An insult?

Not long ago I was called a "book worm" by a drunken, loud sports fan at an Iowa Hawkeye basketball game. In fact my wife and I were hassled pretty much throughout the game by "accidental" bumps, too-loud comments and generally sophomoric behavior that would be better suited to the student section of the arena. These assholes were so obnoxious an elderly couple who became the target of their bile early in the game got up and left. Their offense? Being fans of the opposing team.

The volume and profanity of the ongoing tirades was so loud that people three and four rows down were turning around to see what the commotion was all about. Quite a few people sitting around this crew of meatheads asked/told them to clean up their language and to act like "True Hawkeye fans" but those comments only redirected the drunks' stupidity onto them.

Finally after an "accidental" bump on Joleen, I turned around and told them to knock it off. Of course this led to them turning their ire directly on us. Then one of the louder ones started to berate me for reading a book during timeouts and for dozing off at previous games. This when he called me a bookworm. Wow, these bozos have been watching me this long? They certainly aren't that much interested in the game if they take note of us!

Something else that was laughable was how they justified their rudeness. They loudly declared that because they paid for their tickets that entitled them to be as loud and obnoxious as they wanted to be. Of course, that everyone else sitting around them just wanted to watch the game but that didn't count.

As the asshole continued his diatribe, I asked him if he had purchased my ticket and just why in the hell it bothered him so much. His unintelligible reply was laced with a few profanities and hardly worth writing about however, a drunk is just a drunk but an angry drunk is a threat so I put my book away (a excellent biography of T. E. Lawrence BTW), pulled my spyderco from its hiding place so I could slice and dice them if need be.

I must point out that during this whole time not one single permar security puke, U of I rent-a-cop or police officer was to be found. I know they were there, because they are thick as thieves on the upper level and lower level of the arena but are rarely if ever seen patrolling the aisles. I must also point out that during this whole mess my wife was trying to text the emergency number for security so she could report the escalating situation. Over a month later we are still waiting on a response to her text.

Later, as the game drew to an end with the Hawks losing to the hated Iowa State Cyclones the drunks vented their spleens at the players to "Man up" and then started back up with the crowd because according to these boozer-losers the rest of us weren't cheering loud enough for a Hawks' victory. Most people in our section just tried to ignore them.

Ascending the stairs with a couple minutes left in the game I was struck by the sheer number of "security" people hanging around up on the main level; some texting, some eating, chit-chatting with each other but an inordinate number of them leaning over the railing with their attention focused solely on the game! And many of these gawkers were armed police officers! Their service weapons and tasers within easy reach of anyone who was feeling froggy. I guess watching the game and hassling people by searching their belongings is way more important than doing their job of providing any type of security.

I bring this event up only because we were back at the arena last night for another dismal showing of the Hawkeyes. Anyway, partway through the game, three or four young men came over to speak to the people sitting directly in front of us. They were courteous and non-obtrusive as they kneeled in the aisle talking but trying to keep out everyone's way. They hadn't been there 2 minutes when out of nowhere a permar SUPERVISOR swooped down on them with the admonition to "clear the aisle or ELSE!"

Well, I guess I've vented my spleen about enough for tonight. Life ain't fair, but it's the only one we have. Next time maybe I'll stick one of them and see if they change their tune

Woody out.

When the Last Flag is Lowered

I wrote this short poem sometime in the late 70s or early 80s while I was assigned to the 82d Airborne Division. This was during the Cold War when the Soviet Bear was still the primary threat to America. As poetry goes it isn't great, but I still like the message. MRW



When the last flag is lowered, will you be there with head held high and heart full of pride? Or will you dwell in the shadows with the guilt you try to hide?

Two hundred years plus, this country has stood tall, because there have always been volunteers willing to raise their hand? Someone always there to make the supreme sacrifice – to take the valiant stand.

There were turbulent years when the country was torn asunder. And there were the years when we pulled together, to correct another’s blunder.

When the bugles and drums sound once more, will you be there? Or will you turn your back and act like you really don’t care?

The question is yours, and one that you must soon decide. Will you be there, or will you hide?

Michael R. Woods
Written sometime during the Cold War

Cold-hearted?

I can’t resist it, I have to go on a rant here about the two worst books of all time – I’m sure there are more, but these will do for now. At the outset let me clarify that I am a bibliophile, I love reading, spending time prowling through book stores, especially used book stores and whenever I stop at a yard sale, I always look for gems that might have been overlooked by other book lovers. As a testament to my love of the written word when I moved back to Iowa a few years ago, I shipped almost a ton of books, yeah, that’s right as in 2-0-0-0 pounds. They were mostly non-fiction history and reference books, but each one of them is a cherished part of my ever-growing collection and although one of my New Year’s resolutions was to read all my books before I die, along with running a marathon and losing 20 pounds, I somehow think THAT will never happen.

Anyhoo, back to the subject of my rant; first off I have to admit to something else – I have sometimes been called a cold-hearted so-and-so without compassion, etc, etc, etc. An appropriate description I suppose, but I like to think my compassion and passions run deeper than most and never facile. But, what you may ask does this revelation have to do with books that I hate? How could they garner the epithet of “the worst book in history?” Well, truthfully, there are only two as far as I’m concerned. Both of which I was forced to read in college and then after I finished, I had to write about “how I felt…”– come on, you know what I’m talking about, one of those awful attempts to force you to bear your soul to some prof to prove that you read the book. Anyway, I digress (Sorry, I do that on occasion).

I’ve been kicking this idea around for some time and have finally decided to rant about it. I absolutely detest two perennial best sellers, “Zen and the art of Motorcycle and maintenance,” and “Tuesdays with Morrie.” gasp if you must but please don’t waste your time writing to me about how much these books changed your life – I was forced to read them for a couple college courses and hated EVERY SINGLE WORD. Pirsig’s self-aggrandizing journey of “enlightenment” is hardly worth the paper it is written on with his silly comparisons between keeping his piece of crap motorcycle on the road, his mental breakdown and his shaky relationship with his son. You have problems…. Deal with them or get over them! After I finally waded through the morass of Pirsig’s mind I then had to write a response paper and since I hated it, I told the prof why. In my critique I also speculated at the moral code of a society that would accept OR approve of this clown making a buck talking in circles. Oh well, to the professor’s credit he respected my opinion and graded my evaluation based on its own merits not the pre-disposed belief that Pirsig somehow had a greater grasp on life than this simple warrior-scholar. Anyway, I got a passing grade and later joined some classmates at a “barbeque” shortly after finals. I didn’t want to have that awful book in my possession one second longer than I had to – and it made a helluva bonfire.

Morrie’s is another awful trip into self-loathing that I detested from the moment I picked up a copy – what really ticked me off was there were no more used copies and I had to buy a new edition. Anyway, in yet another class that the instructor wanted us to get all touchy-feely, we were forced to read this sorry piece of crap so we could understand how to grieve. Since I had buried my father just a few years before, I found the instructor’s assumptions terribly insulting. Nonetheless, beyond that, my resentment exploded when I discovered this Morrie person reveled in the fact that he used to give “A’s” to male students during the Vietnam War. This was apparently to ensure their academic deferments without them actually having to earn them! As a recently retired soldier I was incensed at this for a couple reasons: first and foremost that he believed that he had the right would assume the responsibility over some lowlife who couldn’t even maintain a passing grade while others who might not have had the opportunity to get a break OR who had accepted the mantle of responsibility to serve their country was insulting at best. I would suggest that this mentality fostered during the Vietnam era is at least partly to blame for today’s current plague of inflated college grades and lowered academic standards, but that is best saved for another rant.

Now, because of those rat-bastards, I had to sit through yet another half-baked college class that did little more than perpetuate a skewed sense of responsibility, and an elitist attitude that would get your ass kicked in the real world.
Finally, despite whatever this person’s influence on other people’s lives might have been, that somebody would turn his own self-hatred into a sob-fest that others with more backbone would have to endure to meet some “educator’s” idea of teaching the process of grieving. Give me a break. For anyone who has lost a parent, spouse or compadre they know how to grieve.
I hate these books for a multitude of reasons, some I can’t even put into words, but mostly I resent that I was forced to read them because some sorry excuse for an educator was too lazy to find a better (alternate?) book. Nonetheless, I had to read them and feel nothing but contempt towards the authors and resentment for the professors who forced me to endure them.

Unlike other required readings which I might not have cared for but still served a purpose, these sorry excuses for literature will continue to plague our society as long as there are wieners out there who say something like, “Oh, I just loved that book, it changed my life…” pardon me, but if you were living such a pitiful life that a book like this changed your life, then your life really did need changin’!

How dare you!

I don't hate them, but I dislike them very much and to quote Toughie the airborne soldier, "I wouldn't cross the street to piss on them if they were on fire." Talking heads, it doesn't matter which "news" channel, web page or op/ed column they appear in. Bill O'Reilly, Keith Oberman, that bucket head Limbaugh or the carpet muncher whats-her-name on MSNBC. They all suck and not in the good way! They are all pushing their brand of BS and ya know what? It all stinks!

I just got done watching a clip of Bill Maher on the George Lopez show - first off why on God's green earth would anyone give George Lopez a talk show? Anyway, old Bill spews his vile, angry, hatred of the American electorate and somehow we're all too stooopid to understand the issues unless somebody like him interprets if for us. Gee, thanks mr. Bill, I don't think I could grasp anything without your help. Whatta turd.

Oh, and the big flap about Juan Williams, who said that he gets nervous if he sees someone in arab garb on an airplane - well join the freakin' club. I used to work airport security and when they would come through the line the worst part is quite a lot of them never quite figured out that whole personal hygiene thing. Okay, so NPR finally gets something they can hang around his neck to fire his ass since apparently they don't like the fact that this black man actually has an opinion that is decidedly different than what NPR likes - so he didn't drink his koolaid and they shit-can him. Wellllll, guess what? your half-assed stab at political correctness just landed him a sweet deal from Fox News. Ain't that a surprise?

Bottom line is that as long as we continue to patronize as in follow these bozos they will continue to hang around. Turn off the tube once in a while, change the channel, do something to help make these turds go away.

Another trip to Hawkeye Nation

In what some people would call supreme irony, my wife is an avid sports fan whereas I can take it or leave it. While I enjoy sitting in Wrigley Field and watching the Cubbies and yes, I admit that I have become a Cubs fan; it will never be with the fervor that she espouses. Nonetheless, I do hope they get back in the World Series one of these days. On top of the Cubs season tickets, we also have season tickets for Hawkeye football and basketball. Therefore, we get to go through security quite frequently.

Today I am “girding my loins” for another Hawkeye football excursion tomorrow, the biggest thing I am dreading is the inevitable search of our belongings after we show our over-priced ticket. I won’t bore you with the sundry things I carry in my fanny pack, but apparently the rent-a-cops and security wieners are fascinated by its contents. Never clear on what they are looking for, they poke around until they are satisfied that they have pissed me off totally before letting me pass.

For those of you who are not familiar with Hawkeye Nation, they don’t allow bags bigger than the size of a standard piece of paper (8 ½ x 11) – okay, I can appreciate this “standard” but the painfully obtuse method of measuring for go or no-go is without a doubt the dumbest methodology I have ever endured. A quick fix would be to follow the example of the airlines with a box of the requisite size to use a simple go/no go process of if it fits it is good to go, but noooooo, THAT would be too simple and far too user friendly to be implemented. Instead each of the security people have a sheet of paper torn from a notebook to check bag sizes. A clumsy method at best.

I watched one woman unsuccessfully try to bring in a purse whose dimensions were within the required dimensions, however, it had fringe that exceeded the sheet of paper rule and despite an attempt at reason she was rebuffed at the gate with a threat to “call the police.” Of course, this arbitrary standard is not necessarily adhered to at every point of entry so it is quite possible that this frustrated fan went to another gate to gain admission. If not she was probably not a very nice person after a hurried trip back to her car.

Do not attempt to reason with the Per-Mar or university security people. These minimum–wage earners are likely to follow their orders as if they came from a burning bush. Just two weeks ago I made a point of putting my items into a clear plastic bag in an effort to get through “security” a little more quickly, thinking that despite it being larger than a piece of paper that its translucence would obviate that failure. Boy was I wrong. The people in the cheap yellow jackets said I could not use this plastic bag because it wasn’t from the Hawk Shop! I had to remove my bottles of water and carry them in without the benefit of a bag.

Last year I had one of those lightweight bags that were originally designed to carry sneakers but have become a ubiquitous giveaway especially at sporting events. Anyway, I was told I couldn’t bring the bag inside the stadium. Okaaaaay, fair enough, we emptied the contents into various coat pockets. But as I started to stuff the offending bag into a semi-empty pocket, I was told that I wouldn’t be able to bring the empty bag in either. Never mind the fact that I could have walked 20 feet and purchased another one just like it from THE HAWK SHOP! Luckily, this time, common sense prevailed and another Per-Mar guy told me to just move along

Having been in airport security I can appreciate the necessity of bag searches when warranted but when it comes to entering a sports complex, the reason behind the searches is never clearly explained. One time I tried to enter Carver-Hawkeye Arena with a pocketknife. I’d forgotten it was in my bag and since it does look a little wicked, the bag searcher’s head about exploded upon seeing it. He started quoting off all sorts of non-existent Homeland Security directives about it being a weapon, etc so rather than argue with him, I walked out and back into another door – with the pocket knife stuffed securely in my jeans pocket. Hey, it was January in Iowa; I wasn’t about to walk the mile back to our car. Troublemaker that I am I went on to my seat, used the knife to peel an apple and watched the game. Later, unsure if the yellow-jacketed one was correct my wife did a quick web search and discovered that in fact it WAS NOT big enough to be considered a weapon by any law enforcement standards after all!

As regular visitors to Wrigley Field, we often pack a lunch and snacks for our trips to watch the Cubs, the security folks are always very courteous and understanding about bringing food and drinks into the ball park. I can’t recall a time being turned back for an offending item. Once the searcher found my Swiss Army knife, hesitated only a second before asking me not to stab anyone with it and let me go on my way.

So, is it weapons, alcohol or food? In Hawkeye Nation, they have a vague prohibition about bringing food to a game. While it is irksome to have some booger-eater pawing through my bag for God knows what but to have them decide one time that a food item was okay and the next time that the very same thing doesn’t meet their idea of a “snack” is absolutely infuriating. If the college would ratchet back the outrageous prices they charge for food maybe po’ folk like me wouldn’t try to smuggle in dinner! I won’t even get into the criminal prices they charge just to get into the games!

Last but not least, it is the smug superiority of some of these rent-a-cops that really gets me!

Here’s another example of idiocy in action. One night standing in line to enter the arena, a U of I security guard very rudely asked me what was in my pants cargo pocket. Not being on my toes, I made the mistake of telling him the truth, “a bottle of water,” and turned back to the business of getting through security. No one else said anything and I continued on my way. Shortly afterwards I saw this troll pointing me out of the crowd to “real” cops. All I could think of was here it comes! Boy these guys were textbook cops, spreading out so they were in a semi-circle around me and confronted me about the bulge in my pocket – like I said I wasn’t on my game that night so I again replied that it was a bottle of water. When asked to show it to them I pulled it out and by gosh it was what I told them it was. Using their massively analytical brains they noticed the other cargo pocket was bulging too and I produced yet another bottle of water. Okay, so far so good right? Na-ah, Old Barney Fife and Goober Pyle proceeded to dress me down about not complying with instructions and that the next time someone tells me to show them what was in my pockets to do it! Of course I tried to explain to these two mental giants that the rent-a-cop didn’t ask me to show him anything, he asked a question, I responded and went on my way through security and if it HAD been such a problem that maybe the boob should have stopped me BEFORE going through security! The shorter cop kept saying that I was supposed to comply with instructions to which I replied that I had complied and that he never asked to see what was in my pocket! Arrrrgh!

As I said, I understand the necessity of safety measures having been involved with airport security but my Gawd! Make the insanity stop! Tomorrow is another day and another Hawkeye football game; wanna put a wager on me getting hassled again?

Walking Among Giants

In the grand scheme of things I suppose few of them made much of an impact. None of them cured a disease, threw the winning touchdown pass or in a few cases were even successful in business ventures, but they were truly giants and I am proud to say I walked among them. Simple men with simple tastes, they were mostly family men who in their gray years doted after grandchildren with the love and tenderness that sometimes was missing from their attention to their own children – making up for past mistakes, I suppose.

They were farmers, ironworkers, carpenters, and laborers of all sorts. Giants like my father, my grandfather, and other hard working, rough-hewn men of their era, they worked tirelessly to provide for their families and in turn strengthen their country. They labored every day, rarely pausing except for Friday nights to cheer on the home team, Sundays to give praise (and maybe do a little fishing) and then started it all over again come Monday morning. As a child I was in awe of them: their rough clothes, work-scarred hands and how big they were! My lord, they were huge! When they weren’t working you could find them at the grain elevator, hardware store, or wherever giants congregated to discuss the news of the day: how the corn was lookin’, how the boys were doin’ overseas, or if this really was the year the Cubs were going all the way. They towered over the very land they nurtured and it seemed to my adolescent mind that I was walking in a denim-cloaked forest whenever they gathered; their conversations eventually turning to tales of “the olden days,” the days before marriage, children and long hours of work.

Many went off to war as young men (boys really), staying away just long enough to serve their country, but quickly returned home to start their own families and their own lives with their uniforms packed neatly away. A few of them were even hell-raisers in their younger days; how do you think I learned about cow tipping? They talked about running hoop nets in the river baited with ungodly concoctions guaranteed to bring in the “big ‘uns” or how they used to go to a particular house tucked away in the woods where they would play a few hands of whist and maybe take a nip (or two) of corn liquor come Saturday night.

As the giants went about their labors there were usually kids following in their wake fighting to carry the tool bucket or to be somehow involved in the giants’ efforts. A giant’s idea of “quality time” was getting the job done and teaching us the value of hard work and, in turn the worth of a man. We children scrambled for attention and it didn’t take long to figure out which giant had a pocketful of hard candies to reward the hardest working helper. Of course, an angry giant was a fearsome sight to behold and woe to the errant son who heard the epithet, “Wait ‘til your father gets home!”

Most times we looked up in admiration and awe at the efforts of the giants. It seemed as if they could move mountains, build anything and explain the most difficult problems. But sadly as we grew older we usually participated with less enthusiasm, only listened half-heartedly, and our admiration waned even as we began to stretch our own wings in the hopes (even if silently) that we could measure up to the giants of our youth. Over the course of time we moved away, fought our own wars and discovered that our giants seemed less threatening and more human. Like a favorite tool on the workbench, they have somehow lost the shine of use and have taken on instead the patina of the ages. They appear a little smaller in stature, slower in movement and finally have become in our eyes what they always were – men who loved their wives and children with all their hearts even if they might not have been able to tell us at the time.

Cherish these men if you still have the chance and even if it is too late and your own giants are gone, try to remember the days when you were held in awe by their stories and were fascinated by their wisdom. And as one by one, we lay them to rest, their ranks thinning with age, we discover that we have become our fathers; somehow, I cannot help but wonder if they didn’t know it all along.

And another school year is upon us

Oh boy, I just got my packet to reapply to be a substitute teacher for yet another fun filled year of Edutainment. I can't wait to start covering fridays and mondays for all the coaches who need to "watch game films" or other very important activities for their first love of coaching rather than being an educator.

Now I must say that I have encountered some teachers who are dynamic educators who are truly hesitant to take a half-day off let alone a full day. From these gems I try to take away any nuggets of information they may leave with their lesson plans so that maybe someday I'll be able to use them in my own classroom. Of course there are others who leave sub plans that resemble a hurried phone number written on a cocktail napkin, or in some cases there are entire scripts that you are expected to follow to the letter - dry, boring, forced edutainment that you can ladle out like so much mystery meat in the lunch room.

There are two assignments that invariably end up on the substitute plan: Videos and worksheets. For the longest time I hated both of them. I never really got to exercise my teaching chops by handing out volumes of worksheets or plugging in video after video and I looked forward to the rare teacher who took a chance with a substitute and actually left a "real" LP. Of course it was much better in Social Studies classes - an area that I am over-qualified to teach in part because I really like history! Huh, go figure.

Anyway, Now that I've been subbing for a while I tend to look forward to the videos and although I still absolutely HATE worksheets I accept that they are here to stay in that intricate complex that is the American education system. Why do I hate them so much you ask? At first blush worksheets are wonderful tools to help guide students through their assignments, especially beneficial in math class, however, in history and social studies they have degenerated into a vapid activity for students that tends to improve their ability to "cherry pick" information from their text without establishing a basis or continuity of information. It's even worse if students are allowed to partner up while doing worksheets. Instead of collaborative learning they tend to divvy up the assignment so that they tend to find less than 50% of the desired information. Larger study groups = less information gained. And as a substitute you have to stand there and watch it happen.

I've seen students from 6th through 12th graders in dozens of schools use this technique and sadly many teachers reinforce this lack o' learnin' by allowing study notes for tests. I saw this technique for the first time when I student taught in Tacoma and I was appalled by the cavalier attitude this team of teachers had towards history. Their preferred method of instruction was to lecture from their notes as they wrote all the key points on a chalk board after which they told the kids that if they copied down everything on the board that they would ace the unit quiz because they were allowed to use their notes during the test! These long-time "educators" dismissed my concern about incorrect information being doled out with the comment, "well, don't worry about it, you're the only one who knows the right answer."

Of course I'm talking about history because that's my thing, I enjoy history and historical scholarship so indifference (or incompetence) in teaching history is an anathema for me. History and it's Frankenstein's monster of a cousin: social studies should be taught by history teachers, not coaches!

It seems that there are only two kinds of history teachers: coaches and social revisionists. If you were looking for that old eccentric history teacher who knows enough history to have just maybe have marched with Sherman you won't find them in the public school system - anywhere.

If you talk to college history professors they will almost unanimously agree that the average freshman enters college with a tremendous lack of basic knowledge of research techniques, history or civics. I must agree with them as I was asked to be a Teaching Assistant for an upper level college class (300 level) while I was student teaching. Yeah, I'm a glutton for punishment! Anyway, I was grading papers at both the high school senior and the college junior levels at about the same time and in many cases the only way I could tell them apart was the subject matter!

Anyway, it's been eight years since I got my teaching certification - haven't even had the whiff of a job yet. I did get two mercy interviews at the school where my wife works though. I've been certified so long I've gone through two basic licenses (in two different states) as well as a third substitute license! As I see it I've got 8 years of no experience under my belt with little chance of ever having my own classroom.

Here's a kicker, my current license will expire in two years so I do hope that something comes along before I have to hand the state another $85 to continue to be a sub. I'll continue to work towards a full-time (I'd take part-time) position teaching history, I'd even call it social studies if I could get a permanent gig!

What's working against me you ask? Well, I seriously don't know for sure. It certainly isn't my credentials, I am fully endorsed in all aspects of history and social studies so it isn't that. One major strike against me is that I now have a Masters Degree. I've now become too expensive as a novice teacher for some school districts - at least that's what I'm told. Of course there is the inevitable problem of not being a coach. Sorry, never played organized sports, never really liked them either.

This brings me to the intangibles, the points that no one talks about, are afraid to even hint about but are truly deal breakers. I suffer from a few terminal maladies that can never be cured: I'm too old, too white, too male, too conservative and too damn independent for a school district to take a chance on me! Of course this added to not being a coach makes me unemployable and quite frankly untouchable.

As I read back over this diatribe, I hesitate to post it for school administrators to read but then again what's going to happen? They're not going to hire me? They are already not doing that so what's the difference?

With all that said, I will continue to teach within the limits that I work under and I'll try to touch the handful of kids who seem to like me as a teacher because I'm "not like other substitutes," their words not mine. One girl once told me she didn't like it when I subbed because I was too smart, that she liked dumb substitutes. There was a a twinkle in her eye when she said it though...

Ancora Imparo!