Asia Gone, Buckeye Gone

For all those who wish they had received a Christmas newsletter from me last year

2011-01-21T18:33:00.000-08:00

Finally, a news letter about one person, not five, four of whom you’ve never met and who you resent for displacing you in the life of the first. This letter is a summary of all things me. For those of you only interested in who I married and how many kids my wife had last year and how my career is serving to nurture said persons, you may stop reading now.

In 2010 Joseph (conventional news letter structure dictates I write in third person, which really annoys me, but is nonetheless one of the most important indicators, along with the embedding of a family photograph, that the dispatch is indeed a formal news letter and not simply a letter relating news, the distinction of which is important this time of year when goodly neighbors everywhere are judging their own goodliness by how many official Christmas news letters they receive) finished graduate school (if you don’t know what I studied, you have received this letter in error—your address must have slipped into the lists of people I know), spent the summer in Tajikistan learning Tajiki (if you don’t know where that is, you may or may not have received this letter in error—many in my own family still ask me where I was this summer), went to China for kicks (really, for kicks—my “Michael Jackson Number One” Converse knock-offs are the best thing that happened to me that trip), moved back to Ohio and got a job working for Battelle for Kids (if you think this sounds like a company that builds weapon systems for kids, and that I took the job hoping for employee discounts on Nerf weaponry, you deserve this news letter—you know me well).

Now that formalities are complete, I would like to direct your attention to the left of the text where you will see this year’s three finalists in Oslo’s Nobel Face Prize competition. Most people are familiar with Norway’s Nobel Peace Prize, but many are unaware that among the several other international Nobel prizes awarded annually in Alfred Nobel’s honor, is the Nobel Face Prize. As it turns out, each of the finalists this year is me. Oslo, in a gesture to democracy and fairness, is offering each of you the opportunity to circle your favorite finalist and send the committee your vote, so that whoever wins this year, the world can rest assured, he is the peoples’ choice.

Oh, and Merry Christmas

Love, joe

New year

2010-12-31T10:08:00.001-08:00

2011 resolution: disappear. Then reappear as someone completely different, someone without the same habits, tendencies, and behavioral patterns as that other guy I was last year. Magic.

Oh, and of course, see the world.

looking forward

2010-04-14T21:21:00.000-07:00

Real Digs

2009-10-21T18:41:00.000-07:00

I've received queries about my recent post, "New Digs." As much as I wish I lived in one of the prison cells at Peter and Paul Fortress, I don't. To those of you who found the room a likely fit for me, nice. To Jared who offered to move in, you are my soul mate. To the Decemberists of 1825 and hundreds of other Russian dissidents who have claim to that haven of solitude, I'm jealous. I just live in Columbus. Not as exotic, is it? I live in a regular flat with two other guys and a dog (she's part hound and has a cool howl). Jacob and Brian are cool guys and the set-up is nice. The photos: me and Charlie in the front room, mine and Jacob's bunk-bed (I'm on top and the thing creaks, so for Jacob who goes to bed before me, it's Halloween every night when I climb on top), and my desk and new apple laptop (yes Steve, and everyone else I mooched off of at Berhan, I finally got my own computer). The computer's background is displaying another photograph of Peter and Paul Fortress, but not where the prisoners hang out, so not as exciting.

Oh wait, there's a light switch

2009-10-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

New Digs

2009-10-03T00:23:00.000-07:00

Not in Russia anymore. Back in school.

Scotland and Wales

2009-10-02T23:57:00.000-07:00

. . . in Russia

2009-06-15T22:07:00.000-07:00

28 Reasons

2009-05-19T13:04:00.000-07:00

I'm 28 today. I'm going to write 28 things I like about me.

This was my idea. No one put me up to it and no one else can have the credit, just me. Actually, it most definitely was not my idea. Someone put me up to it and I'm robbing them of all the credit. But you don't know that. You believe everything I say. So for you, just go ahead and believe me when I say it was my idea. I'm not going to stop you.

Your passionate, impulsive response to my idea: Wow. What a fantastic idea!! (please note that exclamation points are only used in referring to your response. I wouldn't be caught dead using one). I can think of 28 things I like about Joseph too! Nay, I can think of thousands! (I would likewise never use "nay").

You might decide to post a comment, encouraging others to join your quest of attaching to my already definitive list, 28 additional reasons to love me. This is, of course, completely unnecessary. My 28 suit me just fine. But since you apparently need it so badly, I will allow your commentary. If I were you, I would elaborate on one or two of the 28 below. For instance, number one--I look good--invites discussion. You may choose to rate my good looks on a scale of 10-20 (1-10 is insufficient, I graduated from that in 7th grade), or you may choose to describe certain aspects of my good looks, my attractive Christmas stache last year, for example.

The 28:

1) I look good

2) I always wash my hands after using the toilet

3) I can do 60 push-ups when I'm happy; 100 when I'm mad

4) I can ride 100 miles on my bike without telling the world I'm riding for a cause and asking for money.

5) I can sleep way better than Rachel, Becky, or Jared.

6) I remember lines from movies, even if I don't remember lines from what you said two minutes ago.

7) I'm potty-trained

8) I'm funny. Even Jared thinks so.

9) I write good.

10) Jared still likes me. Chances are he doesn't like you, so this is big.

11) I can be scolded, yelled at, accused of all forms of neglegence and still get everyone else to clean the kitchen while I stand there cracking jokes.

12) I have more leg hair than Ben, which is why I'm Grandma's favorite.

13) I have less mass than Ben, but can still eat more ice-cream, which is why I'm, Grandpa's favorite.

14) I don't use exclamation points or emoticons. Nor do I write "lol," and you still understand what I mean.

15) I was strong enough physically and mentally at age 1 to kick Rachel out of the cradle, or so the story goes. Rachel reminds me of this every time I see her.

16) I learned how to whistle at age 19. And they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks (turns out though, 19 is young, because I still can't roll my tummy like James and I've tried, I've tried).

17) I floss with a credit card at nice restaurants.

18) If girls don't like me they tell me it's not me. So I guess it's not me. It's them.

19) I'm Jared's choice for spotter when he's lifting weights. That's because under this thin, mass-less frame, he sees the real me, the strong and capable me, the me who can call someone bigger to help out if he can't get the weights off him.

20) I can do push-ups with 50 Chinese kids on my back (50= 6 or 7).

21) I don't drink and drive. I don't even drive. Sometimes I drink and ride, though. But I don't think there's a law prohibiting that, especially if you're just drinking water.

22) I play the piano, even when I don't have to.

23) I still walk on my knees over the carpet if I'm wearing shoes. I also still eat my vegetables.

24) I was 24 once.

25) Sometimes I like to go hot-tubbing with the boys in the winter. Then I jump out and make a snow angel on the lawn. Then I jump back in the hot tub. Then I experience pain all over my body. Then I do it again because Jared says it's cool.

26) Sometimes I light a match just to light a match.

27) I've loved deeply, and lost. Then I've loved deeply and lost again. Then I've loved again just because losing is so cool.

28) I don't do drugs. I don't have to. You laugh at my jokes, and apparently that's all the high I need.

Measuring Sticks: All Those Little Lines, by JMC

2009-03-10T20:57:00.000-07:00

BEX is a big deal. This is coming from a man who emerged as the world's biggest deal in the mid-1990's and only got bigger in the 00's. So if I say Bex is a big deal, cross-referencing is unnecessary. Bex is huge. And if you've ever been in the same room as her, you know what I mean: 5' 2" has never been taller. In fact, according to Johnson and Johnson Middle School physics teacher Mr. Stuffs, measuring systems are losing their credibility. "Five-foot-two could very well turn out to be five-foot-three in the near future.” Case-studies such as “Bex” have shaken the foundations of science in recent years. Within a few decades students may be using a system for measuring height completely different than what we see on rulers and measuring tapes today.

Mr. Stuffs is not alone. Kids across the nation have begun breaking their rulers and burning piles of "anything with those stupid little lines on it."* Students have teamed up with staff at St. Measure-me High School to protest the school’s name. They hope that by boycotting classroom instruction and marching across campus all day carrying life-size posters of Bex with 5’ 3” printed on them, administration will change the school’s name. When asked what they want the school’s new name to be, Jamal Wright, the school’s all-American quarterback, replied, “St. Measure-me Right!” Feelings of insecurity and doubt have also caught hold in some areas. “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” says one distraught kindergartener at Stick with Sticks Elementary School. “What do these little lines mean anyway?” What indeed. If Becky Castleton can weigh in at 50 lbs. and stretch the measuring tape to 5’ 2” while towering over six-footers in substance and breaking scales with the sheer weight of personality, what credence can we really give to conventional measuring instruments? None at all.

And what about age? “Surely the movement has nothing against the way we measure age,” asserts one critic. But I answer, have you ever seen a younger 30 than Bex? The woman is barely 20. Either we advance the age considered “prime,” or we call a 20 year-old body 30. I say throw out your institutions of measurement. Burn those rulers and change those school names! Bex is a big deal—much bigger than 5’ 2”.

* words of Jiggle McSnigs, a student at StrongBig Junior High and co-founder of “Students against Sticks With Stupid Little Lines on Them.”

JMC is a freelance journalist who travels to small American towns, interrupts classroom instruction, steals children's lunches, and threatens to keep them in at recess unless they say what he tells them.

never ending gems from Steve and Sara's archives

2009-02-25T17:25:00.000-08:00

The makings of a Taiwanese boy band? Yeah, we were tainted. When in Rome . . .

props to my benefactors

2009-02-11T11:31:00.000-08:00

I stole this picture from Steve. But let's be honest, you already guessed that. When have I ever not stolen my pictures from Steve? When I steal them from Sara. Fine. The point is, I owe Steve and others so much back-payment in royalty fees that tacking on a bit more won't hurt will it? In fact, let's drop the pretense all together. Can I really do a better job than Sara and Steve at montage-ing our Ohio/Niagara adventure? Can I really out-do the thrill they've already captured? Can I really make the trip live inside you better than Sara already has? No. So let's simply provide you the link to Sara's authentic display and skip whatever regurgitation I might conjure. Enjoy: http://saraintaiwan.blogspot.com/

college-level

2009-02-04T21:36:00.000-08:00

OSU has a wrestling team. A really good wrestling team. They're ranked 5th in the country. I know what you're thinking: "How many more wrestling teams can there be? 5th in the country could mean last in the country. How, Joseph, can we be confident you haven't simply succumbed to the doctrine of 'Crimson and Gray,' that thick mist of Ohio State school spirit that sends even the youngest freshman streaking down High Street in nothing but silver and red paint yelling out oaths of terrific hostility towards anything Michigan? On top of that, Joseph, you're guilty of sport favoritism, a parasite that always seeks a convenient host--OSU's wrestling team in your case. You can't possibly know what real competition is on a massive scale because you forewent indoctrination by the 'real American' sport when you turned down the grid for a wrestling mat in high school. You watch college football, but you've never really given up your loyalties have you?" A good point. But one that you would not be asking if you were one of my brothers. Therefore, if you are not one of said brothers, you can stop reading; you're embarrassing me.

To my brothers: OSU has a freaking awesome wrestling team. They're all thugs, the whole lot of 'em. With arms the width of Seth's head when he has his afro, and six-packs the size of real six-packs. None of them can hear a thing out of the cauliflower on both sides of their head and they don't breathe from the moment the whistle blows. These guys sprint for all six. And the technique? Ah, it's beautiful. I saw the sweetest barrel-roll, the fasted single-leg, the slickest back-door, the meanest 5-point combo, and something I can only describe as an inside-out standing Peterson that went airborne into a Syracuse spin and landed with a leg-ride of sorts--all that to escape a double-leg. I stood up and roared after that one. I couldn't help it. I used to paint--these guys are artists. I'm telling you, you would have loved it. Every time a new match would start, the announcer would rattle off each wrestler's credentials. I don't think I ever heard less than at least a two-time state champion from either team. Some were four-timers. And that was just the teaser. Their NCAA records sounded like as good a license to kill as any I would need to get out of their way. Here's something interesting I found out about college rules: a tie goes to the man with the most riding time. No overtime. I thought that was kind of weird, but it makes sense. Don't expect to finish the sweet comeback you're on during overtime if you can't shake the guy's hips during regulation. You better do it now or never. Anyway, I felt myself back in an element I used to live on, but forgot about. Like living in a world without fire and then seeing it again. Then feeling it again. The blaze was amazing; the heat, exhilarating.

The Russian Child

2009-01-20T23:43:00.000-08:00

My sister Rachel had a kid yesterday. Her second. Elena Rachel Delap. Very cool. Very Russian. Very Rachel. And very much already my favorite. Not because I've seen the little Russian child, but because she's a little Russian child. Me and little Lenichka are going to get along swimmingly. How could we not? We're both Russian.

Borsch

2008-12-21T23:11:00.000-08:00

Borsch is the remedy to whatever ails me . . . when it's done right. And my mom--she done it right. I haven't tasted this fulfillment of man's desire since last I tasted Borsch in Russia six years ago. Many an artist has tried her hand at recreating the love I lost in leaving, heaven knows I couldn't do it, but tonight it has returned. My genius mother in all her culinary glory reinvented the wheel so long confined to Russian kitchens, and I partook of moments lived by a 19 and 20 year-old Joseph--my other childhood. For childhood it is when suddenly new senses replace the five you knew before. If a man is to all at once see and smell and feel and hear and taste new matter as I did in Russia, he abandons the former and is again a child, or else he loses his senses. I chose to acquire the new. Yet lose my senses is what I almost did upon returning home, I loved the new set so intensely. And every time I managed to inspire efforts at awakening the new set sleeping, I only roused the dead, irritated a man in slumber. Each bowl of Borsch stung worse than if I'd left it untouched. It was soup--just soup, no matter what they called it. And then tonight! My mother made it live! The unused flavors meshed with unused taste awoke the unused senses lost to memory. I was in Russia again. I couldn't even be tempted with dessert until my taste buds cooled. It was that real. My mother is a genius, she really is.

Christmas Cards

2008-12-19T10:56:00.000-08:00

Since I know you'd be confused with a Christmas card that had a picture of a Nativity scene on it instead of a picture of the person or family who sent you the card, I've kept to these same social stipulations: Merry Christmas--here's a picture of me.

Nothing against people who go to all the work and expense of sending out self-portrait Christmas cards--I recognize the effort and the opportunity to tell people how you're doing, and I've received several already this season from family and friends I value highly--but the guys who grew up with the ambition of recreating the scene of Christ's birth on a Christmas card are out of work. So all those cards I bought back in the 90's and never used?--they're good for Christmas decorations around the house, but that's it. You think you can still use them, save some money by simply inserting a family pic, and be considered just as hip as your neighbor? You're wrong. No longer can you add yourself to the card; you have to be the card. So anyway, here's an e-Christmas card. The printers and tree-cutters aren't making a dime on this either. Merry Christmas.

Relationship Status

2008-11-25T19:53:00.001-08:00

More of this:

Less of this:

More ladies swooning over my creative genius;
less guys standing in front of BFF posters with me.
More artistic finesse; less awkward-ness.
More proportionate arm length; less disproportionate arm length.
(I mean, check out those arms? Have another look. It looks even weirder the second time).

Nothing against Steve, but he found a better BFF than long arms over there. So is it really too much to ask for the same? I'm talking ladies lined up at my front door and outside every class waiting to offer me their name, number, and favorite color. I can deal with that. But until then, I tell my dad, my hands are tied concerning the advancement of my relationship status. Pops isn't hearing it. You have to go looking, he says. What? Go looking? I don't have time for that. Plus, I liked the good old days in seventh grade when they came to me. And anyway, who said they could stop? Is my hair less attractive now? I used to have a bowl-cut. Maybe I should get one of those again--bring back a movement lost to the toddlers. What about a mullet--those are time-less? No? Well, come on Dad, what could it be then? I don't look 27. I'm as hot as I was at 21. And I didn't have to do much looking then. So when did the screening process turn into a hunt? What? Of course I brush my teeth, Dad. I'm telling you, it's got to be the hair or something. Personality? Well, I don't know. You may have something there, but again, that didn't used to matter. Girls dug my bowl-cut and personality was incidental. Maybe I should work on a few jokes or something--let them know I'm funny so they don't think I'm so into my hair, even though I can't stop thinking about it and how I'm going to lose this one if the wind doesn't stop fro-ing my curls out. If I'm funny, I'll have a personality right? Sort of? What do you mean 'sort of?' Long walks on the beach? Dad, you're killing me. How's that personality? No one does that up here. It's Ohio. And it's freezing anyway. Ok, so you think I should at least try to talk to girls somewhere, in some venue, somehow, about something. Nice. Well that just kills it doesn't it. Dad, you know I can't talk to girls. They're weird. And their brains work in a way I can't get. I never know if I'm speaking their language or not. They have this weird text language that gets into all forms of communication and I'm left squinting at them, something they don't always like. LOL, :), U R (a picture of a sun), all sorts of variations on a smiley face theme, about a billion of these !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and another lol. What are you saying (squint)? I'm no good at this pops. I don't know what it's going to take to match me up with a representative of the other gender, but if it ever happens, it will be a miracle. But I'm a big fan of miracles, so I'll bank on that.

Until then, "Table for one!"

Win a Cruise! (please excuse model #4)

2008-11-15T20:13:00.000-08:00

This is not now. This is months ago. This is not here. It's Taiwan. But you will pardon me, Steve took so many pictures I keep coming upon ones I've never seen. It feels new to me. My apologies to those of you who do not share this feeling. Congratulations on paying better attention than me. But indulge me. This shot reminds me of a Sears clothing ad of mixed decades and genres. Steve represents casual youth with his "Who Says" T-shirt and jean shorts. Mary goes back nearly six decades--the baby bottle, loud shades and a sun umbrella proving moms can still be fashionable. I'm obviously catering to the "wealthy business man on a cruise" group. And Sara? Sara kind of throws the whole thing into a satire. She fits in by undoing the accomplishments of models #1, 2,and 3. Nothing will sell now that suddenly we have a model looking at the camera, suddenly a model with a broken arm and a white cast in stark contrast to a black shirt, a model holding an umbrella blown inside out by an apparently angry wind. But stranger still, a model who is smiling despite frailty, a model that shows signs of being human. Models represent perfection and the non-existent world of human fancy. Ironically, that's how they sell. Steve, Mary, and I could be made of plastic for all anyone could care and they'd still bet on us, pay down the big money on a gamble for happiness. Model #4 isn't a model. She's obviously real. She'll make Sears no money . . . though she might make Hallmark some money if this picture included the caption: On your birthday we wish you all the love and joy money can buy! (Please ignore model #4).

. . . AFTER I go to Russia

2008-11-05T15:10:00.000-08:00

Lena's right. What was I thinking? I won't go to Taiwan, I'll go to Russia.

Maybe I can go to Russia and then Taiwan, and then Russia again, and then Taiwan again to earn money, and then Russia again to spend it. Taiwan can fund my trips to Russia. Hurray.

This year

2008-11-04T19:47:00.000-08:00

If every night turns out to be an all-nighter,
If that guy in class doesn't stop spitting on me from trying too hard to make his point,
If I still haven't found enough time to get my bike fixed,
If Obama's grassroots blitz doesn't ease up once he's in the House,
If I haven't managed to get past High Street unmolested,
If I still can't feel comfortable with the other gender,
If none of my internships for this summer work out,
If I can't get funding for next year . . .

I'm going back to Taiwan.

Who's in?

Dear Maren

2008-10-31T19:41:00.000-07:00

I don't have a kid, so I don't have a camera, so I don't take pictures, so my graduate school experience is not documented in photos, and I don't have Steve here to take them for me, which is the only reason I have any pictures from Taiwan, which is old news, which is why I don't have new news, which is why I haven't updated my blog, which is why no one likes me, which is why I don't have a girl friend, which is why I'm not married, which is why I don't have a kid.

But I went to a wedding in D.C. last weekend and Becky was there and Becky has a camera (but not a kid--go figure) and Becky has friends and Becky wanted me to take pictures of her with her friends and Becky gave me her camera and I took a picture of me.

So here is a new picture of me so you don't have to look at old pictures of me so you can think I'm "an OK guy" so you can hook me up with your friends so I can get a girl friend so I can get married so I can have a kid so I can finally get a camera.

THE END

What's on your refrigerator?

2008-10-01T17:32:00.000-07:00

BexLiz Creations (posted first on Becky's blog. re-posted here for purposes of necessary redundancy . . . then again, is my face ever redundant? apparently not.)

Bex and Liz sent me a care package for my first week of grad school. This was inside, accompanied by other goodies. Still struggling to acculturate myself to a new town, new house, new people, new life, new me? Not anymore; not with this thing staring back at me every morning from my refrigerator.

The CHronicles of Riddick

2008-09-03T18:47:00.000-07:00

Have you seen this thing? This gem of all cinematic gems?

Reasons you should compromise your intelligence by viewing:

1) Vin Diesel
2) "There'll be one speed--mine. If you can't keep up, don't step up. You'll just die."

3) "What was that? You don't care if you live or die? ... Well, maybe I do. KEEP MOVING!"

4) Vin Diesel

5) "Me? I'm just passing through."

6) "I'll kill you with my tea cup."

7) Vin Diesel

8) When Vin dumps a canteen of water on his head to protect himself from scorching flames.

9) The steam coming off his head after coming out of the flames.

10) Vin Diesel

To Jared, to every bad-movie-night we had, to every dose of this mind-altering narcotic, to all the brain cells I lost in the process, and to our sponsors Vin Diesel and Ice Cube (xXx), thank you.

2008-09-02T17:43:00.000-07:00

Steve's phone works again. For those of you interested in a sequel, that's it. I could hear Steve on the phone yesterday more clearly than when we used to live in the same room. So in case you were afraid to call him after reading my previous post, fear no more.

Hi steve .... what?

2008-09-01T11:39:00.000-07:00

"Hey Steve, I can't understand you."
"Oh, weel I grrrt thrrris nrrrrrew pho...kurrr."
"No you didn't. You got weesled by some phone salesman. That ain't no new phone."
"No, I said-krrrr, I berrrrrt it'sssss the crack-k-k-k-k in the pho sssss."
"Like I said Steve, I can't understand a word. And that sounds nothing like what you said the first time."
"Hey, marrbe youkrr earses are messssst ooop!"
"Easy Steve. My ears aren't messed. Your phone's what's messed. And if you start turning on me, I'm going to think you's messed too."
"Grrrrrrr!"
"Is that a dog? I didn't know you had a dog."
"I don't have a rrufff. Hey Joe, remember rugrrrk do krrruchchch straggrrl?"
"Sure."

Pretty soon I just gave up trying to understand and started rotating through generic response A B and C to keep the conversation going as smoothly as possible.

"Joe, grphsed to foojellfff."
"Yeah."
"Ikcruchrr tosnoxxf"
"Uhuh."
"Riggle mic smiggle bigs."
"Exactly. Well, good talking to you, got to go."

This is the same courtesy Steve showed me on the back of a scooter in Taiwan. I'm sure he didn't hear a word I said with the wind catching each one and flipping it inside out before it got back to him. But I always left with the fuzzy feeling of having just had a very agreeable conversation.

Hopefully Steve went to get his phone fixed after our chat. Or at least to chew the company out until they promised him all sorts of technical compensation. I'm rooting for you, Steve. It would never do for the most technically savvy guy of our Berhan outfit to be stuck with a phone that transforms him into Chewbacca.

Speaking of cell phones, I finally got one. It's this shiny blue thing that does everything including shave my face and pop popcorn. There's no way of actually discovering all the gimmicks on it, but I enjoy new surprises every day. Besides breaking up ear plaque still lingering from my trip to Thailand, it also plays an Asian jingle whenever I'm feeling nostalgic for Taiwan, vibrates in my hand when I need a hand massage, and tucks me in at night after telling me I'm OK and people like me. I think it's alive. Kind of like Herold Crick's wrist watch in Stranger than Fiction. But I can't get it to palm-read or tell my fortune, so it does have limitations. If you want my number, call somebody you think cool enough to have it. Steve's one. But if you call him, don't complain if you can't tell what language he's speaking, let alone hear the number right.

Constructing a new template, not a new blog

2008-08-13T00:41:00.000-07:00

Out with the old and in with the new.
But not completely out.
Remember the old. Prune it. Bring in new seeds,
Though these will need pruning soon enough.
Then do it again.

It wouldn't do well to forget Asia. Especially since it will be present in my studies (my Russian program will focus on Russian-Chinese relations). But I can't continue writing more chapters in a finished book, like epilogues good only for pampering the past. So I'm changing the book cover. It's a new book, set in the same binding with the first for consumer convenience. So go ahead, buy the set. Feel them the same, see them separate.

good bye's and clean up

2008-06-22T12:26:00.001-07:00

no longer in the virgin cheeks club

2008-06-17T05:19:00.001-07:00

minus the media

2008-06-17T02:28:00.002-07:00

I don't actually have a camera. I'm going to stop pretending I do. Steve gets credit for 99% of all media posted to this blog. The other 1% divides up 11 ways, the breakdown of which I don't care to specify. But if you're ever wondering why some of my posts do not carry weight, it's because words mean nothing. Pictures and video clips mean everything. And sometimes I'm too lazy to ask Steve for a picture. My sincere apologies go out to all your overly stimulated senses. Mine too, actually. I skim blogs the same way and get all depressed when after skimming I discover the only way to get any entertainment out of it is to read the words. It's the same reason kids don't want a story book void of pictures. It becomes a chore or task. Chores are what your mom makes you do before you can go outside and play. Tasks are what your teacher assigns you at the end of each class. You want neither. And by golly you sure won't do it if it's anybody else besides mom and teacher. So when you skim a blog looking for media to jump start your desire to read, and you find nothing, it better be a darn good friend or relative's blog or that engine ain't starting. Because if it does, you're sure not doing it for kicks and giggles--you know your hide's gonna get it if you don't read. And then, maybe then do you start reading. And if you're lucky, very lucky, it's worth the read and you stop reserving 9/10ths of your brain to plan out what you're going to do for entertainment once you've finished your chores. That said, 10 points to anyone who reads this. And I'll know if you're faking it because I'll ask you how many pull-ups my dad can do--something I'll swear I included in the post.

Class Profile

2008-06-04T20:15:00.008-07:00

So they hand me this form to fill out. There's always a form to fill out. This one says ELE Class Profile. As if there's a way to map out the dysfunction and chaos of this evening kindergarten class. But hey, there's a form to be considered. The new teach needs to think he/she has a reference guide to successful teaching before he/she discovers he/she was very much mistaken.

Classroom Management

1. Seating Chart: What? You want these kids to sit down? Not going to happen.

2. Discipline System:
Behavior Record: Sure, this class holds a record. Not the one you want.
Punishments: Capital
Rewards: Less than Capital

Suggestions, Special Needs, and Encouragement

Suggestions: Go back to America
Special Needs: You must have some if you want to teach this class
Encouragement: Guns are illegal in Taiwan. These kids won't have them.
(Discouragement: Guns are illegal in Taiwan. You won't have one.)

What BMCs and CCs can your students use without relying on a model?

1. "I'm sitting nicely." (Which they're not)
2. "Today is Sunday." (Which it never is. "Class is Monday to Friday kids. Sit down James, and stop choking Louie. Then again, keep choking Louie. That way he'll stop choking Frank for a minute.")

Indicate where next semester's teacher should begin teaching:

We've been working on such phrases as, "Stop choking me. Stop kicking me. Stop poking me in the eye." You can start teaching them things like, "I deserved it. It's my fault. He choked me because I was choking him first." Mostly though, you'll be the one learning new phrases. Such things as, "Danny, keep your pants on. James, take your hands off Tyson and go to the corner. Shalee and Shalene, that's only legal in Massachusetts and California. Hey, if you're going to spit, you're going to lick it up. Hey, get off me already. HEYYYYYYYYYYY! STOP YOUR HONKING!"

They're sweet. Have fun.

Kidnapped

2008-05-27T22:26:00.007-07:00

And so it was that Sara kidnapped Joe and buried him deep in the jungle after dark, with nothing but an empty gas tank and a scooter attached to it. She thought it was fun. He thought it was "fun." Notice how differently you read the word "fun" from the way you read the word fun. The pause means everything.

"I love living on the edge," was followed by, "I thought the road would be turning away from the mountains by now," and, "Wow, would you look at that gas gauge!" and, "It doesn't really look like anyone lives out here, does it?" Everything being said was being said by Sara. And a good thing too. I go into survival mode when minutes are all I have before motor melt-down, and before my super sonic metabolizing tummy is stranded miles from food. And then if I let myself talk, I'm wasting precious energy.

The jungle doesn't offer too much by way of light either. Especially at night. In fact, it shrouds any that might have been, were the moon and stars visible. So pot holes and sharp bends in "the road less traveled" become unanticipated guests--the kind you don't invite on purpose, but who find out about the party anyway and come--the very characteristic that keeps them off the invitee list in the first place . We almost died 37 times that night. I counted. Not out loud, mind you. And who's idea was this anyway? Why did I go along with this? Once again, not out loud.

"Wow! What an adventure!" and then, "Gee, I've never seen the gas gauge so low!" Man Sara, could you just pick one? I have a hard time keeping track of what mood we're in when you go from excited to aghast so quickly. I'm focussed on the one: what our first move is when the engine stops and the head-lights go out. It's a good thing you're here telling me what an adventure we're having. Somehow I forget that part until I'm safely at the dinner table with a mound of edibles in front of me and a crowd of thrill seekers around me waiting on a good story. Yes, then it's an adventure. But now, it's survival.

And then the engine stopped. And the lights went out, and we had to use scooter parts as make-shift weapons to hunt food for the next three weeks. Not really, but unfortunately, there's nothing more exciting or dangerous about the story. The road eventually headed back out toward civilization like Sara predicted and within a few miles we saw a gas station. The only other thing remotely interesting about it was the three wrong turns I took within a five minutes span at the same intersection. I was still in survival mode, still thinking we were lost, so I couldn't recognize a thing and my internal compass kept changing it's mind every time I made a decision. Then Sara says she's known where we are for a half hour now and that she's "letting me figure it out" for fun. Oh wait, for "fun." Give me something strong. A beer with as much root in there as possible. How long have you known where we are, Sara? What kind of freakish double sided, slap job are you trying to pull here? Lure a trusting joe into the promised bliss of nighttime scooter riding, throw in the suggestion of a mountainous view point, and then pretend to get lost coming down the other side. It's your fault I had to change my drawers when I got home. See what I go through here? Oh, you think I'm your cute little brother? That I love getting tricked, poked, stuffed in laundry machines, and picked on by big lovable sister bear? Well, not this one. I'm letting you know right now, a storm's coming . . . a storm's coming.

had a birthday

2008-05-24T07:49:00.003-07:00

I had a birthday.
They shouted.
They chanted my name,
brought down houses,
scattered little pieces of colored paper,
wrote me tributes,
made me cakes,
made me smiles.
And then they sang to me.

But then they weren't singing.
No more smiles were being made,
no more cakes,
no more words or colored paper.
The houses stood straight;
no shouting brought them down.
No chanting reached my ears.
Everyone was sleeping...

and I was sitting.
I was sitting and being 27
for the first time--
the stillness finally confirming it.

But "the tree was happy"
and so was the aging boy.
He was sitting and he was happy.
He had been given a birthday.

"Where's Waldo the White Guy" and other typical pictures of an American in China

2008-05-05T21:51:00.004-07:00

Dear Meagan (my cousinly one),
In an effort to meet your request, I've posted here a few pictures more focused on my Chinese experience and less on my glamorous complexion.

. . . Although, it's a bit difficult to see the sights without being a sight, if you're American. Hence, the continued element of "I'm a rockstar--at least, I must be because people I've never met keep asking to have their picture taken with me." Gavin may actually be a rockstar, but I can at least feel like one, right? I don't write songs, I just wear white skin and a ball cap.

... you are my haha!

2008-05-04T08:20:00.009-07:00

Steve once received a love note from one of his students with these sentiments, "you are my haha!" Any man would be jealous of such open adoration from a student. So I'm unashamed of my jealousy. And being thus unashamed, I work to extract similar displays of affection from my own students, and if I can, everyone else's. A few weeks ago I began unleashing the secret weapon I keep hidden atop my humerus bone and beneath my bulging right sleeve. The kindergarten children have never seen something so defined in their life. Or so their bugged out eyes and shrieks of amazement tell me. Everyone wants to palm the mass. Because for little people, seeing isn't believing--touching and poking is. I've never felt like a bigger man than under the awe struck gaze of little Taiwanese children. We get a lot of language out of it too. The kids now know how to say, "buff stud, ripped, cut, you look like Arnold Schwarzenegger," and other everyday phrases. It also works with teaching comparison modes. "Mr. Joe is bigger than Mr. Steve, Mr. Joe is hotter, studlier, and gets more girls than Mr. Steve." Then we go on field trips . . . over to Mr. Steve's class to demonstrate what we've learned. There's a rumor going around that Steve is secretly convening with some of his students after regular school hours to form a fight club bent on beating me and my class into submission. But this is English class, Steve. It's all about the talk, not the walk. So make sure at least you draw out the language while you prepare your little army.

Steve blogs again

2008-04-28T06:05:00.003-07:00

Steve must have needed something to get him out of writers block or something. Otherwise, why write an entire entry devoted to the description of obscure details about my character? Yeah, he must have needed something to spring board off of. But I won't say it isn't a tad bit flattering. Significant, insignificant, major, minor, useful, useless, liberating, incriminating--it still brings a smile regardless, to think someone has pictures of you and doesn't mind posting them. Click here for Steve's entry.

Steve blogs

2008-04-26T09:46:00.002-07:00

Steve blogs. I don't seem to have it in me, so click here and read his.

someone said "manship?"

2008-04-14T05:58:00.004-07:00

For Sara's special report on me and Steve's "manship," as she calls it, click here.

Man time

2008-03-29T05:47:00.013-07:00

Sometimes Steve and I go shopping together. Sometimes we go out to eat together. Sometimes we stay up late and talk about girls. We have matching man-bags, t-shirts, and bath soap. We plan on buying matching shoes and matching pants. You could say we have a close relationship. And that we've possibly been influenced towards a more feminine nature from the lengthy and very close living arrangements we have with eleven females. But you might also be a guy reading this and see something else. You might see our "manship" as more survival mode than unfortunate evolution. Which is the perspective Steve and I like to take. Have you ever felt like an only child adopted into a family of eleven girls? Have you ever felt like you were a girl? If you haven't, you've had nightmares about it...if you're a guy, that is. And upon waking, you've sought out your guy friends, not girl friends, to ease the horrific memories of the night before through root-beer, pizza, and a bad-movie-night (bad acting, I mean. Not bad...you know, stuff). And it's not that you hate girls that you need man time. It's that you're glad you're a guy and not a girl, and the more crowded you are with girls the more you need to remind yourself you're not one. Girls are fantastic. But both genders agree there's a definite need to celebrate gender differences. And that's what Steve and I are doing when we spend time together away from the girly types. This however, does not explain the feminine nature of our manly celebrations. For that I ask, have you ever been to Taiwan? Is there really anything that manly to do in a land where grown men wear pink and giggle like girls when they say "hello" to a passer-by American? Don't get me wrong--I like Taiwanese dudes. They have their gender going for them. But I'm having trouble remaining a manly man in this culture. So we're girly men. But given our living situation, I'm glad we're still at least that.

staging

2008-03-25T08:04:00.006-07:00

I was offered a fellowship at Ohio State University. I got excited. I started playing with a miniature basketball and bothering people all over the house. Mary was none too impressed by the offer or the bothering, but staged congratulatory remarks for purposes of conformity. I saw through the drama and bothered her more. She began hating. . . and eventually confiscated my basketball. Then we got along, but only because I began staging the norm, and I'll continue until I find where she done hid that basketball. Then I'll make her hate me again.

tiny hands

2008-03-16T08:17:00.004-07:00

Since I already have a blog reserved for poetry, I can't very well post any here. So I'll just invite you to click here and read the poetry that would be under these pictures.

Dear Katie, you didn't miss much.

2008-03-12T05:55:00.004-07:00

I found myself in an Asian candy store of culture last night. The teachers at Berhan went to a "Feel yourself Chinese!" spectacle put on by a traveling Chinese performing arts group. The Berhan teachers minus Katie, that is. Through a series of unfortunate circumstances, Katie and her ticket never met, and she was forced to sit at home and crochet Easter baskets for the upcoming school Easter celebrations. After reading this though, I hope she feels her unfortunate circumstance were not so unfortunate.

It's not that I don't like culture or music or dancing or flowers, but something about all the soft colors and fuzzy borders, the "Nessun Dorma" -like ending to every song, and an emcee who jokes between each number, doesn't thrill my overplayed senses. A man can only take so much frosting before needing a water closet. Give me more grits. Some cornmeal and chili. Even cow tongue or chicken feet. Something hard before the fluff. There's a reason we attribute the craving for sugar to a "sweet tooth," not "sweet teeth." Teeth have always had a hankering for meat. But there was that odd ball tooth who demanded chocolate. And we like that sweet tooth, but he'd never amount to anything without iron-fisted friends. Chocolate might be all that's worth living for, but if everyone's a chocolate bar, who's to do the living? You'll rot your teeth on sweets if not for the grit inside you asking for substance. You'll fight to down those vegetables just so desert will taste better. Last night I ate too much frosting and too little veggies.

To the performers credit, they had talent and skill. I was impressed at several points: the back flip those guys did in that one dance, and the really really loud high note that tenor held for 2 minutes. Both moments saw my eyebrows raise an inch. Whitney and Sara, who sat near me in the audience, will argue against my right to criticize on the basis I nodded off during several of the first half moon-dance numbers, but I was awake for several more and I have a hard time believing the frosting that I missed tasted any different. The multi-media power-point rainbow frame behind the glittering dancers, backed by mystical lullaby sounding orchestration, and the tireless smoke machine off-stage, made for a magical evening difficult to forget . . . or dislodge in the water closet I ran to once we got home.

Credit should also be awarded the power point screen in the back that displayed the Chinese characters for "Truthfulness, Compassion, and Forbearance," often enough to let me memorize the strokes, and to Mr. and Mrs. emcee, who mustered a two-person skit between each number, despite the inaudible laughter in return, yet very audible chatter among audience members.

locked in song

2008-03-02T21:18:00.010-08:00

You want to see what we teach. No, that's not a question, so stop swooping up at the end of the sentence. You do want to see. You've been wondering the what and how ever since I told you I was teaching English in Taiwan. The following ends your wanting--yours and my students'. Neither could want to see anything more after seeing this, in or out of class. You'll be sorry you wondered. Just try to go home and forget about it. That's what my students do. But they can't. They can't shake the darn tune from their spongy brains. And neither can we. Who wants language skills bad enough to mimic this? Everyone. Even the teachers. We already speak English, but can't stop the songs built to teach it. They beat the insides of our skulls. A Saturday bike ride out in the country, finally away from the screaming children, away from the dry-erase board dust, away from the larger than microscopic spittle in which a kindergarten teacher showers everyday, and we still find it necessary to pull off the bike trail and disengage the kindergarten songs pounding at the walls of our brains. And yet, it's hopeless. Our efforts to molt the songs we wrap so tightly around us, like snake skin two sizes too small, serves only to constrict us further. Singing never solves the problem of singing. You'll only get better at it. If you want to kill the thing, leave the dead skin on. Suffocate the unwanted. But for kindergarten teachers, what's the point? You have to sing and dance the same gig everyday for the next 5 out of every 7, so why choke to death in the monster's grip Saturday and Sunday? Shake hands with the beast. And sing like an idiot whenever it comes knocking.

digression of a proposal

2008-03-02T08:53:00.009-08:00

a good group

2008-02-24T00:23:00.003-08:00

Steve, what time is it?

2008-02-21T07:17:00.004-08:00

Nearly every afternoon, during our basic reading classes, Steve, Laura and I take our kids to the park 30-40 yards from the school. Steve has a class of eight, Laura has about the same and I have ten. Half-way into their three-hour class, these kids need a break, and they get it too, regardless of whether or not we take them outside. The mania is easier to work off in a park than inside four walls of a classroom. I've been tied down and tortured by these little people like Gulliver in his travels, for trying recess indoors. Kids gotta breathe.

Unfortunately, break can't last until the end of class. This necessitates a watch. But none of us ever have a watch. Like clock-work though, Steve asks me on the way out to the park each day, "Did you bring your watch Joseph?" This is only a cue for me to reply in the negative. "No. Forgot it again." Both Steve and I own wrist watches. Neither of us bring it anywhere. Why don't we bring it? Both of us know the time shows up on Steve's digital camera after every picture he takes. Steve takes at least three pictures during break everyday just to check the time. In consequence, Steve has a lot of really important pictures on his camera like the one you see above. Is there anything in the picture indicating...anything? No. You might have already asked yourself, "is there any reason this picture was taken? Is Joseph running out of pictures to blog about or something?" No on both. The picture was not taken to capture anything Kodak and I'm not running out of pictures. Steve takes just as many Kodak moment pictures as time-check pictures. So why did I post this picture? To remind me of the times we didn't need a picture, but needed to take a picture.

Book Review

2008-02-20T05:30:00.006-08:00

My sister Rachel recommended this book to me. I brought it with me to Taiwan. I just finished it. If you are looking for a good read, try this one. It has action, history, and perspective. It wasn't written by an English major, but what it lacks in word technique, it makes up for in personal perspective. If you've ever been curious about communist Russia and the difficult transition away from 70 years of this regime; and if you've ever wanted a little more detail on the real life drama of people engaged in espionage (not just Hollywood drama) and factual clandestine work; and if you have ever wondered what an intelligence officer/agent with LDS beliefs might think about during covert missions; and if you have ever wanted to know why I'm facinated by Russia when you aren't--pick up a copy of "A train to Potevka." It's worth the quick hours you'll spend between its covers.

They have monkeys here

2008-02-19T06:59:00.005-08:00

...even stone ones. This sculpture is a monument dedicated to my Taiwanese namesake. After being called "Mr. Monkey" by what seems to be at least two or three students in every class at Berhan (even classes I don't teach), I'm starting to think someone tipped off the kids before I got here. Who told them I was Mr. Monkey? It appears that trying to keep that a secret totally flopped. Word's out and now I spend my free time at photo shoots next to giant monkey statues, then signing souvenir photos of the same. Every kid wants one--an autographed picture of Mr. Monkey standing beside a statue of something that looks just as monkey-like as he does.

Kids love me part II

2008-02-17T01:02:00.004-08:00

I do gym with the kindergarten every day. They love me more than you do. Does your face look like this when you see me? Are you ready to poo your britches with excitement every time I say, "OK, climb on my back!" No, you are too mature for that. But these little folk? Their love knows no bounds, and they wear their fan t-shirts everyday. If I didn't think that was what I needed when I first started teaching here, it is now. Just one look at their miniature gleeful faces and I get all the warm fuzzies I need. It reminds me of something my good friend Jared said upon realizing he had a little person clinging to his fingers. "Here, take my credit card, my bank card and my beard card. Take all the money in my wallet. Sell what ever I have and take the cash. Do what you will little smuggly mumpkins--just keep holding onto my fingers."

Plus, they give me a good workout. Can you do push-ups with ten little miniatures on you? Try it sometime. It ain't the simplest feat, but you'll never let them down. No sir, you'll do that push-up if it's the last thing you do in this world. They never doubt you can do it, and neither do you.

sand dance

2008-02-14T21:13:00.010-08:00

The sand dance is an Eastern Taiwanese Tribal rite dating back to 5 billion B.C. when man discovered political persuasion. It was found that human beings, once assimilated into societal groups, could be driven as a single entity when moved upon by the power of one orator. One could manipulate the movements of a whole society by mere suggestion. The only difference between the one and the mass was instigation, the voice of opinion, the sound of reason. You could move mountains by saying something to a herd, regardless of merit. "Someone said food, and I come running." "Someone said fun, and I come running." "Someone said dance on the beach like an idiot, I come running." Billions of years later, a group of Taiwanese aborigine wannabes, in which I find myself included, decide to revive the dance on the basis of the same timeless motivation: someone suggested it. Someone said, "Hey Joseph and Tammy, we're on the beach! How about you do some neat frolicking moves for the camera?" Don't ask me why the fact we're at the beach has any power to force Tammy and I into karate-kick formation, it just does. They didn't know 5 billion years ago and they don't know now. They also don't know why once the idea has been voiced and carried out by a second and maybe third party, every establishment inside the unique human being that defames lemming-like behavior, crumbles and makes way for the stampede. And there's no way of stopping it once it starts. Every member of the group wants to dance like an idiot because, "hey, we're on the beach!" Go ahead, check the blogs of the other group members. I'm sure they have pictures of their totally wicked awesome sand dance routine as well. We all did it. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

More names and dates, they say. Less philosophy. So here's what you want: The other Berhan teachers and I spent Chinese New year in Hualian, a nice beach town on the east coast of Taiwan. The first day we rode five hours standing up on a packed passenger train until liberated in Hualian. We checked into our hostel, checked the local cuisine and checked the activities that would seek our involvement over the next four days. Toroko Gorge would require the first full day, riding scooters down the coast would take the next, and hot springs would be the main course for the third. The last day would more or less be a repeat of the first--5 hours standing on a train headed back to Feng Yuan. My favorite part of the trip was the scooters. I will die riding into the sunset on one of those things. A few others had the same idea, only they tried the dying part earlier than I plan to. Turns out, sparks fly when the metal of a motor bike meets asphalt at high speeds. My other favorite part was soaking in hot water, the origins of which apparently reside deep in the earth along with unique minerals useful to fertile women hoping to birth a man child. My other favorite part was coming home each night to the hostel where the ten of us all bunked together and talked 'till the wee hours of the morning debating the rightful name-sake for the initials MJ. The first night Mary Jackson wouldn't admit that MJ was universally recognized to mean Michael Jackson before she was even born. Steve argued it a slight to Michael Jordan and to the entire empire of sports not to attribute the initials solely to him. And the second night Mary pretended she never really went by MJ in grade school like she so vehemently declared the night before, but that she'd always thought of Peter Parker's girl friend whenever she heard a reference to MJ. Emily Joy took the torch from Mary, though, in campaigning her own rights to the initials, claiming that MJ stands for the first syllable of her first name and first letter of her middle name. It seems people will go to great lengths to ride the coat tails of the true MJ. MJ always did, ever does, and ever will stand for Michael Jackson. My other favorite part of the trip was kiwi bingshaws and coconut pudding. Then we came home and I was happy.

we play

2008-02-04T20:03:00.000-08:00

Wholesome family games. The options are hide 'n seek, super hide 'n seek (involving the additional element of a tin can), or hide 'n seek with murder. We're all over seven years old, we need death and dying in our FHE games, so we choose the last. The rules are explained as such: dress in black, extinguish all sources of light, draw a card, don't ask round-ending questions like "what does a 'W' mean?," run for your life, die when you're tapped on the shoulder, yell "body!" when you trip over a dead person, and debate the circumstances surrounding the deceased. If you can figure out who the killer is and lynch them before the next round, the game's over and you draw cards again. If not, you'll probably be dead ten minutes into round two. The game's a real thrill. We got all sorts of nooks and crannies at Berhan. The rooftop and outdoor laundry room are favorites. Tammy never hides anywhere but in the washer and Steve and Jessica dance on the roof through most of each round. I'm usually pretending I have the license to kill and following closely behind people until they freak and run or start yelling at me for being a jerk and not ending their torment already with the highly anticipated death tap. I get bored being innocent. But then there was that one time when I finally picked the killer card and successfully convinced everyone that we should change the rules to allow multiple deaths in one round. I killed three people in the first ten seconds and got lynched in the next ten. Way too trigger happy, they told me. How'd they know it was me? Was it the shrill laugh I gave after each killing or the smug look on my face during trial? Everyone's an ace detective. Back to being innocent. I try to follow Whitney into dark hallways just so I can see her go nuts with fear when I don't even have a gun. So mad at only being the murderer for ten seconds this whole evening. Now she starts to get nervous, now she starts to run, she screams! And then she kills me. Oh, the shame of it! I was limed! Now she's got the smug look and no one is going to guess she's it because she's always helping old ladies cross the street and undoing knots in kids' tennis shoes and stuff. She walks away after the slightest wink, the only gesture anyone will ever see to prove her maliciousness. And I'm the only one who sees it, but I'm dead! Pray, someone find me and sound the discovery of my corpse so we can end this round and I can get back at Whitney! No one finds me, no one cares. The game goes on for another ten minutes and everyone's dead. True to the rules, none of us move or speak the rest of the night and Whitney is the only one who sleeps in her bed. Nice. Great game. Who picked this anyway? Let's go back to super hide 'n seek.

better pictures

2008-02-01T20:14:00.000-08:00

If you would like to see pictures of my habitat at Berhan, click here.
They're on Mary's blog and give accurate depiction.

If you would like to see pictures and short bios. of all the teachers I live and work with at Berhan, click here. I paid Sara a lot of money to say what she did about me. The other bios. are pretty accurate without bribery . . . except Mary's--she paid a bit extra to get 13 children in her family instead of 11.

If you would like to see pictures of my kindergarten kids, click here.
If you would like to see pictures of my former first and fifth grade kids click here.
If you are wondering why most of these pictures are on Mary's blog, it's because Mary and I pretty much swapped classes two weeks ago when all the legal turmoil of who's teaching where the working permit tells you to teach hit. Now I teach in the old school where she used to teach and she teaches in the new school where I used to teach. Mary takes good pictures. I don't. So you should look at her's. One draw back, she makes the kids sound like angels. Don't be fooled.

you be feel good, just we can . . .

2008-01-26T08:13:00.001-08:00

I teach kindergarten now. These little people are high energy and darn cute. I teach gym class. We do push-ups together and then we see how many push-ups Mr. Joseph can do with all the kids piled up on his back. What--I love wrestling. You can see in the third picture how Steve benefits from the way I run my class. He teaches kitchen. They still think it's wrestling practice. "But Mr. Joseph lets us...." Steve loves me for it. The fourth picture is our first rain since I arrived one month ago. And you know I have to celebrate long awaited rain by forgoing the umbrella. I'm from Washington. Next: we found a donut venue in a shopping center. No-yeast, no-sugar was not my best friend right then. Last: I donned my florescent rain jacket to venture through the rooftop escape hatch. It was raining and I had the perfect suit for bright-florescent- color-loving Taiwan. Oh, and the first picture: "you be feel good, just we can..." is the reason we're here in Taiwan teaching English. Does anyone think whoever wrote that phrase and approved the construction of a food stand with those words on it really knows English well enough to be using it? Chinglish, they call it. It's everywhere.

Somewhere in Hong Kong

2008-01-22T04:57:00.000-08:00

I spent the last four days in Hong Kong. Below are two journal entries from the trip. The first is long and a big sarcastic. The second is shorter, but happier. If you only like reading for that warm tingly sensation you get during the consumption of a Crispy Cream donut, skip to the second. If you think complaining is fun and a necessary medium for good literature, read the first.

Friday, January 18.
Wednesday afternoon Laura and I were informed we'd be going to Hong Kong the next day. Coincidentally, that bit of timely information was followed up only moments later with this bit of timely information: we're changing all our classes starting next week. All teaching schemes and lesson plans have to reboot, not the nicest slice of crust to bite into right after exhausting all energies for the past two weeks establishing a teaching routine meant to last six months. But that wasn't the worst of it. Laura and I were to leave for Hong Kong and not get back until our new classes had started Monday A.M.. No time to plan. Great. Or not so. And especially not so great when once we were in Hong Kong and sitting behind a glass booth in the immigration tower trying to get our visas for which we came, the officers told us we could not get our visas until Monday evening . . . after our scheduled return flight to Taipei. Double great. And after we were both supposed to have taught six to seven hours of brand-new kindergarten. Double great, one fantastic. Also, I got sick--another timely thing. So we spent the next several hours in Hong Kong trying to call Frances, our boss in Taiwan, and finally got one minute of conversation time out of $17 H.K. in a subway pay phone booth to tell the secretary to tell Frances to change our return flight and teach 5 billion little Chinese kids English on her own until Tuesday. Suddenly, the pay phone catches on fire and I have to stop, drop, and roll right there in the middle of 30 million Chinese on-lookers. These people are Chinese, they never leave home without a camera. 30 million flashes blind me and I can't see for the next half hour. So the phone didn't really catch on fire, ok. But it should have with all the coins we were feeding it every five seconds. Anyway, we only hoped Frances had got the message and moved on the sight-seeing. But it quickly became too dark to see much except the water front, so we strode down to what turned out to be "Lover's Lane for Asian Flames." Why does every culture feel in necessary to do some major PDA-ing on boardwalks and water fronts? About the time Laura and I had seen enough, the "Most Fantastic Light Show Ever!" started, and buildings on both sides of the canal began flashing lights to the rhythm of some really tacky synthesized . . . noise. It was, in my humble opinion, pretty much the "Most Fantastic . . . " waste of money ever. Except, of course, for the O. J. Simpson trials. And MJ's nose job. So Laura and I traveled home to our humble little hostel where we will be the next three nights waiting for a visa so we can return to our other home in Taiwan.

ps. I found some Triscuits today in a local food mart. No sugar or yeast. Did I mention I'm on a no-sugar, no-yeast diet and nothing, it appears, nothing is accessible to the hungry public that doesn't have at least one of these ingredients? Double great, two fantastics.

Sunday, 20 January.
I love Hong Kong. It is soooooooo great. I saw many really neat things. Chinese people rock. You rock. Pat yourself on the back for rocking. Here, have a fuzzy. Hong Kong is the best ever!! I like Chinese food. Noodles and rice. mmmmmmmmm!! Yeah! Exclamation!! Exclamation!! Exclamation!!

I like kids, ok?

2008-01-13T06:17:00.001-08:00

Photo 1: Fish, anyone? It's free, and drying on the sidewalk.
Photo 2: I just fought ten Chinese Ninjas bare-nuckle and I'm soaking my hands. Or, I'm getting a manicure . . . you decide.
Photo 3: Go-carts in a Feng Yuan night market. Awesome fun.
Video: The long awaited proof that I like kids and kids like me.

for the children?

2008-01-11T05:10:00.000-08:00

You did this for the kids, Rachel? For the kids? You've got to be kidding me. What madness overcomes an individual to exhaust his or her energies in the most underpaid, under appreciated, and under successful profession known to human societies? Considering my current endeavor, I can not say the idea of teaching is at all repulsive in its philosophical embryonic state. Nay, it is in fact attractive--which thing is clear by the fact that thirteen young-adult philanthropists beat the halls of the Berhan Language Institute in Taiwan, contracted to teach every day for 6-12 months, but contracted at heart for negative that amount. Why the change of heart? Understanding--bitter cruel understanding. The reading and research turned realized reality. Actual classroom experience is nothing like the simulation room. There we learned and practiced what to teach. Here in the classroom we learn not to teach . . . at least not without a beat stick. Sometimes I find myself wondering why we didn't spend most of training going over torture techniques instead of teaching techniques. They could have just handed us a manual full of things to teach at the end of torture training and we would have been better prepared. But instead, we are driven to madness in the first two weeks of reality, confused and suddenly uncoordinated by the necessary change of focus. And madness is unpredictable. But when it is, I predict more madness. The sane and rational moments I have, I spend wondering why it is that hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of teachers already versed in the bitter cruel reality of teaching children do not stop. Why are they still teaching!? Coming back year after year to break down the natural caveman and instill in him principles of civil participation, when they will never see the fruits of their labors, except when a former student appears on television either as a wanted assassin or a ground-breaking scientist. The saints that choose such a life are awarded my awe, and my money if ever I am elected president (your money too, with my "no teacher left behind" tax). Young minds must be taught. This much is certain. But here's the weird part: they are taught. Enough teachers actually enjoy being teachers. Crazy.

from the roof top

2008-01-09T08:47:00.001-08:00

This one was taken from the roof top of our school, showing the adjacent building, which looks genuinely foreign to my own back yard. This is January, mind you. The boredom of modern practicality and architecture is enjoyed only by streaks of mildew, yet is made culturally bearable by a touch of history and nature on top. Notice the traditional Chinese roof, covering laundered clothing. Then notice the tropical shrubbery draping the sides in an effort to advert your attention from the mildew. The city has these characteristics everywhere: practical modern boredom never seeming to consume the bits of history, tradition, and nature speckled throughout as if engaged in gorilla warfare for the soul of Asian culture. The art of a place never dies where the people can still be called a people.

The pictures below were taken with Steve's camera, as I have yet to purchase one of my own. The whole group has gone digital and I have the old school. Old school is real hip, except when you are not at the museum displaying your exhibit. I'm in the market for the new school, just haven't had the time to do my homework for the purchase yet. One of Steve's pictures shows one of the hallways in our school. It's important that you spot me in the picture, mostly because it proves you know me. Also of interest is the classroom off to the near right. You can now imagine me teaching in it. The tie-dye picture shows Tammy's reaction to her sudden discovery that Costco in Taichung has already closed for the evening, and it shows my reaction at failing to name that tune in our Branch night's Classical music gun-down. It was a Mendelssohn and I called him Beethoven. My team still hasn't forgiven me. I had one job and I couldn't do it. Steve won the arm wrestling contest against all the girls like he was supposed to, but I just couldn't name every classical tune like I was supposed to. Shame on me. Sorry dad--you taught me everything I needed to know except that, I guess. The last picture is outside the grocery store with all our bicycles. I love having a bike to ride all over town.

compliments of Steve's camera

2008-01-09T08:18:00.001-08:00

classroom managment

2008-01-08T07:08:00.001-08:00

This is me smiling. Smiling at the joy that is my classroom full of Taiwanese. You can't see the Taiwanese children, just like you can't see me smiling. In fact, it's not a smile, but I tell them "this is how we smile in English," and they believe me. They have to believe me, I'm American right? Turns out they don't have to, nor do they. They don't believe me when I say they have to sit down, be quiet, stop rubbing my face or stop pulling my arm-hair. They don't believe that I'm actually their teacher and not the other way around, mostly because I don't beat them with that stick by the teacher's desk--the one real teachers (Taiwanese teachers) use to scare them into submission. That's the secret to Asian success: they beat the knowledge into the young until they're smarter and harder-working than their western neighbors. Taiwanese children go from dawn to dusk shuffling between regular school and various cram-schools (our Berhan Language Institute is one of those cram-schools). They might make it back home by 9 or 10 at night to cram in their homework before hitting the covers. Kids here prepare for high school like we prepare for college. They apply to different high schools and move away from home to board at the best one they can get into. There's no time to be nurtured through love and patience. A whack on the back is much faster. So you get some easy-going, fun-loving, free-will promoting American sucker to come over and try to teach them through long-suffering love, and no one takes him seriously. Who's choice is it anyway to come to school and learn English? The kids think it's mine. I tell them it's theirs. The result is neither the students nor the American teachers have it quite figured out for the first few days of class. Hopefully, we come to an accord soon or the only smile my face will know is that one above.

(For those of you now worried that it's really hard for poor joey, stop being worried. There are tons of good kids and fun classroom moments--remember how I love my 5th graders?--it's just that feigned tragedy always makes for better writing material).

the right man-purse

2008-01-05T08:40:00.001-08:00

Everything here is a little more femmy than I'm used to. Bright flashing neon signs, a fringe around every shop and dashboard, every color--a pastel mixed with white. Pink is no longer reserved just for girls and neither are purses. So Steve and I have decided to become Taiwanese and we need the perfect man-purse to prove it. We haven't had to look far in order to get an eye-full of options, but we're waiting for that special purse that just calls out to us--that screams, "Hey Steve! Joe! I'm it! I'm the new you in a bag. You won't have to wait for people to discover your personalities anymore. You can wear it right on your arm!"

This picture shows one shopping trip for "the purse," but not the last. There are a lot of purses to try on.

cold enough for a hat

2008-01-04T23:56:00.000-08:00

I brought several hats with me to Taiwan including this knitted one. And I like to think there's a purpose to everything I bring with me on trips (otherwise I feel too feminine), so the moment it was cool enough to wear a winter hat without sweating, I put it on.

teaching begins

2008-01-04T07:40:00.000-08:00

Turns out I hate first graders.

Fifth grade rocks. First grade is pure madness. Teaching fifth grade is like obtaining that sought for goblet of fresh, cool spring water after being torched by the sun. Teaching first grade is being torched by that sun. Fifth graders are little human beings. First graders have not yet begun to develop whatever it is that sets humans apart from every other inferior life form on this planet. Fifth graders know what school is and why it is. First graders have no clue . . . and you can tell by how many times a second they ask "What?" and "Why?" And before you can answer, it's, "Hey look, a piece of floating lint!" Fifth graders know that picking your nose and wiping it on your neighbor is unnecessary. To first graders, it is necessary. Fifth graders will like you if you like them. First graders think you like them. But you don't. You want to wring their necks. But they don't have time to notice. They are busy making more lint floaters out of their neighbor's sweater.

Midnight games

2008-01-03T06:26:00.000-08:00

Most visitors to our fourth story pad a'top the Berhan Language Institute spend time mingling with the thirteen English teachers living here, take a peak into the spacious bedrooms, comfortable lounge, and communal kitchen area. Then they look at the quote board. Thirteen highly charged single adults living together in a country foreign to their own are bound to say some pretty awkward things and then cover for each other by unanimously declaring the awkward things humorous. Such is the cause for creating a quote board to honor and immortalize for a time the otherwise unhonorable and very mortal string of unfortunate words. Covering up the true embarrassment of a thing created always requires efforts so extreme that even were the thing something forgettable, it is no longer such. Proving its innocence has unwittingly preserved its idiocy. One quote on our board reads, "I just stood there like an idiot, slapping myself." The words are mine . . . or so the board says. Would that they were not mine, or at least that the board did not say they were mine. Had the words never been written up at all, several months in the future while we thirteen sat recalling long since abated humor, someone would have tried to remember who said that one thing that one time in that one place, and I would have kept silent, a thoroughly puzzled look clouding my features. But the thing was recorded. And oh, the power of writing a thing. I'm afraid the phrase and its owner will remain attached and remembered, though always pardoned for the sake of "good times."

But now for the context. It was New Years eve and we were in Taiwan. You might think Chinese New Year is a big deal in Taiwan. It is. Only its not on New Years. It's on Chinese New Year, which is February or March. The Chinese are still connected enough to western culture to spare a few sparklers and bottle rockets when December 31st expires, but the real show comes months later. So, westerners, contained in an unfamiliar level of New Year celebration, are caught forming a bubble in the which their own culture can be constructed and thus, provide the required sensation that the New Year actually happened. These cultural bubbles seem to breed awkward phrases, the likes of which appear on quote boards never to be brought down and destroyed, lest someone be hanged for erasing justification. We were playing a kind of charades game, only a slight variation on another game we had just finished playing and wrung dry of all necessary potency, and I was acting the part of an employee coming to work several hours late and being reamed out by my boss. While my employer sat demanding explanations, I was attempting to draw conclusion about my tardiness from the silent mimes furiously acting out my reasons behind the employers back. I spoke in first person, but looked at the mimes in third. After several failed attempts to get the excited nods I needed from the mimes, one of them started slapping himself as another mime threw her hands in his face. I didn't know the one was playing the part of a fire and the other was hitting himself to extinguish it. So when my boss asked me for the umpteenth time what the heck I did when I got out of bed that morning, I finally said, "I don't know, I just stood there like an idiot, slapping myself." It went on the board.

Here's a couple pics to prove the words

2008-01-01T03:54:00.001-08:00

Welcome to Taiwan! Lets be friends!

2007-12-29T04:18:00.000-08:00

So, this lady sitting next to me is screaming in Chinese like she just wet her pants and it's all the dude's fault at whom she's yelling. I doubt it's really his fault--he hasn't said a thing for the ten minutes since she came up to him raving mad. You lose face in Taiwan when you lose it in public--a good policy for anywhere--and this lady was losing face in a rather major way. I, on the other hand, was not losing face, though I had lost my luggage, which was the reason for me sitting at a desk next to a lady who was losing face. Somewhere between Delta and Chinese Airlines, my bags had fallen between cracks and though I had successfully made it through customs without anything but the hope for a charity landing visa, my bags had not. The prospect of not being able to brush my teeth that night made me ill, but all the pink, baby-blue, and violet decor of Taipei's international airport padded my illness with warm fuzzies, making me feel strangely happy about being there. It was like the reality of a Disney World facade, or the draw of an insect to bright lights, or the lure of a pink sign reading "Welcome to Taiwan! Lets be friends!" How could I help but feel a bit complacent about my lost baggage when I felt the semi-out-of-body experience of first-time Asian travel. I mean, the airport literally transitions between florescent colors as you look back at it from the parking lot. You almost feel like they hire people from the North Pole to work their off-season at Taiwan airports just so they can have someone throwing sparkles from the ceiling onto airport travelers. I felt great. You might think the discouraged china-woman would kind of mess up the mirage, but hey, every pearl deals well with sand, right? Her attitude was hardly revolutionary and no one else seemed the least inclined to follow her lead in detracting from the mild tempered atmosphere of pink and blue. Happy fuzzies saturated the air and I was high.

They delivered both pieces of luggage to my residence in Fongyuen just now, so all's well as "stuff" is concerned. I rode my bike all over the city today, ate Japanese cuisine, went to the night market, and bought a first round of sea-creature groceries. The weather is warm and humid. Everyone is in coats. I'm in short-sleeve. Flashing Chinese characters line the street venues and palm trees are a plenty. There are about ten billion scooters per square foot of asphalt and everyone has the right-of-way. Traffic police are spectators. I know why I went to Russia on my mission: experiencing Russia is like living inside the great complexity of a Dostoevskian novel. Experiencing Taiwan is like living inside a video game. I wasn't allowed to play video games on the mission.

visa trouble

2007-12-29T03:23:00.000-08:00

Getting a visa is killer. The Taiwanese love Americans, but their bureaucratic maze prevents them from being as helpful as they would like. I applied twice at two different Taiwan offices in the states and never got it. I hopped a plane, walked up to an immigration officer in customs at the Taipei airport and received a visa in 30 seconds. It's a different kind of visa, but getting my residence visa and work permit will be 10 times easier from inside Taiwan than without. Kind of strange, considering the reasons for visas. I'm not breaking any laws, they tell me, I'm just working around them. Around is good because it's not as if they don't want me here. Taiwanese love Americans. Everyone stares and smiles back at me when I smile at them. I smile at them because they are staring at me. And they stare because I'm American . . . I wish I could say it's because I'm good looking, but they stare at Steve too and all Steve has going for him is his great personality . . . and now his nationality. Hi Steve. Thanks for reading. I think you're cool. Anyway, we're all celebrities. I was never a celebrity in Russia. I was only good looking, but that only made gangs want to jump me for cool ties and cash. Taiwanese never get past the "hey look, an American!" part to notice my cool tie.

I went to a Taoist temple today . . . twice. Once in the morning and once after dinner. It was a special day because they were rededicating a temple that was ruined by an earthquake a while ago and was now reopening. I have never seen so much food just sitting there with no one eating it. They had about a billion huge pigs up on racks with apples and incense stuffed in their mouths. Three king boars sat flayed astride great blocks of ice at the head of the rows of pigs. Baskets and baskets of grain and fruit lined the field and all sorts of other intricately displayed food offerings packed the area in front of the temple. The temple itself was highly decorated (and at night shown with lights all over it). Little theaters presented puppet shows of Taoist mythology and vendors packed the road way in and out of the grounds. Some people describe everything we've experienced these last couple days as sensory overload. I'm just drinking it in. This is exactly what I imagined China to be like and my dreams are coming true. My senses are alive again like they were at three years old when everything is mysteriously exciting and captivating. I can't get enough.