From: bob smedley [real e-mail redacted]

Sent: Saturday, February 17, 2007 7:04 PM

To: (real name redacted)

Subject: Orange County Regional Science and Engineering Fair - Confirmation

Dear Mr. (real name redacted),

=================================

It was the bomb.
Hundreds of entrants for Orange County (Florida) Middle and High Schools.
Ten physics exhibits I got to judge.
Ten middle-schoolers I got to grill on science questions.
Ten kids whose futures I impacted.

Go me.

Ox

On January 26, 1788 Captain Arthur Phillip took formal possession of the colony of New South Wales and became its first Governor.

http://www.australiaday.gov.au/pages/index.asp

Some Aussie flyboys came to our plant around the last week of January. These officers of the Royal Australian Air Force had visited my plant for a little more than a week to discuss the finer points of contracts in-person with my bosses. They were mostly out-of-sight, out-of-mind--so much so that I didn't even get to see them in person until this January 26th. The program managers I work for gathered me and my teammates into a conference room to have some refreshments to celebrate with them for a few minutes. I had no idea what we were celebrating, but there was a big honkin' cake in the center table. So, I figured it was worth hearing them out.

My bosses wanted to publicly introduce these guys to the team on this, their day of patriotic celebration (see above). The lead guy (I have no idea how RAAF ranking works) thanked us Yanks for stopping by (the cake notwithstanding) to take a break from work and celebrate with them for a few minutes. He explained that he and his comrades there were a little homesick, like if you were out of the country on the 4th of July. Once he said that, I could hear an audible gasp float over the room--everybody got the significance of Australia Day at the same time. One flyboy had a wife admitted to the hospital to start labor on their second child, so that likely amplified the call for home.

So, on this day, for the first time ever in the whole time I had ever worked in the engineering industry...

...We had a sing-a-long! "Waltzin' Matilda". A crowded room of boring, white-collar geeks--singing the Australian National Anthem with a karaoke Windows Media File showing the lyrics on a projection monitor.

That was a good day.

What's weird, cool, ego-goosing, and generally putting a smile to my face in days since, is that I get reminded about Australia Day when teammates who were at that meeting stop me in the hallways...to tell me I have an awesome singing voice.

Aussie Aussie Aussie!
Oi Oi Oi!

Ox

From time to time, I entertain fantasies about quitting my day job to announce for World Wrestling Entertainment.   Working for them looks like a lot of fun, from what I can see on TV and the interweb.  So, once in a while the WWE takes their carnival of beefcake and fake breasts over to my town and puts on a show.   I've only been to a few shows, but most of the time I'm pretty well entertained when I'm able to make it to the TD Waterhouse in Orlando or the Ocean Center in Daytona. 

This past Monday, they put on a "supershow" at Orlando's TD Waterhouse (where the Magic pretend to play basketball) where they taped their "Smackdown" show for rebroadcast on Friday, and then broadcast their "Raw" show live right after, all in one swat.  If you're a die-hard wrestling fan, you will learn nothing new about the WWE from my report here.  If you're just casually curious about pro wrestling, you might notice my focus drifting away from the action in the ring.  That was my intent. 

A WWE show is great for people-watching as well as for the rasslin'.  It's the perfect nexus of the die-hard, flea-market, big-night-out-in-the-big-city, wearin'-my-f*ck-fear-drink-beer-Steve-Austin-T-Shirt crowd sharing a like-minded familial enthusiasm for rasslin' with yuppies trying to recapture their impetuous youth before they got culture, who now go for the "kitsch" value and their kids love "The Rock"*.  Here you go.

--WWE is getting a disturbing amount of mileage off of the memory of Eddie Guerrero. It's preaching to the choir, I know, but yeah; I too feel it's kinda ghoulish to keep dropping his name every time a wrester needs to draw cheap heat or a cheap pop.

--I saw a woman at the show that looked like a wrestler friend of mine, Mister Saint Laurent.  He's big, pasty-white, not much muscle tone, and an attention magnet.  This woman looked just like him, even with MSL's hairstyle. Also disturbing.

--Trish Stratus's victory was messy. In that "confetti and balloons" sort of way.  What were YOU thinking?

--I saw a woman at the show that reminded me of Bobby Lashley. Black, ripped, chiseled, rock hard, and with boobs almost as big. Not so disturbing, but what do you say to a woman who could kick your ass at a wrestling show? My better judgment prevailed and I withheld my "Nice pectoralis majori, madam. You must work out" opening line, and I am alive to write these observations this morning.

--Psicosis and Super Crazy as the "Mexicools" tag-team is A-OK. Their push as hispanic stereotypes entering the ring on lawnmowers is B-A-D.  On the other hand, I'm hispanic but not in a Mexican way, so what the hell.

--Kurt Angle really does have scrawny arms, disproportionate to his body. It was gratifying to hear "Let's go Angle!" chants while he fought. I think he's been a heel too long, and perhaps there's some empathy from the crowd for his dedication to the sport finally.

--I saw two other indy pro wrestler friends of mine, Rip Malibu and Wikid, at the show.  Good guys, considering they're barely out of high school and have already logged a few years in the business.   Seconds earlier, some creep bumped into me and knocked a few precious ounces of sweet, sweet beer onto my shirt. Rip asked about the wet shirt, I told him it was beer, he understood. The world keeps spinning.

--Paul "Big Show" Wight is a large, large man.

--There were a lot of hot ladies in the crowd, but it's gotten cold here in Central Florida.  It's usually a feast for the eyes when the weather is warmer.  Let me be blunt.  Slutty chicks who want to meet the wrestlers dress sluttier when it's warmer.  I'm not saying it works for them, considering at least 16,000 people want to meet the wrestlers too.  From a public spectacle point-of-view, though, there's just something about these chicks that, well, I'm just glad they're there. 

--Dustin "Goldust" Rhodes needs to speak up when he's in character. That raspy voice of his character is hard to understand when you're surrounded by casual fans who never seen him before and shouting questions to each other about why that guy is dressed in a gold lame bodysuit and has his hair and face dyed gold.  It's understandable that they're curious, to be sure, but please...I'm interested in what he has to say.

--The price of beer went up since last time I visited the TD Waterhouse. I grieved for a moment, then took a deep breath and paid an extra quarter. The healing has begun.

And now you're up to date.
Ox

*P.S.  Darren "The Rock" Johnson retired from wrestling three years ago.  It still amuses me that people would shell out top dollar fully expecting to see him wrestle today.

Current mood:  contemplative

A pathetic geek story about a cool teacher

I started attending catholic middle school around the middle of sixth grade, when a combination of social awkwardness and a humiliating blossoming of boy-boobs (puberty sucks) made it too tough for me to continue on with public school.  Catholic school was a little easier, with smaller classes and a general feeling of safety there, but in the months that followed I learned that social dynamics between me and classmates didn't differ much from public school, it was all just a matter of scale.  Kids is cruel no matter what.

I had some useful escapes, though.  After school, I walked to the city public library, a short but fun walk through some ritzy, frou-frou shopping district, where I did my homework while waiting for one of my parents to  take me home.  The library had an audio collection of records I listened to over rented headphones.  That's how I got exposed to Steve Martin, Richard Pryor, and George Carlin, my comedy heroes to this day.  Another comedy album there inspired me to try to reach out to my classmates as someone cooler than they expected. 

It was a comedy-music album by Martin Mull.  I was going to learn to play guitar and sing a song off that album for our school talent show.

To get a shot on the talent show, I had to play the song before a selection panel.  It consisted of our principal, our assistant principal, and Joe Carpineto, our science teacher and my homeroom teacher back then. 

The principal and assistant principals were austere, strict "civilian--not ordained" catholic educators raised and taught under the Franciscan Order (not quite "catholic stormtroopers" like Jesuits, but they didn't play either), and both ladies who had a well-practiced look of disapproval or disgust for any student in their charge acting the least bit impious.

Mr. Carpineto was the opposite of that. 

Mr. "C".

He was the bon vivant toward who both popular students and geeks alike gravitated.  He liked to tell real-life stories that illustrated his lectures on biology, chemistry, and physics.  He was accessible to students with personal problems like dealing with absent fathers or dysfunctional homes.  He coached soccer, basketball, and brain bowl (guess which team I got on). 

The most popular teacher in school was going to listen to me play my song.

Now, back to Martin Mull.  Even though I enjoyed the adult humor from these albums--that I'd never be allowed to listen to at home (strict, austere parents educated in "old country" catholic schools)--I was still naive.  Remember that Steve Martin song, "Grampaaaaaaa...Bought a rubber"?  It took months for me to find someone to explain to me what a rubber was. 

Yeah.  I was naive enough to think this song Martin Mull sang in this album "Perfect/Near Perfect (1979)", sharing titles like "I've been an asshole over you", "(I've played some shitholes but) This Takes the Cake", and "Pig in a Blanket" (a song about hogging fat chicks, I think), would pass.  I chose "The Fruit Song" because it was heavily laden with bad puns about fruit that I honestly didn't think would be so bad to play; in my opinion then, that was the cleanest song on that album.

I don't remember much about how the song went.  I even tried to google search the lyrics and tablature for "The Fruit Song" today with no luck.  I remember it must have been an easy song, though, with no more than four cowboy-chords and a medium-bouncy country/western tempo.  The only line I remember about that song is a single bad pun describing this woman for whom the song sang her praises.

"...She's a peach and what a pair (pear)."

I played it before the two sour-ass biddies and Mr. C.  As I was playing, I was trying to get a read of whether they were enjoying the song.  The two biddies' eyes popped like golf balls from time to time.  They looked at their feet.  So I played with even more feeling.  They looked away and covered their mouths (stifling a laugh? GOOD! KEEP GOING!!)  And I looked at Mr. C., who was grinning so wide his ears wiggled.  He shut his eyes tight and clenched his teeth while his ever-reddening head spasmically bobbed on his shoulders. 

Around the end of my act, I had a feeling I wasn't just not reaching these people, but I was singing a song that was getting me deeper into trouble with every note.  (Were they picking up dirty lyrics that I missed?!  Which lyrics? They sounded okay to me!  DAMMIT!!  I should have had someone proof my song first!  Yeah, right...who could I trust?!  NOBODY!!  I done screwed MYSELF!! Pigs in a Blanket!  I should have done Pigs in a Blanket!!)

I finished my song.  The two principals (the biddies) finally made eye contact with me.  Mr. C. finally released a a few heavy guffaws behind a whoosh of air.  I was told the song was very nice and I played very well.  The principal told me I would be invited to perform on the talent showcase if I played another song which they could approve before listening to me re-audition.    

That was it!  No admonishments, no angry instructions to meet up with a priest immediately to confess any sins, no dramatic insistence for a parent-teacher conference.  I got the gig.

Before school broke out that day, Mr. C caught up with me and asked me where I learned that song.  I told him, he said he was a fan of Martin Mull too, and told me what he thought about that song.  He told me it was a dirty song with filthy meanings, and was not at all appropriate for a middle school talent show, much less one at a catholic school.  

Feeling I disappointed the coolest teacher in school--hero to many including myself, and often wearing my feelings close to my skin as I did, I remember beginning to cry.  He caught me in time to explain what some (not all) of the lyrics really meant.  He then added that my performance was the coolest thing he ever saw a 13-year old kid do.  Ever.  And with a hearty pat on the shoulder and a request never to play that song again in school, we parted company for the day.

I ended up playing "Rocky Mountain High" by John Denver.  I know, LAME.  But considering I was competing with some stuck-up, skinny-ass, daddy's-little-rich-girls singing "You Light up my Life" by Debby Boone, and some other jerkass kid singing some other lame-ass Air Supply song ("Lovin' myself to sleep///waking up lonely"--HEY!!  MASTURBATION REFERENCE!!  WHERE'S THE FOUL, REF?!!), I didn't do too bad.  The winners were split between some rich-boy burned-out-at-14 rockers doing some instrumental rock song and some more daddy's-little-rich-girls doing a dance routine to "Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen.

I don't know...

I had an embarrassing time hosting a talent show in fourth grade.  I was kicked off the stage of my fifth grade talent show because I was under the impression I was going to be the MC, and everyone else was expecting me to do an "act".  In sixth grade I was booed off a podium before I could start a speech I wrote running for public middle school student government.  Between those times, this time I described here, and many, many times to follow, there have been enough defining "pathetic geek stories" that would have convinced any other geek to give up.

Me, I think it's more about righting what went wrong.  I think some bull-headed notion of finishing a performance of some kind--ANY kind--without getting humiliated or getting my ass kicked was driving me to keep trying.  High School drama club did some good, learning to wrestle and put shot in high school athletics did a little good too.  Hosting karaoke as a weekend gig working my way through college did a lot of good, and now announcing pro wrestling matches is so good it's earning me a little bit of actual notoriety.

I think moving forward in spite of failures is also about getting some words of encouragement when I needed it the most.  It's also about astounding people who have a history of underestimating me.  It's about proving them wrong...and right. 

Mr. C., I give you the honor of helping me round an important corner in my life.  I hope you're proud of what I have become.

http://www.orlandosentinel.com/news/local/orange/orl-dead0706jan07,0,3391863.story?track=mostemailedlink

Joseph Carpineto (1955-2006)

Ox