La-ia Vogelsberg

We're down to the wire here people. Babygirl Vogelsberg will be joining us soon but we still don't have a name. Ashlee and I continue negotiations but to no avail. We decided to bring Max in as a mediator but he likes names like, Yogurt, Motorcycle and Shoot Hoops!, which I'm not entirely apposed to considering the freak-nasty granola names Ashlee keeps putting on the list. Needless to say, we need a name and that reminds me of a good story:

One of the labors I enjoyed most while letting my dad pay my way through college was substitute teaching at a middle school in Rose Park. And for those of you who have never ventured to the West siiieeeeed, don't be fooled by the common nomenclature that because it's a "park", its a pleasant little ditty in the middle of a city. (don't even act like that that wasn't a sweet little rhyme with a catchy little rhythm)

Now, I can understand why the local government would try to hide the fact that Rose Park is anything BUT rosey or parkish, but I also think there should be a bit more honesty in a name. That said, I think it should be called Rose Thorn or maybe Gang-banger Park. It's the same reason I think my parents should have named me Thecoolestdangkidontheplanetandwithfreakinggoodlookstoboot Alan Vogelsberg. I guess they figured I'd have a hard time spelling that so they settled on David Alan Vogelsberg instead. Whadaya do?

Truth be known, Rose Park isn't near the scariest or most dangerous place I've been. Nor is it the Compton that Utahan's claim it to be. Nevertheless, it is more than just a golf course away from a country club. I mean how many times have you seen guys waving guns around on your way to work?

Specifically, North West Middle School is an ESL (English as a Secondary Language) school with the majority of enrollees being Hispanic and African immigrants. That's not to say I didn't have other demographics like Germans, Russians and other foreign nationals in my classroom (most of which spoke no English), but its true, the majority were from Mehhicco so mostly we habla'd Espanol.

I taught 7th and 8th graders who, for the most part were accustomed to the ways of the psuedo-gangsta because of the environment in which they lived. Regretfully most had at least known someone, or even had a family member, who was either incarcerated or shot at. Despite the affiliation, these kids were harmless. Too small to hurt you and too young to punk you. They just needed some influence from someone other than eminem (sorry Marshal, I meant eminem) or Tupac.

Now I'm not saying I was the influence they needed or even the one who could help these kids choose a better path. Quite frankly, I recognized early on that they looked at me like I was some nerdy Peabody trying with all his might to be cool. They called me Mr. Dave and asked, "Why you always wear North Face man? You don't got no Dickies". I knew I was finally accepted when they started calling me "Foo", as in "What up fool?".

One of my preferred memories at Northwest Middle School involved choosing a new mascot: The city decided Northwest Middle School was a scab on the map and as a consequence planned to demolish the building and relocate to a newer, nicer facility (read; further West and farther away from the Gateway Shopping Center). Someone suggested it was time for a new mascot too... something like, The Jets for example, being that the new school would be close to the airport. As faculty and staff we decided to survey the student body and let them vote for their new mascot. Little did we suspect eighty two percent of the student body - THAT'S 82 PERCENT ! - penciled in 50 Cent as the leading candidate. Let me clarify: they weren't suggesting two quarters, five dimes, ten nickles or fifty pennies. They were suggesting 50 Cent the gangsta YO! How telling is that?

Anyway. That's not what we were talking about. We were talking about names.

One day, we're working on registration for the next semester. A couple, parents of one of the students, reaches the front of the line and hands the girl next to me an application with the name "La-ia" on it. We look at the name, look at each other, scratch our heads, and the girl next to me apologetically mumbles something that sounded like "Luh-eeeuh?". The mother flashes a big forgiving smile, leans over to put her hand on the girl's shoulder and says, "Oh no honey, that dash ain't silent. It's Ladasha".

Now THAT is awesome. So awesome, I'm pulling out my trump card on this one. We're going with La-ia Vogelsberg. Well, on second thought, I'll meet Ashlee and Max half way... La-ia Yogurt Vogelsberg.

Bea Arthur, Be Naked

I saw a bumper sticker once that said that and I thought it was funny. Funny in that "make me throw up in the back of my mouth" kind of way. But that's a mean thing to say about a classy woman who just passed away.

Bea Arthur, better know as Dorothy Zbornak, died and it's a shame. That's now two of the four Golden Girls that have passed away in the last little while. I considered doing some long winded send off memorial tribute to the baritone beauty but it would have been a rehash of my Sofia tribute. So instead, I thought I would treat us all to the single greatest moment in the history of the Star Wars franchise. But wait. What does Bea Arthur have to do with Star Wars?, you ask. Let me tell you, thereby proving you a source of endless joy.

In 1978, in an attempt to capitalize on the success of the first Star Wars movie, some TV producer somewhere greenlit the unholy abomination known as the Star Wars Christmas Special. The story goes that Han Solo needs to get Chewie back to his home planet of Kashyyk in time for Life Day. Apparently they didn't have Christmas a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. I guess it was just too far for Santa's reigndeer (no offense Rudolf). If, on the other hand, Santa had a Millenium Falcon, things would have been different because "It's the ship that made the Kessel in twelve parsecs". Dude. That's fast. Buuuuut, we all know how Han was about lending out his Millenium Falcon. Even to Santa Clause. So they bagged Christmas and had Life Day instead.

Anyway, one of the scenes from that awful Christmas Special involves a musical number preformed by our beloved Bea. Cast as a bartender named Ackmena, she's working in the Mos Eisley Cantina. The Empire enforces a curfew putting her out of business. Her response? A deep voiced jazzy, New Orleans style, musical number. Take that, you dirty, evil Empire!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzXKySxPFCI&feature=player_embedded

No, this is not Spaceballs or Hardware Wars. In fact, it's no spoof at all. It's episode 4.5, starring Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher, Mark Hamill and the rest the original cast. If you doubt my word, check out the following musical number by a coked out of her mind Carrie Fisher in which she sings a crappy Life Day song to the tune of the Star Wars theme. My favorite part is the look on Harrison Ford's face (at 3:15) that seems to say, "What am I doing to my career?".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLfjqzLsPgw&feature=player_embedded

Holy Wookie! Check out the slow dissolves between the main characters as Leia sings, the clips from the movie seamlessly interwoven with the new footage, the crowd of fully robed Wookiees walking creepily through space, and the fact that Carrie Fisher is singing in a completely different tune than the music accompanying her. And yet as laughably awful as it all is, it is still more tolerable than Hayden Christensen's acting.

But back to my original point. Bea Arthur, classy broad. You'll be missed. Actually, I haven't seen anything you've done since the Golden Girls, except for that one Malcom In the Middle episode where you babysat Dewey (and then died...). So I guess nothing's really going to change. But Bea, you'll always have a warm place in my heart.

Creamed Corn it is...

So I don't necessarily have a rant about creamed corn other than it could only have come from the dirty dirty South. But I do have a rant about Pork n Beans which will suffice.

What's the deal with the blob of white fatty tissue that pops up half way through your bowl of pork n beans? You know what I'm talking about. It's that danged gelatinous mass of brain tumor that for some reason Heinz decides to leave in the can! And why is it that pork n beans can only be served on plates made of Styrofoam or paper? Neither lend to a suitable situation. It either keeps soaking through your paper plates until you've got 14 of them piled up to stop the bleeding or you were lucky enough to get a Styrofoam one but you screwed it all up because you poked your flipping fork right through it and now your balancing your plate so the juice doesn't drip through the hole onto your pants.

Despite the hassle I used to love Pork and Beans when I was a kid. And I mean LOVE pork and beans. Mostly we just ate them on camping trips because that was the way we rolled. Pimpin' the '64 DrummerBoy pop-tent trailer (my dad still protests, "It was Salmon, NOT pink!") was like a pork n bean pantry on wheels. We'd pull into the campground, pop that trailer and eat pork n beans by the fire all night. Sometimes mum would make it extra delightful and throw in a cut up hot dog. YATZEE!

Anyway. I loved me some of them pork and beans. And I loved em good. Until, that is, I spooned up the biggest chunk of white pork n bean fat that humanity has ever documented and I asked my brother what it was. He said it was the "mother bean" and that I should eat it because they were delish! He furthered the deceit by asking if he could have it. (BTW, this is the same big brother that had me convinced the daylight moon was the Deathstar and that Vader was watching me at all times and in all places). Upon his advice (alright, it was probably more his wanting it that urged me to eat it myself) I slurped it in my mouth, tried to chew a bite, smooooshed it with my tongue and then gagged a puke. Alas, I have never bean able to eat Pork and Beans since.

The "Mother Bean"...freak. I shall ne'er be the same.

someone give me a topic please so I can go on ranting.