Mr. Admeen Teaches the Teachers

He solved the gap alright.  A quick stitch was all it took, but the gap of pants that had opened up in the spot designed to conceal the lower testes area had been closed with a few safety pins.  Mr. Fissure  went on singing again and again.

"Now, I just have to leave the shirt untucked, and I'll be fine," he sang aloud.  "Fine, fine, fine-fine-fine. La-la-la-la!"

"Singing?  Again?"  Mr. Carter was not amused.

Mr. Carter was not amused because Mr. Carter was putting the finishing touches on an intricate webisode that he had spent his entire weekend crafting.  The webisode was designed to introduce his 11th grade Algebra-I-Remediation-and-Support class to the elementary and middle school topic of inequalities.  Something that, for some reason, was a new concept to his 11th graders.

"He should start singing about that stupid gap between his pants, is what he should be singing about," Carter huffed.

Mr. Carter was so much the glorious webisode maker that, in his spare time, he helped other teachers create their own webisodes. Super-Cooperative High School ™™®®™™ was really focused on technology.

More recently, his webisodes had gone unnoticed, and when an all-staff meeting was called two hours before the beginning of the school day, Carter felt as though his technology was being put further on the backburner.

"Technology?  Science?!" Mr. Admeen shouted.  "There will be science.  New science!  Fresh science!  Look!  We have beakers!"

And the teachers looked, and saw four large boxes full of different sized beakers, all emblazoned  with SCHS logos.

"What about English?" asked Ms. not Mrs. Cisneros.

"English?!  There will be English!  New English!  Look, we have new books!!!"  And with that exclamation, Mr. Admeen ripped open another box and tossed each teacher in the room a copy of Huckleberry Finn.  The teacher thumbed through the pages while Mr. Admeen looked on, licking his bottom lip and nodding his head in approval.

"What's on the pages?  Why is this on every-"

"You like those watermarks?" shouted Mr. Admeen.  "Ya, I figured you all would be pretty shocked.  The Education Office wasn't too thrilled with the idea of each and every page being watermarked, but I expressed, repeatedly, that it's entirely necessary for every single page to be watermarked so that our school's branding remains fresh and relevant.  It's really all in the branding."

"But you can barely see the words.  Why do the pages need to be watermarked directly in the center?  Isn't that confusing?"

"It might be confusing, for some.  But that's a concession I'm willing to make.  Not all students can read, this is true.  But what's more so truer is that all students need to be able to read the branding.  The logos, you know?  Brand recognition is paramount to student achievement.  We want this school to be recognizable, and to attract the best.  The very best.  Like professional athletes.  Think about it."

The teachers thought about it.

"Do professional athletes wear shoes without branding?"

The teachers thought.

Admeen continued.  "Do their jerseys remain a vacant lot?  The front of a race car, does it not display the brand's logo?"

The teachers thought about it.

"So why would kids want to go to school without a brand?  They wouldn't, that's the truth.  Haven't you ever thought about why kids hate going to school?"

"No brands?" asked Katy.

Admeen smiled.  "No brands, Katy.  No brands.  Well, I have given that to them.  The students are now part of something bigger, something more focused, and something clean.  Look at the detail on those hands."

And the teacher looked at the details on those hands, all 20 of them, forming a circle with fingertips in the middle, all touching.  It was near miraculous how the designers of the logo were able to fit 20 hands into a circular space only a few inches in diameter, but it was accomplished, nonetheless.

"Looks like a bunch of fuckin' toothpicks.  You can barely see the letters" added Katy.

"Toothpicks??  We have toothpicks.  Toothpicks and plates and forks and knives.  All covered in our branding!"  And with that Admeen began hurling boxes of toothpicks at the staff, laughing hysterically, before calling the teachers together to practice the Morning-Ritual-of-Thanks-and-Cheer™.

Mr. Carter kicked through the cardboard box of toothpicks, sending them scattering across the room.

"It's going to be a long year," he thought.

Insubordination! Insubordination!

Early Mornings
I came into the staff lounge and there was a newsletter with 7 or 8 not-so-wonderful pictures of your Humble Narrator, all smashed together.  My lanky body cut out of the shots, it was head, nose, beard, mustache, whatever.

"What the fuck?"

Meanwhile, at the end of the table, a co-worker of mine sat idly by.  He glanced up at me, quickly, with a short smirk and a twinkle of evil in his eye.

I hadn't an idea as to what all the words on the paper said.  I saw pictures of my face, saw his evil smile, and heard the sound of a furiously working printer.  I met my coworker's gaze with a most unsavory facial expression and  side-stepped from the collaboration room into the mailroom.

I heard giggles from the collaboration room as I saw, to my horror, every staff mailbox stuffed with that same piece of paper that had lots of writing and 7 or 8 not-so-wonderful pictures of your Humble Narrator crammed into the top.  The letters were strategically inserted into the mailbox so that my faces were the first things you saw upon reaching in for other things that you would end up throwing away later.

There came a voice from just beyond my right shoulder.

"I'm making extras, just in case."

"Why?  Why would you do this to me?" I yipped, "Don't you know what they'll do to me??"

"You haven't even read it," he said.  I felt a cold chill settle on my right hand.  "Here it is.  Have a look."

The icy sheet that landed on my hand was, in fact, not icy at all, but hot.  Rather hot.  The type of paper-heat reserved for a freshly made, color-copy of a computer document pumped out of a Canon printer.

"Whatever you put, it's not too late, man.  We can fix it.  I can take all of these out and no one will know.  Whatever you did, it's not too late." I was begging now.  "Please, dude, honestly, I didn't mean to trick you during that text-chain when you and Party God and CoCo thought I was mad.  Is that was this is all about?! I didn't mean it.  Joking was all.  I'll never do it again."

"Read it."

Insubordination
Whoever wrote it has the brain of an evil genius.  As each sentence led to the next, my anxiety grew.  My fingers curled until the paper crumbled.  No one was safe.  Not a soul, from rookie teacher to veteran administrator.

The newsletter seemed to be crafted in the vein of humor, but there was something darker lurking in between the lines.  The newsletter would, as I saw it then, be the undoing of a school that had worked so hard to undo itself previously.

All the quiet jokes, the comments, the secret deals behind the library, they all came to a front, printed out on a single 8.5x11 inch paper dispersed to the staff of Super-Cooperative High School™™®®™™ with the intent of bringing the whole thing down.  Maybe.

I finished the last sentence as my stomach moved into the back of my mouth.

"What have you done?  What have you done?!"

He smiled.

"It's simple, really," he replied.  "What I've done, you idiot, is craft the greatest satirical newsletter of all time.  Don't you see?"

I sat, trembling.  "I, I guess-"

"Think about it!  People have made comments in jest before.  People have made jokes before.  People have been made to feel that constructive criticism is safe on this campus, but, once the comments are made, the receivers of the message claim that they feel threatened!  Don't you see why this is the greatest satirical newsletter of all time?"

I had been unaware of my position and, during this time, my co-worker had backed me into the small space existing between the water cooler and the copy machine.  I sat on the blue recycling bin in the corner while he towered over me, madness raging in his pupils.

"Dude, this is seriously fucked.  Coal mines?  They might actually go for it!"

"No, you IDIOT!"

"And what about Schwa?  What happened with that?  I mean, the Vivar part was hilarious because I'm pretty sure I've heard him say that before, but come on, the noob?"

"That's not it, you MEGA-IDIOT!"

"Then why?  Why is it the greatest?  Because it will undo the culture of this school?  Because it will unravel the very fabric that we've spent the last few years stitching and weaving with our hands and sometimes our feet?  Because it will jeopardize the cohesion of our plans for Olympic Curling glory?  Because it will draw out the people on staff who never leave enough money to cover our tab at the 9-0-1 Bar?  Because that would actually be helpful!  Last summer I had to cover and extra 40 fucking dollars!"

He leaned in, closer still, as I shrank deeper into the corner, sitting on another cup of water mistakenly tossed into the recycling bin.

"No, you idiot," he whispered.

My eyes opened wider with fear.

"It's the greatest satirical newsletter of all time because I wrote all of this in like, one sitting. Like, 15 or 20 minutes tops, bro.  Don't you see?  People make satirical newsletters all the time, but not in 15 or 20 minutes.  No one can do that.  But I did, Smith, I did."

I searched for air, inhaling deeply because, during those few seconds, he had his hand locked around my throat.  And it was in those moments that I realized what had happened.  I walked into my room and remained silent for the rest of the day with images of MacBooks and iPads ablaze and Reading Counts scores erased in a snap.





(Written in 47 minutes.  Not good enough.)

10 Ways to Know If You're a Student at CSU Dominguez Hills

Here we go!  I would say that this presentation applies to about 8 out of every 10 students at Cal State Dominguez Hills.

**Edit Having never actually BEEN an undergraduate student at CSUDH, this list is compiled on a couple years of observations in my GRADUATE LEVEL classes.  Tisk-tisk, Toros, tisk-tisk.**

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the most accurate top 10 of all time:

10. You surf the 'net throughout class, then raise your hand asking for clarification on assignments right before class is dismissed.

9. You write with mostly incorrect grammar, spelling, and syntax.

8. You complain about professors because, you know, "they so stupid."

7. You listen to music in class.  No.  Really.  You listen to music in class.

6. The professor in your class acknowledges that you're paying thousands of dollars to listen to music in class, makes eye contact with you, and realizes, "Why bother?  They're gonna end up at Starbucks anyways," and continues on with the lecture while a handful of students sit idly by, shocked that you would play your music out loud for the world to hear as if you were at the mall.

5. You transferred over from CSU Long Beach because "all the classes at Beach were like, so impacted.  Such an impacted program."

4. You don't know how to use Blackboard.  Ever.

3. You treat professors as if they were beneath you, giving them no shred of respect for their profession, the hours that went into obtaining a Doctorate, or the countless hours that they've poured into research that will better their field.  You firmly believe that your professors are, much like your high school teachers, nuisances and babysitters.

2. You talk over your professors because, like, your life is so important and, like, you're the one paying them, so whatever.

1. You were an absolute, unadulterated, disrespectful piece of shit in high school who just barely scored your diploma from a school that passed you out of mercy, and you ended up here.

Stay Classy, Toros.

Punk Rock and Responsibility

I can't say that I grew up completely punk rock.  With both parents being employed by the San Diego Police  Department, I didn't really have the wiggle room that a lot of teens are accustomed to having (then again, a lot of cop kids end up getting into serious trouble).  What I did have was MTV and a certain late night show that highlighted unknown or emerging artists.  It was the first time a heard a band called H2O.

H2O's song called "One Life, One Chance" was an anthem for me in high school.  Hanging out with Thomas Mawson late at night, watching that video for the first time, was a revelation.  I remember repeating the name of the band in my head over and over until I was able to get home and research more.  Pre-internet, I have not a clue as to how I tracked down their third record, "F.T.T.W." (Faster Than The World), but I was able to get my hands on it.  It was either at the old Music Trader near Broadway and Mollison, or a the Sam Goody in Parkway Plaza.  Either way, I was hooked.

From there, it was a stream of bands that all had some sort of connection.  I've always listened to music (and I'm not sure if this is normal or common) by the Record Label.  If a band was on the same label, I wanted it: Fat Wreck Chords, Epitaph, Kung Fu, Nitro, and one of my favorite labels of all time: SideOneDummy.

These punk rock labels had a lot of bands that were, more or less, anti-establishment and anti-authority. With a song like "Fuck Authority," nobody was confusing Hermosa Beach's Pennywise with a band from, say, Drive Thru Records.  

More recently, however, I noticed a different tone and message in these songs.  While the air of independence and "fuck off" is alive and well, it's clear that a lot of the bands on these record labels held one common belief: personal responsibility.

Now, before we get things twisted, let's not forget that there are plenty of songs blaming others, or the situation, or the government, for their problems.  But after sifting through older releases from Pennywise, H2O, and even 7 Seconds (legendary on SideOneDummy), one can see (feel?) a reverberating sense of personal responsibility.  These bands believed, wrote, and sang about the fact that no one is control of your destiny but you.

My school preaches personal responsibility, but rarely do we see kids stepping up to the plate.  This might be because they don't hear about personal responsibility in every facet of your life.  I was very fortunate to have solid teacher, amazing parents, trustworthy friends, and positive music to fill the gaps. It's beating a dead horse, for sure, but the facts remain the same: many students are listening to positive music.  The messages are not about taking control of life, but rather, avoiding that responsibility.  

My thesis: Bring Positive Hardcore and Punk Rock to the inner-city, and let's see what happens.

Meh.  Fuck it.

I get one in, every now and then.

It took a record setting two (2) Winterbrauns before everything cleared-up.  And by "cleared-up," I mean the murky shit-storm that is finals week subsided for a few moments.

Moments of clarity.

Steve Cohen is a fucking legend.

Will the real Steve Cohen please stand up?

Catchy transition, right?  Eminem.  I met this guy (Steve, not Marshall Mathers) in the fall of 2011.  Or was it the Spring of 2012?  I'm not sure. He was there when the school was in its infancy.  He was there when my life changed a bit and he didn't even know that I was sleeping on a couch.  He was there to receive a can of crushed tomatoes as an award for being the funniest.  He always receives the Steven Cohen Lifetime Achievement Award because, if you think about it, how could he not?

He was always there, and maybe, just maybe, he'll be there forever.

We can only hope.

31 Days of (mother fuckin') Movies

I've been following Mr. Cohen's blog very closely.  The name is, to no one's surprise, Comedic Voice of a Generation.  And while the jury's still out as to whether or not this man is aging in Benjamin Button time, we are certain that he is in fact a representative of some generation.  He is a comedic mainstay with a propensity for comics.  He's a writer, a communicator, and a thinker.  He can dance and sing and dance the night away.  All true.

His words jump off the web page in ways that touch me deep, deep down inside.  Sort of like the way that Cohen's insults at work stab me deep down in my heart.  In time, I've gained a respect for this man that is unparalleled in my respect for others in society.  One time, Cohen and I shook hands.  And it was good.

A man of many goals, Steve decided to watch, and review, 31 different movies in as many days.  Surely, with Steve being a connoisseur of cinema, I expected to know nothing about any of these films.  After 10 days, my prediction remains true: I don't know shit about movies.

But when one does not know shit about movies, one turns to an aficionado.  And that aficionado is Steve Mufuggin' Cohen.

Before Midnight

Before Midnight is a movie that I don't plan on ever watching. It has this guy Ethan in it.  Ethan Hawke, or some shit like that. That guy plays this guy named Jesse.  But, as is the case, Ethan was acting, and so Ethan is actually Jesse, but not for reals.  For fakes.   I thought Ethan Hawke was the guy who played Obi-Juan Kenobi in the newer Star Wars movies.  But then someone told me that it's actually Obi-Wan Kenobi, and that he's not Mexican at all, and that it was actually Ewan McGregor, and not Ethan Hawke.  Although Ewan McGregor does not get enough credit for his documentary about riding motorcycles, Long Way Round, which would never appeal to anyone who does not like things involving two-wheels.  Although it might.

Apparently this movie was part of some kind of trilogy, which further led me to believe that Obi-Juan was in play, but again, nothing.  And apparently Ethan changed Jesse, which isn't cool in my book.

"The first thing one notices upon the commencement of the film is how different Jesse is. I don’t just mean physically (though Ethan Hawke does seem to have finally come out on the other side of his gaunt phase). Ethan Hawke’s portrayal of the character has changed as well. Jesse’s voice is deeper here, more gruff. And some of the light in his eyes has gone away. At first I considered this an error on Hawke’s part, but as the film proceeded I started to think twice about this."

(Cue high school English student):

"I really agree with this quote.  I agree with this quote because it shows that he changed.  I think that you should not have to change yerself in order to be someone that yer not.  You dont have to be with no one if you dont want to.  I think that this shows that Jesse doesnt really even respect him, because if he did we wudnt change"

Jesse sound stupid.

A lot of time has passed (nine years, to be exact), since Before Sunset ended.  This is frustrating for me, because I have yet to see both Before Sunrise and Before Sunset.  I don't think that I will see them.

(Editor's Note: it's 12:15 am.  I've three sips of Winterbraun left.  It's no longer before midnight.  Although, if you think about it, it IS before midnight.  That's really tripping me out, man)

What I would've seen in the development of these movies is that Jesse and his chick, Celine (not Dion) have developed within their relationship past the point where everything is cute and fun.  They're past the honeymoon phase, I gather, and definitely past the awkward first-sex entanglements.  So everything was running smooth during the nine-year hiatus, but now we pick up and they're just, you know, totally ok with everything, but not super pumped, and so that's going to draw us in.  Or so I read from Steve:

"By now, the blush is off the rose. Jesse and Celine are no longer acting like their ideal versions of themselves, the way one would at the genesis of a new romance. These two have been together for what might as well (in their minds) be an eternity. Jesse and Celine are at a point where they finally see the reality of who their partner is, but the really cool thing is that the viewer is as well. The three-ish hours that we spent with them prior to Midnight was all pretense. This is where the truth comes out."

He said 'genesis,' so I am inclined to agree.

And as I read through the review, imagining what it would be like to have seen the movie, I started to feel the urge to rent it.  Steve's descriptions of Jesse (not Obi-Juan-Wan) and Celine made me think about the development of my relationship (which is fucking amazing, by the way) and about how maybe watching this trilogy might be fun for a date night.  To watch Jesse and Celine wade through the waters of love and slowly, but surely, expose themselves to each other, something that we all (especially dudes) have a hard time in doing.  The fact that this movie doesn't come across overproduced and over the top makes me feel like it's something that I could get into:

"The fact that the films seem so real and effortless is a testament to his work. Especially in this third installment. Midnight is the most ambitious of the three films, and I think it may be my favorite...If I had any real problem with the film it would be that the ending doesn’t feel perfect. And honestly, what am I expecting? The ending doesn’t feel perfect? Jesus. Standards much?"

What we have here is both an honest interpretation of a seemingly honest movie, and a "much" joke.  And I am fans of both.  If he typed 'mumblecore' I would've lost my fucking brain all over the apartment.  So close, sir.  So close.

The Numbers Do Not Lie
Time for our review of Steve's review that is totally objective and honest and not fueled by beers packing an 8% punch in the ABV department.  But seriously.  Lost Coast was started by two women.  Support your local female operated breweries please.  That's rad.

Steve's Review of Before Midnight: An impossible 6 out of 5 star/asterisk things (command-8 on a Mac).  Nice, dude.

Tom and Kelsey retelling the story of Mr. McLain trying to get the party started, and not realizing that I've heard that story four million times, but still telling it with insane vigor and commitment even though you guys didn't realize that we were fucking with you: 5/5

Before Midnight: 2/5 *'s for not having Ewan McGregor and for not receiving a phone call from that bush-league sunuvabitch Richard Linklater to watch his movies and review them.  That sucks, bro.  Honestly.  And no light sabers or motorcycles.  Weak.

Magic

It’s not always what it seems, specifically when 7^th period rolls around and kids are running in and out.  Not necessarily not normal, but definitely not standard.  What gives then?

Despite their best efforts, and mine, we’ve fine-tuned the program into something that resembles school.  Despite their best efforts, they’re improving.  Some drastically.  Some not so much.

This one kid has brought about a veritable shit-storm of epic proportions by doing one small, simple thing extremely, dare I say it, miraculously well: He doesn’t talk to us.

He doesn’t talk to us.

Epic doesn’t begin to describe it.  Sublime in his execution of a plan that is either perfectly contrived or completely improvised, he hasn’t said a damn word to any adult.  Really.  At the end of the fifth week of school, he has uttered no more than 10 words to an adult.  Total. 

Coming in with a questionable eligibility for services, the debate is still in the air.  Autism?  Specific Learning Disability?  Anger?  Most adults won’t admit to failure, but we’re stumped.  Nearly beat.  Nearly beaten down.  That was us.

That was until Ramo got to him.

Ramo might read this blog post one day.  Maybe.  But I’ll say it now: what he did today was nothing short of mother fucking legendary; the kind of shit that cannot be quantified by grades, percentages, or points.  I was so proud.  I still am. We were so proud.  We still are  Most importantly, he was proud.  I hope that he continues to feel that joy.

The Really, Really Quiet Kid (RRQK) had not said a meaningful word for five weeks.  Sure, he cussed out his paraprofessional a few times via an iPad writing app (‘Shut the fuck up, you cunty fuck.’  Or maybe he said ‘shut up fucker.’  Not sure).  Other than the occasional written outburst, he hasn’t said much.

Ramo don’t care.  Ramo don’t give a fuck.

Two weeks ago, Ramo came up to me and said the following.  Keep in mind, his English skills are still developing.  Grammar aside, there was a certain passion in his voice, even though he was laughing and joking.

“Hey mister!”

“Ya?”

“Who’s that kid over there?  Why doesn’t he talk?”

“Oh.  That’s J.  He’s just a bit shy.”

“Oh ya?!  Okay.  I wanna talk with him.  I wanna make friends with him.”

“Well, you know what Ramo?  You should.”

“Okay.  Lemme think.  I think I will.  You know me.  I wanna be friends with everyone.”

A week passed by without Ramo making an attempt, but every so often in sixth period Ramo would take a look over towards J, and J would look back and crack a slight smile.  It was fascinating and exciting.  Fascinating because Ramo has the type of personality that makes you want to be happy.  You can’t explain it, but it happens.  Exciting, because the breakthrough that I had talked about, that I knew would come, despite other peoples’ doubts, was on the proverbial cliff, ready to tumble over like a big rig.  Little did we know that our student who struggled with mixed-numbers and citing evidence through direct quotes, was about to do something that a team of college-educated, degree carrying adults were unable to do: crack the RRQK.

Fast forward to Thursday, September 12, 2013.  I stayed up way too late the night before struggling with my greens.  It’s really hard to get the sauté and steam times right.  Spinach wilts extremely fast.  Collard greens take a while longer.  Kale, on the other, (specifically Tuscan Kale) is a tough wilt. 

The next morning was a blur all the way through sixth period.  Sixth period was the magic period. 

The boy was ready to go

Ramo came through full of curiosity.  And can you blame him?  There is a kid in class who doesn’t talk.  He doesn’t even talk to his support provider, Steve, who is unquestionably the funniest person on the planet.  Comedic Gods are crafted in his image.  Don't believe it?  Ask him.  He's also supporter of Insanity and will fillet you mercilessly if your jokes are not up to par.  We love him.   

Ramo came through full of curiosity.  You can’t blame him.  His strength lies in his personality.  He’s unstoppable in his likability.  His personality boils over every day.  A complete handful, to be sure, but he doesn’t let academic struggles get in the way of enjoying his life.  The only kid in South Central absolutely obsessed with the great schism between Dave Mustaine and Metallica.  He’s a legend, as well.

Ramo finished some of his work early, and with 25 minutes left in the period, asked me if he could talk to J. 

He leaned over right into J’s face, no closer than 6 inches apart, and started talking. 

“This kid’s going to freak out,” I thought.  “A student, possibly on the spectrum, trying to handle 110% of Ramo?  No way.”

I turned around to work with another student, and only focused back into the interaction when I heard voices.

Voices.

Two voices.  And the louder one was not Ramo.  It was the RRQK.  He was talking.  He was smiling.  He was doing all of the things that we wanted him to do.  And Ramo was the reason.

Magic

“You did it!”

The students filed out of the room, but Ramo turned around in shock.

“What?  What happened?” 

(What happened?  Otherwise known as the Standard Ramo):

“Please stop talking and pay attention to the lecture.”

“What?  What happened?”

It was his standard remark.)

Smile More

“You did it Ramo!”

“What??  What happened?!?!  What’d I did?”

“You got him to talk!  You did it!  He had a conversation!!”

“It was because of me?”

“It was because of you dude!  You did it!  You did.  That was amazing!”

“Ya.  I just wanted to make friends, you know?  I want to be friends with everyone.  I can tell he want to talk, you know?  He wanted to be talking with us.  I could tell.”

And we all smiled.  Kelsey smiled.  Dante smiled.  I smiled. Ramo smiled.  And they weren’t ‘ha ha’ smiles.  It was success.  It was success of the human spirit.  It was the power of love and friendship and sunshine and all the good things in the world. This little kid made it happen for us.  He made our day for us, or at least, for me.  His smile was two times bigger than normal as he left the room, because he realized that he did something meaningful.  That he belonged.  That he succeeded.  And he brought out the best in someone else.

And it was good.

And I’ll never forget it. 

Mammoth 8 Hour

The Danimal and I sat around after Boggs with Jason King and started asking each other a number of questions that, to the untrained ear, would be followed by some sort of retirement party or a simple, "I quit."

"Why did we just do that?"

"That was really dumb!"

"What were we thinking?!"

Fast forward a few hours, (and a few beers) and the conversation changed dramatically:

"I could do that again."

"At least we know how to pace."
"It wasn't that bad."

Mammoth.  Excellent

Mammoth

Somewhere along the way we discovered another 8 hour race by Global Biorhythm Events.  The production was super grassroots and low-key, which is to say, pretty fucking cool.  Not to mention that we were racing in MAMMOTH, which is like, totally rad, brah.  Bike racing 8,000 feet in the air?  Bring it.

Hi-Viz Pink.  Because I can.

Because I take my racing very, very seriously, I decided to have two very, very delicious beers the night before the race.  And four slices of pizza.  And half a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips (Nicole ate the other half).  And a giant Jamba Juice smoothie.  And a pretzel.  That's serious dedication. The type of dedication that makes your stomach hurt.  You know, on account of the dedication.

The crew.  Pre-race.

The cool thing about this race was the 12:00 p.m. start time!  The not cool thing about this race was the 8:00 p.m. finish time!  Because Dan, Sara and I did not have to be racing until noon, we did the only logical thing that bike racers of our caliber can (should) do: McDonald's breakfast.  That's a lot more dedication than you can probably handle, I'm sure, but understand that we are top-level-sort-of-serious bike racers and in the presence of greatness (Sara).  Sara stuck to the cold oats.  I had the McMuffin.  Then a second.  The only thing better was the delicious brew of McCafe coffee.  It's the McCafe.

The Race

I'll say right now that even though I enjoyed my race, and appreciated the timing, the organization, and the way the race was run, the course itself was....okay.  Apparently a downhill section had to be removed, and was placed with a 35 mph downhill fire road.  The good news what that it only took a gaze upward to remember that I was in fucking MAMMOTH, and that it was GORGEOUS!  Then I told myself to stop bitching and pedal harder.  The bummer of the deal, for me, was the lack of a really good downhill section.  Because of the higher elevation, the course designers kept the climbing under 900 feet per lap.  Instead, the course had a lot of cool flow sections where, if you pedaled correctly, speed could be maintained and style could be maximized. 

My Race

My race sucked instantly.  At the end of lap one I crossed the line with searing back pain that made me curse all the deadlifts I had decided to do the week before.  Also, I vaguely recall my competitors talking a bit about this high elevation thing.  (Maybe there was something to that?)

Enjoyment

My race continued to suck at an all-time high.  After not really getting passed on the first lap and for most of the second lap, things began to unravel.  

Dano, shredding.  Focused

My race continued to suck but I told myself, "Dude.  Like, totally lighten up, bro.  We're in Mammoth shredding some loose-on-hardpack.  That's sick." 

Then it rained.  And the dirt got super tacky.  Then the sun came out.  And it got dusty.  Then it rained. Then it hailed.

It totally hailed.  And then it stopped and the thunder and lightning start cracking and flashing.  Then it really hailed.  And the hail stung.  I let out little "yips" and "yeeps" whenever the hail hit in just the right spot.  And the sun came out.

Dan lapped me but was nice enough to wait up for me so we could share lunch.

My race started sucking again once the weather stopped.  The suckage was confirmed when Dan lapped me sometime during the fifth hour.  I don't remember much.  I did curse him.  I think I told him to fuck off under my breath before cheering him on out loud.  Either way, I'm sorry dude.  Good job.  Your bright yellow shoes would've gone great with my bright pink socks.  That's all.

Sara!!!!

Fires in the Fresno Valley area threatened the race on Friday, but come Saturday morning, clear and clean skies prevailed.  It wasn't until the 7th and 8th hours that the smoke began creeping back.  

I crossed the finish line with 8 laps sometime around 6:45 p.m.  This meant one thing: One more lap!  And so it was shred time.  

Did I mention that the leader of the Women's 8 hour race had been nipping at my heels all day long??

Sara is the funniest person ever.

Gender War

To clarify, I have no intention of negating anyone's achievement.  Furthermore, it should be noted that I'm a horrible bike racer.  One of the worst, to be sure, and not really worthy of a super sexy Pivot 429. 

Throughout the race, on any portion of the course that was going uphill, I noticed that there was a very strong and focused female from Team Helen's about 20 to 30 meters behind.  I'd lose her on the downhills and flats but my climbing prowess is such that everyone was getting my on the uphills, including Liz Dunham.  

She charged through the pit area each lap, and the story was no different leading into our last lap.  I sat idly by sipping a cola and chatting with my girlfriend, Nicole, who so graciously decided to operate our pit area.

Man rules specifically state that you have to give it a go and definitely NOT lose to a woman.  And so I did, catching and passing her on the downhills, leading into the main climb of the day.  Finally, whether it was the altitude sickness, the lack of speed, lack of desire, or whatever, but I decided that enough was enough and eased up.  Within moments, Liz passed me up and disappeared.  Then I threw up.  Altitude?  Not sure.  But it was clear that my brain had cracked as the rice-filled vomit shot from my mouth.  I chased hard to keep up but the mini "race within the race" was lost to a stronger rider.

It might've been the chocolate chip that passed through my nose, but at some point I told myself to suck it up.  I hammered home as fast as I could (not fast) and crossed the line in 5th place of 20 riders, the first rider with 9 laps, completed in 7 hours and 35 minutes, and one minute behind the women's leader.

Stud.  Muffin.

The Danimal finished in an impressive 2nd place with 11 laps in 7 hours and 45 minutes.

Sara hauled the mail, finishing in 3rd place in the women's open with 8 laps in 7 hours and 14 minutes of total riding time, just nipping on the heels of some very established female riders who spend lots of time training.  A truly impressive ride.

Thanks to Eric for getting my bike dialed and supporting the three of us with jaw-dropping kits.  Kits that scream, "cover your eyes."  Awesome.