened gradually since I never noticed. It could have been a year or two ago when I was at a high weight (fat) or possibly sooner. I DO know that in 2004 I was still charging up the stairs of the school in which I taught, which means it must have happened in the last eight years. On the bright side, I probably look much more dignified stepping casually as I ascend rather than throwing myself to the top, nowadays. I think it’s a shift in attitude more than anything else.
It’s both good and bad: Bad, because I’m not as enthused as I used to be and Good, because I’m not living my life as one, big emergency. My fear is that, deep down, I’m thinking that no matter what waits for me at the top, it’s not really worth all the effort to get there. That’s scary. Hell, that’s downright depressing. I’m hoping that the real reason is because I’ve become much more patient. Not entirely patient, mind you, but more so than I used to be.
Comics.
If you went back to 1989 and told me that there would come a day when I would no longer buy comics, I’d have laughed in your face. Three times in the last three months I’ve felt driven to walk into the local comic store here in Frederick. I went in, looked around, and left empty handed. Nothing, and I mean nothing piqued my interest. It has all been done, and I’ve seen most of it. Although I still feel excitement at the prospect of a mysterious wall-crawling rope-swinging high-flying crime fighter dispensing two-fisted justice on evil-doers, at this point in my life I’m well-read enough to feel disappointed at bad writing and frustrated at second-rate artwork. Very few storylines are truly original or have any kind of flair.
I used to be happiest when I had a stack of fresh comics and time to read. It wasn’t very long ago when I used to organize my bi-weekly stack like a feast, with certain comics clearing the palate for the next, and working from light, to dark, to funny, to fantastic, and on down through the pile. It was a hobby in which I invested time, effort, and lots of money. It hurts to say this, but now that same stack of comics is a chore. I’m sure that if I were twenty again I’d probably be buying into it with fervor, but not in my 40's. Well, to be honest, at age twenty, I never would have been able to afford them at today’s prices.
Here comes more old-man talk: $4.00 for a fucking comic book? I remember when comics were $.35! Granted, there’s inflation, but a comic, then, was the same price as a can of Coke. I can’t help but think that this is where it should have remained comparable. We pay about a buck for a bottle of Diet Pepsi, maybe $1.50 if we’re hard up on a hot day. I could even see paying $2.50 since I’ve collected comics through that price point and I was OK with it even when I had less money. But buying ten comics to while away a Sunday afternoon should not be a major investment.
I have thousands of comics gathering dust. I don’t need any more, and I can’t see spending serious money on something that is not going to hold its value nor my interest. My older comics may be worth something, maybe not, but they’re mine and I look forward to the day when I can spread them all out in a room and relive memories. I’m hoping that there will be someone there to record my enthusiasm, suddenly awakened from its chrysalis. Perhaps it will be my Mitsubishi Service Bot, having been programmed to pretend to give a shit about my rambling as well as change my Depends. If not, there’s always this blog, possibly. Lucky you. Hell, at this point, I should start pulling boxes home from the storage area and re-reading the old ones since there’s NO way I could remember the storylines of them all. (I got about seven thousand or so). Also, I’d never read them all again before I died. Ok, that’s probably an exaggeration but you get what I mean. Erica would probably object to stacks of musty newsprint cluttering up the house.
Question: did I change, or was it the industry? Am I just getting to be a codger, or did comics just get boring? Either way, this is the way it is. I still feel that pull, that old excitement drawing me in, every time I’m passing by the shop, so maybe it’s not me. Maybe this is the universal narrator telling me to start writing my own comics. Hmmm . . .
Teenagers.
My brother was applying for a job when he was eighteen and the owner/boss gave this opinion: “Teenagers ain’t worth a fuck.”
I’m inclined to agree.
Now, before my young readers (heh, oxymoron), start tearing me up one side and down the other in poorly-formed text speak, I’d like to explain that not ALL teenagers are worthless. They have potential at the very least and this makes them worthy of keeping alive for the few years when they are at their most irritating. The bright point of this is that this has always been the case. As much as I’d love to jump and shout, “In MY day, . . .” the truth is that teens were just as worthless in the 80's. We didn’t notice, since we were the worthless. I remember fighting my mom about cleaning up the house, doing the dishes, and working the garden. I hated all of the above. Still do.
Behaviorally, there were teens who fought teachers in “my day.” There was vandalism of cars, gas tanks, punched-out windows, and fire alarms set off several times a year. Bullying wasn’t taken nearly as seriously as it is, today. In many ways, it was much, much WORSE. Technology wasn’t on such a rapid rise and “learning computers” really meant learning what the hell they were and what they were capable of doing. Today, kids have more access to more information and lightening-fast tech than anybody could have been imagined in the 80's. By playing with their phones, cheating on tests with their phones, and doing an entire research paper on their PHONES, they are actually honing skills that they will need in the very near future. Self-delivery of information, or research, has never been easier.
So, why talk about teenagers? Because I have to remind myself that there are people out there who do NOT run the risk of being called a bitch each and every day, that there are people who do not have to be prepared for combat, that there are those who go to work without facing full-on confrontation daily. Inner-city schools have always been rough, but with the added distractions of hand-held tech it becomes all-but impossible to even get the full attention of the class. Granted, teachers never really had that, even at the best of times, but the illusion was there. I miss the illusion.
The fact that things have always been strained with the new generation does not make it any easier to take. I had a confrontation with a young man the other day who was too (I won’t say stupid, although it applies) much of a teen to realize that what he took was weakness in my not calling his bluff we was actually me looking out for him. I had pulled his charger out of the wall and he told me he was going to hit me if I touched it again. I didn’t touch it again, not because I feared his reaction, I feared my reaction and the subsequent chain of events that would land this kid in alternative education and possibly me out of teaching forever. I’m really not sure how I would have reacted if he had punched me, but I didn’t want to know.
Not worth it.
He took my restraint as fear, which made the situation even harder to take. Fear? Yes, you pubescent, hormone-addled, ninety-pound gangster, that’s exactly what it is. Fear that this 44-year-old man who spent winter in the North Atlantic and faced down guys twice your size and ferociousness may just show you what he can do to self-important dog meat before anyone can rescue you. Then, I force myself to remember, this is a child. It’s a spiteful, confused, undeveloped and frustrated young man growing up in the most shitty of environments who is trying to get control of a situation in which he has no power. Sigh. Ok, I won’t kill you. Not today, anyway. But it’s really hard to do this as he’s doing his victory dance.
Teenagers ain’t worth a fuck.
More on teenagers: How is it that people like me, who aren’t worth listening to 90% of the time, are still required to know everything under the sun?
Student: When bridge projects due? (I know there’s no verb, this is my life.)
Me: Bridge projects? (These are the get-out-of-high-school-free packets if you can’t pass the HSA, FYI.) I don’t know.
Student: Yes you do! Why you not telling me? (I swear, real dialogue.)
This student could not, would not believe that I DIDN’T know something. This happens about three times a week. They have looked at me in amazement when I didn’t know when Senior Inauguration is, what stores were in Mondawmin Mall, or the name of that breed of dog that never barks. Despite having any contact the subject whatsoever, I’m just supposed to KNOW. If I’m so Gods-damned wise, why don’t you fucking listen?
Sleep.
I used to make fun of people who slept their lives away. You would never catch me oversleeping on a Sunday and I sure as hell would get up early on a Saturday. It’s MY day, and I’m not sleeping through it. I used to go out every Thursday night and 7-10 classes were a breeze. Now, it’s a different story. I look at time off as an opportunity to go to bed. I’ve taken napping to a whole new level. I’m pre-sleeping before I go to sleep. I’ve become the Sleeping Bandit. Whenever there’s nobody home, I can be undressed, in the bed, and catch a good forty winks within seconds. I can usually be snoring long before anyone gets the chance to ask me to be involved in something. I’m not sure of the wink-to-full-night’s sleep ratio, but I’m always on the lookout for spare winks and must steal hundreds a week. Erica keeps asking if there’s something wrong with me. Nope. Just sleepy.
Gone are the days when I’d say things like, “I got five hours last night, I’m cool.” Five hours would just piss me off these days and guarantee that I’d fall asleep at the wheel on the way home from work. Sleep has become a passion. I’m old.
I guess it’s a change of desires. I don’t let the old mania of impatience and the fuel of righteousness goad me into anger and cause me to go charging up the stairs into the unknown. Instead, I’ve chosen the stateliness of confidence over the fires of insecurity. I still burn, but now it’s a flame burning warmly, but slowly, laughing at these little sparks who think they’re brighter. (I’ve tortured this metaphor enough)
My tastes have grown up. Now I expect more from both myself and my world. I hold myself to a higher standard and ask the same of those around me. When you think about it, isn’t that really what getting old is supposed to be all about? Isn’t it the fathers and mothers of the world the ones whom you don’t want to disappoint? While you’re up late, aren’t you supposed to hold it down so as not to wake up Grandma?
The more one has seen, the more one is seen as wizened and respectable in your domain. No harm in acting the part, specifically when it adheres to your well-won situation. I always thought of older people as tired. Now I see them as more relaxed, less inclined to spend energy on trivial things. They are tired because they’ve learned to back the lens up and look at the whole picture.
That’s a lot to take in.
It makes me sleepy
I once said that I’d know when I was getting old when I started taking stairs one-at-a-time. I’ve always hated stairs, they are always between me and my goal, even if that goal is simply the food court. My attitude in the past was that they were put there to slow me down and I wasn’t having it. So, I always took them two or sometimes three at a stride if I was feeling particularly spunky. I’m not sure when I started the one-step method, but it must have happened gradually since I never noticed. It could have been a year or two ago when I was at a high weight (fat) or possibly sooner. I DO know that in 2004 I was still charging up the stairs of the school in which I taught, which means it must have happened in the last eight years. On the bright side, I probably look much more dignified stepping casually as I ascend rather than throwing myself to the top, nowadays. I think it’s a shift in attitude more than anything else.
It’s both good and bad: Bad, because I’m not as enthused as I used to be and Good, because I’m not living my life as one, big emergency. My fear is that, deep down, I’m thinking that no matter what waits for me at the top, it’s not really worth all the effort to get there. That’s scary. Hell, that’s downright depressing. I’m hoping that the real reason is because I’ve become much more patient. Not entirely patient, mind you, but more so than I used to be.
Comics.
If you went back to 1989 and told me that there would come a day when I would no longer buy comics, I’d have laughed in your face. Three times in the last three months I’ve felt driven to walk into the local comic store here in Frederick. I went in, looked around, and left empty handed. Nothing, and I mean nothing piqued my interest. It has all been done, and I’ve seen most of it. Although I still feel excitement at the prospect of a mysterious wall-crawling rope-swinging high-flying crime fighter dispensing two-fisted justice on evil-doers, at this point in my life I’m well-read enough to feel disappointed at bad writing and frustrated at second-rate artwork. Very few storylines are truly original or have any kind of flair.
I used to be happiest when I had a stack of fresh comics and time to read. It wasn’t very long ago when I used to organize my bi-weekly stack like a feast, with certain comics clearing the palate for the next, and working from light, to dark, to funny, to fantastic, and on down through the pile. It was a hobby in which I invested time, effort, and lots of money. It hurts to say this, but now that same stack of comics is a chore. I’m sure that if I were twenty again I’d probably be buying into it with fervor, but not in my 40's. Well, to be honest, at age twenty, I never would have been able to afford them at today’s prices.
Here comes more old-man talk: $4.00 for a fucking comic book? I remember when comics were $.35! Granted, there’s inflation, but a comic, then, was the same price as a can of Coke. I can’t help but think that this is where it should have remained comparable. We pay about a buck for a bottle of Diet Pepsi, maybe $1.50 if we’re hard up on a hot day. I could even see paying $2.50 since I’ve collected comics through that price point and I was OK with it even when I had less money. But buying ten comics to while away a Sunday afternoon should not be a major investment.
I have thousands of comics gathering dust. I don’t need any more, and I can’t see spending serious money on something that is not going to hold its value nor my interest. My older comics may be worth something, maybe not, but they’re mine and I look forward to the day when I can spread them all out in a room and relive memories. I’m hoping that there will be someone there to record my enthusiasm, suddenly awakened from its chrysalis. Perhaps it will be my Mitsubishi Service Bot, having been programmed to pretend to give a shit about my rambling as well as change my Depends. If not, there’s always this blog, possibly. Lucky you. Hell, at this point, I should start pulling boxes home from the storage area and re-reading the old ones since there’s NO way I could remember the storylines of them all. (I got about seven thousand or so). Also, I’d never read them all again before I died. Ok, that’s probably an exaggeration but you get what I mean. Erica would probably object to stacks of musty newsprint cluttering up the house.
Question: did I change, or was it the industry? Am I just getting to be a codger, or did comics just get boring? Either way, this is the way it is. I still feel that pull, that old excitement drawing me in, every time I’m passing by the shop, so maybe it’s not me. Maybe this is the universal narrator telling me to start writing my own comics. Hmmm . . .
Teenagers.
My brother was applying for a job when he was eighteen and the owner/boss gave this opinion: “Teenagers ain’t worth a fuck.”
I’m inclined to agree.
Now, before my young readers (heh, oxymoron), start tearing me up one side and down the other in poorly-formed text speak, I’d like to explain that not ALL teenagers are worthless. They have potential at the very least and this makes them worthy of keeping alive for the few years when they are at their most irritating. The bright point of this is that this has always been the case. As much as I’d love to jump and shout, “In MY day, . . .” the truth is that teens were just as worthless in the 80's. We didn’t notice, since we were the worthless. I remember fighting my mom about cleaning up the house, doing the dishes, and working the garden. I hated all of the above. Still do.
Behaviorally, there were teens who fought teachers in “my day.” There was vandalism of cars, gas tanks, punched-out windows, and fire alarms set off several times a year. Bullying wasn’t taken nearly as seriously as it is, today. In many ways, it was much, much WORSE. Technology wasn’t on such a rapid rise and “learning computers” really meant learning what the hell they were and what they were capable of doing. Today, kids have more access to more information and lightening-fast tech than anybody could have been imagined in the 80's. By playing with their phones, cheating on tests with their phones, and doing an entire research paper on their PHONES, they are actually honing skills that they will need in the very near future. Self-delivery of information, or research, has never been easier.
So, why talk about teenagers? Because I have to remind myself that there are people out there who do NOT run the risk of being called a bitch each and every day, that there are people who do not have to be prepared for combat, that there are those who go to work without facing full-on confrontation daily. Inner-city schools have always been rough, but with the added distractions of hand-held tech it becomes all-but impossible to even get the full attention of the class. Granted, teachers never really had that, even at the best of times, but the illusion was there. I miss the illusion.
The fact that things have always been strained with the new generation does not make it any easier to take. I had a confrontation with a young man the other day who was too (I won’t say stupid, although it applies) much of a teen to realize that what he took was weakness in my not calling his bluff we was actually me looking out for him. I had pulled his charger out of the wall and he told me he was going to hit me if I touched it again. I didn’t touch it again, not because I feared his reaction, I feared my reaction and the subsequent chain of events that would land this kid in alternative education and possibly me out of teaching forever. I’m really not sure how I would have reacted if he had punched me, but I didn’t want to know.
Not worth it.
He took my restraint as fear, which made the situation even harder to take. Fear? Yes, you pubescent, hormone-addled, ninety-pound gangster, that’s exactly what it is. Fear that this 44-year-old man who spent winter in the North Atlantic and faced down guys twice your size and ferociousness may just show you what he can do to self-important dog meat before anyone can rescue you. Then, I force myself to remember, this is a child. It’s a spiteful, confused, undeveloped and frustrated young man growing up in the most shitty of environments who is trying to get control of a situation in which he has no power. Sigh. Ok, I won’t kill you. Not today, anyway. But it’s really hard to do this as he’s doing his victory dance.
Teenagers ain’t worth a fuck.
More on teenagers: How is it that people like me, who aren’t worth listening to 90% of the time, are still required to know everything under the sun?
Student: When bridge projects due? (I know there’s no verb, this is my life.)
Me: Bridge projects? (These are the get-out-of-high-school-free packets if you can’t pass the HSA, FYI.) I don’t know.
Student: Yes you do! Why you not telling me? (I swear, real dialogue.)
This student could not, would not believe that I DIDN’T know something. This happens about three times a week. They have looked at me in amazement when I didn’t know when Senior Inauguration is, what stores were in Mondawmin Mall, or the name of that breed of dog that never barks. Despite having any contact the subject whatsoever, I’m just supposed to KNOW. If I’m so Gods-damned wise, why don’t you fucking listen?
Sleep.
I used to make fun of people who slept their lives away. You would never catch me oversleeping on a Sunday and I sure as hell would get up early on a Saturday. It’s MY day, and I’m not sleeping through it. I used to go out every Thursday night and 7-10 classes were a breeze. Now, it’s a different story. I look at time off as an opportunity to go to bed. I’ve taken napping to a whole new level. I’m pre-sleeping before I go to sleep. I’ve become the Sleeping Bandit. Whenever there’s nobody home, I can be undressed, in the bed, and catch a good forty winks within seconds. I can usually be snoring long before anyone gets the chance to ask me to be involved in something. I’m not sure of the wink-to-full-night’s sleep ratio, but I’m always on the lookout for spare winks and must steal hundreds a week. Erica keeps asking if there’s something wrong with me. Nope. Just sleepy.
Gone are the days when I’d say things like, “I got five hours last night, I’m cool.” Five hours would just piss me off these days and guarantee that I’d fall asleep at the wheel on the way home from work. Sleep has become a passion. I’m old.
I guess it’s a change of desires. I don’t let the old mania of impatience and the fuel of righteousness goad me into anger and cause me to go charging up the stairs into the unknown. Instead, I’ve chosen the stateliness of confidence over the fires of insecurity. I still burn, but now it’s a flame burning warmly, but slowly, laughing at these little sparks who think they’re brighter. (I’ve tortured this metaphor enough)
My tastes have grown up. Now I expect more from both myself and my world. I hold myself to a higher standard and ask the same of those around me. When you think about it, isn’t that really what getting old is supposed to be all about? Isn’t it the fathers and mothers of the world the ones whom you don’t want to disappoint? While you’re up late, aren’t you supposed to hold it down so as not to wake up Grandma?
The more one has seen, the more one is seen as wizened and respectable in your domain. No harm in acting the part, specifically when it adheres to your well-won situation. I always thought of older people as tired. Now I see them as more relaxed, less inclined to spend energy on trivial things. They are tired because they’ve learned to back the lens up and look at the whole picture.
That’s a lot to take in.
It makes me sleepy
