The Purpose of The Jason Show

Entertain? Definitely.

Report? Undoubtedly.

Vent? Selectively.

Share? Assuredly.

Influence? Conceivably.

Inspire? Hopefully.

Muse? Positively.

Ramble? Occasionally.

Motivate? Sporadically.

Self expression? Surely.

Bluster? Guardedly.

Educate? Likely.

Gossip? Carefully.

Ponder? Regularly.

Instigate change? Optimistically.

Describe? Unquestionably.

Release? Religiously.

Induce laughter? Imaginably.

Provide a creative outlet? Constantly.

Poke fun? Good naturedly.

Disrespect? Unintentionally.

Offend? Unknowingly.

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Further Thoughts on Dodgeball

Jason Show viewers may remember this little post about yet another Jason Show pre-teen trauma.

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Giancarlo: Can you take Diego to Tae Kwan Do on Friday?

Jason: Sure.

Giancarlo: Because I'm taking him to two birthday parties on Saturday, so you can take him to Tae Kwan Do. It's only fair.

Jason: Uh, sure.

Giancarlo: Promise?

Jason: Yes! I promise! I'll take him to Tae Kwan Do on Friday!

Giancarlo: Good. Because it's parents versus kids in dodgeball on Friday! Ha!

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Flash forward to Dodgeball Friday. Remnants of several inner conversations I've had with myself are still skipping around in my brain:

It's just for fun. Nobody will smack you in the head with a ball that's flying 100 mph.

Nobody will make fun of you for the way you play. Nobody will care if you just quietly drift around in the background. Oh, for heaven's sake you big pansy, you're playing against five, six, seven, and eight year-olds, build a bridge and get over it!"

Diego was so excited to have me play. All throughout the Tae Kwan Do lesson he kept looking at me with eyebrows raised, signaling to the mat, and mouthing the words, "Dodgeball!"

There were so many parents on our team that I was hardly even noticed. All of the attention was going to the two or three dads who played just exactly the way I'm certain they played in junior high gym class. As I watched, and even threw a ball or two, it dawned on me that dodgeball is much like life, and people, and how people live their lives.

You see, there are those who make a big show of the way they play. They are loud, large, and the center of attention, but then get out in a hurry. There are those who hang back just a bit, weighing their options or watching for just the right moment to dart in, grab an opportunity, and fling it carefully, usually reaching their intended target. There are others who prefer remain in the background, rarely venturing forward to take risks that might end up with them getting hurt.

Some people try to fool the rest by pretending that they're out of the game by standing by the row of people who have been hit, and then at the last minute jumping forward to play. Some are reckless in the way they play the game. They don't think about how they're playing, they don't consider the consequences of their actions, and they repeat the same mistakes over and over. Other players are considerate of their teammates, handing over an extra ball to someone who has none at all, or deflecting flying balls with the one already in their hand so their fellow players do not get hit. Some scream when things go wrong, startling others. Some shrug off their troules and keep plugging away. Some get angry. And then there are those individuals who give up once they have been hit, removing themselves from the game before it really should be over.

That's a lot of deep thoughts going through the head of a forty year old dodgeball reject during the span of a five minute game, isn't it? Perhaps it's my way of continuing the peacemaking process with myself and the past that still occasionally rares its ugly head, trying to taunt me like it did before.

Some pretty sucky things happened to me when I was young. But as I type this, I wonder, how much of this was far worse in my mind than it would have been if only I had been able to see things from my forty year-old perspective?

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I'll bet your wondering, did I hit anyone during dodgeball? Why yes, I did. With power and stealth I stole my way up to the front of the game, took aim, and BAM!!! I got one! Yessss! Of course, as soon as I realized I had hit someone, I also realized...he was the newest student to the beginner class...a teeny little five year old boy who wasn't moving because he didn't yet understand the game. Well? At least I got him in the legs, and not the face. Merciful of me, don't you think?

Living on Wisteria Lane: Summer Drama

Did you know that I live on Wisteria Lane? If you think I'm being facetious or if you think I'm lying, here is photographic evidence:

The residents of Wisteria Lane have had quite a summer. In June, a divorced wealthy business owner a few houses down the lane had a heart attack in his bathtub, leaving his teen aged daughter to discover him the next morning, her blood-curdling cries of grief reverberating throughout the neighborhood. He had a family history of heart disease and a young life expectancy, yet very morning those leaving for work would see him pacing up and down the sidewalk, chain smoking.

Four houses down from the deceased, a prominent Los Angeles attorney who weighed over 300 pounds had a stroke. His prognosis is still uncertain.

But the big story on Wisteria Lane this summer has been with the Jensen family. Will Jensen, his young wife, Natasha, and their baby, Polly, moved into the home previously owned by the Sanderson family. (A side note about the Sanderson family: Their teen aged boys liked to come to our backyard and fish in the lake behind our house. They, too, had lake behind their house, but the boys came to our yard to fish. Fishing in our lake is expressly prohibited by the home owner's association. This annoyed Giancarlo to no end. He asked them repeatedly to stop fishing in our back yard, but they ignored him. Finally, he marched down the street to talk to their parents, and after a brief conversation, Mrs. Sanderson slammed the door in Giancarlo's face.)

Back to the Jensens. While they were moving in we introduced ourselves to Will, and he immediately seemed friendly. His wife looked like a typical Wisteria Lane Mommy, until she opened her mouth. Her shrill Bronx accent immediately proved otherwise.

Our paths crossed from time to time---evening walks, a birthday party, and once Diego even played with Will's son from his first marriage, who was visiting from South America. (So much for every other weekend!) Through these meetings, we learned that Will is a self-made, multi-millionaire, explaining the thousands and thousands of dollars they were spending on upgrades to the home, along with the two Land Rovers, the Mercedes, and the Aston Martin.

Suddenly while Natasha was visiting her family in New York with Polly, moving trucks showed up and in a matter of hours the house was left completely empty, reportedly, except the baby's crib, and that Natasha knew nothing about it.

Then the house sat vacant, except for the baby's crib, for two months. Suddenly, Will showed up again and moved back in, without Natahsa or the baby.

Natasha returned with Polly to the area, but not to Wisteria Lane. They have some sort of shared custody arrangement, but the other night when Natasha came by to pick up Polly after her stay, Will wouldn't hand her over. So Natasha called the police and two cruisers responded, and spent an inordinate amount of time inside the house with Will and Polly while Natahsa sat in front in her used Pontiac. Whether he gave the baby back to her in unknown at this time.

Why move everything out of the house only to move it back in again a few weeks later?

Why not allow the wife to take the baby?

Why not just give the wife one of the extra Land Rovers?

Yes, it has been quite a summer here on Wisteria Lane, especially for some.

The cast of The Jason Show is just glad it wasn't them this time.

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Q & A With Your Token Gay, Volume XXI

Rebekah (Waffles) asks:

Here's my question (I finally have one I think you could actually help me answering): years ago, my very first serious boyfriend turned out to be a really bastardly manipulative bad person. Among many cruelties, he seduced my sexually-confused, just coming out BFF and lied lied lied. I survived him, but was scarred. In my world, he would never get another chance. Now, TWENTY THREE YEARS later, my BFF and BASTARD GUY have resumed a friendship via Facebook. And it cheeses me off. BG may have changed, but I'm very much in the "fool me once" camp. BFF is awesome, but BG created endless confusion for him and it took him lots of therapy and healing. Am I an unforgiving, suspicious jerk with my own baggage to want desperately to warn my BFF vehemently from getting trapped in this situation?

You bring up a point that has been on my mind lately, Waffles. Do people change? Can someone who has treated someone else so horribly, even abusively, in a relationship really change?

I have a friend who has had bad luck with men and relationships. She has repeatedly gone for the "bad guy". She is in her third marriage to an alcoholic who has beaten her and abused her and her children from a previous marriage verbally and psychologically. She has left him repeatedly; this last time she was gone for a year. During this year she met a guy who treats her well and adores her. We all really like him, too. But suddenly, she has gone back to the abusive husband. Supposedly he has now changed. He stopped drinking and seems to be pulling his act together, yet I just don't trust him. I fear he's soon going to lapse into his old routine now that he has her back in his grips. This time he even convinced her to quit her job saying that he would "take care of her"; in doing so he has essentially pulled the rug out from under her and now she will have no recourse the next time around. All her friends have advised her against returning, some adamantly and angrily.

I know there are people out there who don't like being treated well. For some deep-seeded psychological reason, they prefer being treated poorly, as if they deserve it.

I don't know what to think. On one hand, I have seen a few people who have changed. Especially those who have overcome addiction problems. However, I've seen other situations where people swear they're going to change and then after a while they slip right back into their old unhealthy, destructive behavior patterns, continuing to hurt the ones they love the most in obvious as well as untold ways.

What do The Jason Show viewers think? Should someone who has been abused in a relationship go back if the other person seems to have "changed"?

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Diego Started Kindergarten Today!

Jason: Diego! How was your first day of kindergarten?

Diego: (not missing a beat) Oh, they cancelled kindergarten today. We'll have to try again tomorrow.

Jason: Whatever. You are so full of baloney. Really, though, tell me. Did you have a good time?

Diego: No. We didn't do anything. We just sat there and ate goobers and sauce.

Jason: (cocks head and gives dirty look)

Diego: (now chuckling and smiling) Whaaaat?

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I reap what I sow.

Cocoa Pebbles

The first week of school went off without a hitch in room 203. The kids were supremely well-behaved. The new first graders don't seem like puppies at all, and the second graders behave like well-trained show dogs. They are all capable, they are all pleasant, they are all eager to learn. Last year was one of my best teaching years ever. This year looks like it is going to be even better.

All except for one little issue.

After morning recess on the first day of school, my students were working on a project while I was listening to a student read. Jake and Elena respectfully approached the back table and waited for me to finish with the boy who was reading.

"Mr. Show," stammered Elena.

"There's something on the floor over there under our desks. It might be. . .a brown rock. Or it might be. . .po po." Elena concluded her sentence in Spanish.

"Yeah," reiterated Jake sympathetically.

I didn't miss a beat, nor did I bat an eye. "Thank you, I'll be over there in a minute." And I finished listening to my reader.

When I reached Elena's and Jake's desk, I bent down, studied the brown rock/po po, and concluded that it was, definitely, po po. I promptly went to the cupboard, pulled out a plastic bag, and imagining I was cleaning up after my dogs, I scooped, tied, and set the bag outside the door. At the time, it didn't even phase me that much, and I went on with my day without giving it much thought.

Day two. At the end of the day, my students were cleaning up the floor preparing to go home. During this process, four different students came to me saying they had found something on the floor:

"Umm, I think there's a piece of poop on the floor over there. Is this a big problem or a small problem?"

"Did someone let a dog in here when I wasn't looking?"

"Something smells by the pencil sharpener."

And the worst one, "I wasn't paying attention to what it was and I accidentally picked it up before I saw that it was poop."

By this time I was beginning to pinpoint the poop bandit, but I wasn't yet certain.

Day three. We were all gathered around a poster, chanting The Kelso's Choices Bugaloo. Afterward, as the children began to walk back to their seats, several more poop pebbles were brought to my attention. That is when I felt I could remain silent no longer.

"Okay. I don't know who it is that is doing this, but it is not okay. I know I said that I would like you to only use the restroom before school, during recess, at lunch, and after school, but if you are feeling like you're going to have an accident, it's okay, just tell me, and go. This cannot continue."

Two students pointed to Jake and accused, "It's him." Jake looked like a deer in headlights, and denied their accusation. I instantly felt sorry for him. Again, he said, "It wasn't me!" He turned to walk away, just as four more pebbles fell out of his shorts and onto the floor.

"Jake, wait outside for me please. Everyone else, go back to your seats."

The poor guy. Obviously he was having a digestion problem because what 8 year old in their right mind would do this on purpose? His light blue eyes and freckles stared back at me as I told him that he wasn't in trouble, but that he needed to go to the office to make sure he was all cleaned up and that he didn't have to go to the bathroom, and that I would be calling his mom, just so she would know that he may need some help with his tummy.

Day four was pebble free!

Only 176 more days to go.

Peace Officer Perks

I support my local sheriff. I support the CHP. I support the city police. I support them all. And I am grateful and indebted to them for putting their lives on the line each day to protect my community, my family, and me. Hats off to all of the fine officers out there! You're doing a job I could never even imagine doing and I know you don't get enough recognition and thanks.

You knew there was a big BUT coming though, didn't you?

I have a couple teensy weensy issues that I would like to bring up. Let's call them public grievances, since I am a tax payer and my taxes pay their salaries.

A friend of mine mentioned the other day that she saw a police officer in his cruiser, yacking away on his cell phone, distracted, and not staying in his lane. In the state of California, talking on your cell phone while driving is against the law, and you may be issued a citation if you are caught. Perhaps it was an emergency. Maybe he was distracted and swerving because he had just gotten some very bad news. I guess I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, just this once.

On several occasions, I have noticed officers in their cruisers failing to signal before turning or changing lanes, even when they aren't in any apparent hurry. Are they immune from signaling and following other traffic laws?

Who polices the police? What is to stop a police officer from driving significantly above the speed limit in a non-emergency situation, just because he or she wants to go fast? If they are in a hurry to get to an emergency, aren't they supposed to use their lights?

And last of all, the thing that got me started thinking about this whole issue: Why is it okay for police officers to overlook obvious traffic infractions just because the driver is the family member of another officer? Why is this courtesy acceptable? I do believe these individuals should be treated with a great deal of courtesy; their loved one risks his/her life every time they go to work. Yes, they should be given every courtesy, like good morning, please, thank you, and bless you. But overlooking their failure to obey the law?

I once attended a party at the home of a police officer. He was a most gracious host. However, when some of his friends who had been drinking a bit walked out the door, he called after them, "Don't drive down Main Street, they're setting up a DUI checkpoint there."

It took me a minute to process what he had just told them.

News Flash: Leaving Your Kids in a Hot Car Can Kill Them

Taken from today's local paper:

The California Highway Patrol (CHP) reminds motorists the summer heat can quickly create deadly conditions inside a vehicle, especially for children. . .

The national non-profit organization 4 R Kids Sake has designated August as "Purple Ribbon Month," to raise awareness and educate the public about the dangers of leaving a child unattended in or around a motor vehicle. In recognition of Purple Ribbon Month, the CHP will attach a purple ribbon to the antenna of its patrol cars.

While I fully respect and applaud the efforts of the CHP and the 4 R Kids Sake organization, this begs the question:

If someone is obtuse enough to not know that leaving their child unattended in a hot car can be deadly, how are they going to know what the purple ribbon means?

XYZ, Examine Your Zipper

At the opening of my seventeenth year of teaching, I reflect on the meaningful experiences that I have had, the learning I have facilitated, and the life lessons I have prompted.

I also contemplate those times that I've made an a$$ out of myself.

Our district used to require each student to complete an end of the year writing sample about their favorite memory of that particular grade. The day before we were to administer the writing prompt, I brought my fourth graders in from recess and began the math lesson. Just then, another teacher, Mrs. Jackson, entered the room and came to the front of the room to briefly pass on some information I had asked her about at recess. As we stood at the front of the room, one of my students began giggling. Then another, and another. Finally they were all laughing and we stood looking at them with a bewildered look on our faces. Finally, I begged, "What's so funny?"

Nobody moved. Nobody said a word, but a light tittering continued. Finally, one boy mercifully came to the front and stood on his tiptoes in order to whisper in my ear. I bent down, and he delivered the news. "Your zipper's down, Mr. Show."

I looked down. I looked at Mrs. Jackson. I looked at 32 nine and ten year-olds. And then, I blushed deeply, turned around, and zipped up.

Somehow things calmed down and we finished our day normally.

Would anyone care to guess what all 32 of my fourth graders wrote about as their favorite fourth grade memory?

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I'm Worried That I'm a Worrier

I'm worried that I'm a worrier. Like many people, when something isn't right in my life, I worry about it. And believe me, there have been some biggies. However, right now, things are going pretty well. It has been a calm summer, and overall, there is relatively little to worry about. So one would think that I wouldn't be worried. But I wake up in the night and worry. I worry about inconsequential things like student desk arrangements or whether the fountain in our side yard needs water. Then the "what ifs" begin, which lead me to thinking about vague worst case scenarios. Then my mind starts to spin around on itself, and I realize I shouldn't worry because things are going well enough. But then I worry about worrying. I worry that I worry too much. I worry that I'm not worrying. Or I worry that there isn't anything to worry about because maybe something bad is going to happen soon and then I'll really have something to worry about!

What is this strange human emotion, worry? Is it just like our other emotions, happiness, sadness, fear, excitement, boredom--our feelings just are and there really aren't a whole lot of things we can do to keep from feeling them, and we should just let them be?

I don't worry about the things I can control. But the things that are out of my control? I worry about those things.

What do you worry about?

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Mr. Parkinson's Caring for Mrs. Alzheimer's

This week my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. We all suspected it and we've been urging him to see a doctor. Much to our surprise he put his little old self in his little old Buick and went. He has started taking commonly prescribed Parkinson's medication, and already feels a difference.

If you've been around, you may know that my dad is caring for his wife who has fairly advanced Alzheimer's.

My Parkinson's father is caring for my Alzheimer's step-mother. I don't foresee this going on at this rate for too much longer.

What has your experience been with Parkinson's? I know many of you have shared with me of your loved ones who have suffered from Alzheimer's. Now, will you please educate me about my father's disease? I've been reading online about it, but I'd appreciate hearing about your first hand experiences. Anybody?

Who loves you? Jason does, that's who.

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Crying in Dodge Ball

Before I had a son I always felt that I should stick to parenting girls, as I was convinced I was a much better parent to them than I would be to a boy. You see, I don't do sports. I'm really not a rough and tumble kind of guy. I cook. I read. I grocery shop. I spend countless hours each week on my computer. I take pride in my second grade classroom. I don't do sports.

But then Diego came along, and I wasn't about to say, "No, he's a boy. We'll wait til a girl comes along." So we bought a bunch of diapers and baby boy clothes and suddenly I was the proud parent of a BOY.

Raising a boy has been quite a contrast compared to raising girls. Diego is rambunctious, my girls were calm. Diego demands entertainment, my girls entertained themselves. Diego is full of energy from the moment he opens his eyes in the morning until the minute he closes his eyes at night. Diego needs a physical outlet. My girls needed outlets of a different sort.

Hence, this summer we enrolled him in Tae Kwon Do. Taking him to his class has been a strange mix of emotions for me. I sit and read my chick novel and glance up every so often to smile or nod or attempt to keep from squirming. At the end of each session they play a friendly game of dodge ball. Have I mention how I hated dodge ball when I was a kid? Only in junior high PE it morphed from dodge ball to WAR BALL, and it was all I could do to remain invisible near the back and keep my head from getting blown off with a speeding ball. That and keep myself from crying. But Diego thinks it is a blast, though he hasn't quite yet developed his dodge ball skills. And I keep my mouth shut and praise him at the end. I wonder when he will clue in that his daddy is a wimp?

Then there's the sparring. I wasn't quite prepared to see five to ten year olds don all kinds of protective gear, including a mouth guard and a helmet, and then just kick the crap out of each other. I tried not to display the horror on my face, and I think I did a pretty good job, thanks to my copy of Eat, Pray, Love. When I asked Diego what he thought about the sparring part of Tae Kwon Do, he just chuckled and said, "I like it."

To top it all off, apparently one less-known tradition in the ancient art of Tae Kwon Do is birthday spankings. They're not mild, innocuous love taps either, they're eally loud, hard, reverberating birthday spankings inflicted with a pad used for blocking kicks and punches. The kids LOVE it. The boy whose nine spankings I witnessed walked away, rubbing his backside, saying, "That really hurt!" with a giant grin on his face. I would have died.

Again I pose the question: When is my son going to realize that his daddy is a wimp?

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Post Script: Yesterday Diego came home from Tae Kwon Do wearing the honorary black belt that the master gives to students to wear as a reward for their respectful behavior and high level of effort in class.

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