Like many teachers, I would like to address a recent proposal to add a particular piece of hardware to the classroom. It’s useful and, once loaded, does all manners of good if it’s in the right hands. I have spent my entire pedagogical career wishing and hoping that a social movement would carry us to this pivotal development. Teachers everywhere are ready for this implementation to their classroom arsenal.

People, it is time to give working staplers to every teacher. The benefits and advantages of having a working stapler in the classroom are unmatched. They keep things in line, they’re there in an emergency, and an entire office’s paper joining needs can be dealt with by one good guy with a working stapler.

That all said, I have never had a working stapler. Well, they work for an hour or two and then mystically jam. One of my colleagues says he wrote a paper on a middle school in Guam which had a working stapler that lasted for years without botching one staple attempt. But I don’t believe it. I’ll see Saint Francis’ likeness in a burrito before I see a permanent working stapler.

You know how school bureaucracy is, and bringing staplers into things just stirred up the maelstrom. We brought it up at the meeting and asked for a working stapler. (And by we, I mean I. A meeting made up of Czechs and Brits means that none of the Czechs will ever complain and if the British guy does, nobody who’s not British realizes they’re actually complaining, and instead think he’s just complimenting the cheese platter. So they always leave it to the bloody American, who’s too dull for nuance.)

Upon the request, the department head informed us that he was not a miracle worker. “What would we want next,” he asked, “livable wages?!” We all laughed at that one for a good while. Tears. Our disappointment was slightly ameliorated by the promise of a better printer to replace the printer we then had, which worked fine. As for the working stapler, he suggested that we get some of those plastic folios, because there wasn’t any money in the budget for a working stapler, or, as it turned out, those plastic folios. If we wanted a working stapler, we’d have to bring our own from home.

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February 14^th was the day Phillies pitchers and catchers reported for spring training this year. It should be a national holiday. Valentine’s Day can go fuck itself, people should buy cards and candies celebrating the fact that baseball season is around the corner.

Pitchers and catchers is start of the holiday season.

To the non-sports fan, the outside observer, a baseball game is just a football game that doesn’t stop every eight seconds for a commercial. Just another three hour period during which the fan in their lives looks at a TV and drinks beer and yells profanities. But to anyone who celebrates both, baseball is a whole different experience. It’s played at night. There’s no clock. It’s slower and longer. It’s filled with contemplation, discussion, humor. The drama builds and sometimes the excitement comes out of nowhere. The coaches aren’t complete assholes (I know. I know). And there’s no John Madden. Violence and injuries are unusual.

Baseball season is just as different. It’s played during the spring and the summer, when the days are longer and the mood is more optimistic and warm. The games often start in daylight and end in the wee hours. The season is a marathon, it’s long and it’s played almost every day of the week. A day without a Phillies game leaves you scrambling for another game. Fortunately, there’s always a game to watch somewhere.

Baseball evokes a whole set of images, sensations, and memories. The snap of the first pitch hitting the catcher’s mitt. Starting with a one-two-three inning. Realizing in the fourth inning that the opposition hasn’t had a hit yet, and knowing that everyone else in the room knows it too. And eternal damnation to anyone who brings it up. Baseball is a game filled with stories and anecdotes. Names like Dutch, Chase, and Schmitty. Brad Lidge on his knees on the mound. Rose assisting Boone near the first base dugout. Watching a day game during a barbecue, eating too many hotdogs and drinking a freezing cold beer. Sitting in the living room watching a night game in June or July, the crickets and chatter of summer outside the window. Catching highlights in the morning over a bowl of cereal. A scrub player stroking a double down the line and forgiving him all of his previous transgressions. Baseball is the closest I come to prayer.

In any event. Play ball!

Stanley doing what Stanley liked to do most

About three months ago, a friend from the Old Country wrote me:

Hey, Kid B is doing this thing called Flat Stanley. Could you help out?

Me: Sure. What does it entail?

FFOC: You take him around to places of interests and you take some pictures. Then you write a little story and send that along some pictures about his “adventures.”

Me: Yeah, sure! Sounds interesting. (I’d been drinking a little) Send him along.

Stanley arrived two weeks later in an envelope. A letter stowed with Stanley informed me of his traumatic past. Stanley was crushed during a horrendous industrial accidental and has henceforth been known as Flat Stanley. I thought it cruel to openly mock a person for his physical impairments; I endeavored to be as hospitable as possible.

My hospitality for some weeks entailed keeping Stanley in his envelope on my bookshelf and periodically casting a guilty glance in his direction and saying: “Aw fucker. I gotta get to that.”

My procrastination was such that I was forced to face the music at one point and write a message to my friend (from the old country).

Me: Hey man, I’ve been busy. Do you mind if I keep Flat Stanley for a few more weeks?

FFOC: No rush and no problem! Take your time!

I breathed a sigh of relief and, like most people who have been granted amnesty after intense procrastination, I procrastinated some more.

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Date: February 22, 2017 18

Time: 6:21 a.m.

Emotional & Mental Stability (1-10 scale)

4.6

3 Positive Affirmations

1. Most people consistently compliment your hair
2. Nobody can read your mind
3. You are not a Republican

3 MITs (most important tasks)

• Go to meeting
• Pretend to listen at meeting
• Don’t kill yourself in/after meeting

3 Daily Goals  

1. Be nice to people
2. Show an interest in others (for realz)
3. Don’t accidentally poke out eyes

Rewards for Goals attained and Tasks Fulfilled

A hotdog

Crib Notes for Navigating Today’s Shit Storm of Human Interaction

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If you are traveling home after midnight on trams, there’s a 97% chance you’ll be at Lazarská at some point. On the night tram schedule, Lazarská seems to be the center of the tram universe. It is also home to a pub that is hidden in plain sight. It’s right on the main road, it even has a sign. And though I have been there a few hundred times, my eyes still scroll past it a couple of times before locking in on it. It’s like trying to see the hidden image in one of those hologram paintings. We call it the Lazarská Joint.

I find myself at the Lazarská Joint in the same situation. It’s always late (often after midnight), so all of the other pubs in the city of Prague have been shut down under the time-obsessive tyranny of dictatorial waiters. I am usually with my buddy L. And despite the fact that the pub I’d been at has closed, we have decided that instead of going home, we just need one more. The Lazarská Joint is the “one more” place.

It’s Tuesday. Heading to the Lazarská Joint ensures that the next day will be awful. I know it. L knows it. But we are too engaged in conversation or having too much fun, or we are simply not willing to give up the ghost of the night to turn it in quite yet. This is around the time L comes out with proverbs like “in for a penny in for a pound” or “might as well be hanged as a sheep for a lamb.” And this is all it takes to talk me into one more, thus rendering my next day an achy period of vast confusion.

But at about 12ish a.m. when we find a table at the Lazarská Joint none of that matters yet.

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My little part of Prague is like a hidden gem. It’s out of the center but close to it, it’s quiet, green, and dotted with places which offer beer to weary travelers. What might be considered drawbacks of my location is that I am in between two hills. One that goes up and one that goes down. Also I have to walk to get anywhere. While some of my friends live (literally) upstairs from a market or a(n again, literal) stone’s throw to a tram stop, I have to walk at least six or seven minutes to get anywhere. I have learned to spin this into a positive direction and look at it as something that has helped me stay fit, heart healthy, and out of motorized scooters and Walmart memes.

The walk to the metro is about twelve minutes. It was during this walk that about a month ago, along a little row of houses across from a nearby cemetery, that I first met the dog. It is a large German shepherd. I also know that he is bad-tempered and that his bark is terrifying. And, while I can’t be certain, I would say that his goal in life is to one day literally scare the shit out of me.

The fence sits on the edge of the sidewalk and because the yard is raised, the dog barked at me the first time from inches away from my face and at a terrible consistency and volume. I made a sound that I will never relate to another human and jumped and reacted in a way that isn’t getting me into war dispatches anytime soon.

The second time he got me I was coming the other direction a few days later. This time he erupted into the left side of my face. I jumped and my heart went into worrying palpitations. I then, admittedly, ran away.

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I am forty-three years old and therefore in a phase of life when one of my pastimes is noticing how things are different for me now. There are the gray hairs, the mystery aches, the grunts I make when sitting down on or standing up from the couch. There are the thoughts that unwittingly go through my head, which include a whole lot of “when I was young” and the occasional “in my day.” There are more, I won’t bore you with them. That is for another day when I can’t think of anything else to write.

However, of all the “you know you’re getting old” observations, knowing full well that if I’d lived at another time in history I would be on my way out or dead is a pretty big one. If I were born in, say, the year 1000, I would have probably died a few years ago of some sort of pox and been mourned at my funeral by my wife, my six children, and twenty three grandchildren. I’d have probably welcomed death after a lifetime of working in fields, suffering invasions, and dealing with pestilence and tyrannical feudal lords, all while my witty one-liners flew over the heads of the peasant family next door.

While that may have been the lot for one of my (underappreciated comic genius) ancestors, it’s not mine. And while I am very grateful to live in a time and a place where that is not a reality, it’s not like we don’t have physical troubles to suffer. Here are some.

Text Neck

Yes, text neck is exactly what you think it is. You spend all day looking down into a phone and pretty soon your neck and spine decide they’re going to treat you to this generation’s Carpal Tunnel.

Fitbit Wrist

If you are of the Fitbit Brethren, then you understand. One of the features of a Fitbit is that it’s also a watch, but the drawback is that you can’t see the clock unless it’s been activated. You can do this by pushing a button, but if you’re walking (because if you wear a Fitbit, you usually are walking to ensure not disappointing the Lord of 10,000) then you have to turn your wrist towards yourself and hope that it activates from the motion. It sometimes does, it sometimes doesn’t. If it doesn’t then you keep turning your wrist towards yourself in a snapping motion.

Or not. Maybe it’s just me.

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I’m in a pub, having a slivovice in tea to clear out some the head cold demons. I am writing in my notebook and enjoying a quiet night alone. My level of bliss might be higher if the man at the table across from me weren’t constantly engaging me in conversation.

As a second language Czech speaker, chatty strangers are a serious X factor in my content. As a non-fluent speaker, any interaction sets me on edge. I move into a mental space hinged on comprehension and appropriate response. If the speaker picks that up, they may grade their language and patiently give me time to respond. They may correct my mistakes. These are features of a pleasant interaction.

On the other hand, people might speak quickly, and largely ignore my responses. They shake their heads in confusion after I respond, leaving me in a panic about what I’ve just said. This is in part no doubt a byproduct of too many occasions on which I’ve tried to say “shoe” and ended up saying “god, I’d love to see you in my grandmother’s bikini.”

There are also urinal chatters, for whom I believe there is a special place in linguistic etiquette hell. When one is holding their genitals, they should be free of all pressures to communicate reasonably.

Recently I have had two extended conversations with strangers with whom I was sharing a table. One guy shared a table with us at a pub and we spent about ninety minutes chatting about history, books, family, travel, and even tiptoed through the minefield of politics. He was polite, spoke so we could understand, and helped us root out some vocabulary when we needed. The experience was wholly positive and I left feeling both appreciative and good about my Czech.

I met the next guys were – oddly enough – at the same pub. These guys were more challenging as one of them not only wanted to talk politics, but we were not in agreement and he spoke very quickly and demanded responses as such. His friend had a better understanding of what two low-level language speakers can handle and decided that supranational decision making biases within the European Union on the topic of slow migration might be out of our zone of intelligently discussable topics. He spoke more reasonably, and when we moved away from politics, things were pleasant. Again, mostly positive, but exhausting.

Tonight’s conversation goes like this:

Him: “Piss. Haha.” Some more words. “Piss again. I piss.” I think something about trees. “Do you piss?”

Me: “Hm. Interesting.”

Him: (nods head at my response) “Once I pissed on…(says clearly) bad idea. (laughs) I knew one doctor from Egypt.” More exposition. “Hahah. Piss. Whore. Understand?”

Me: “I understand.”

Him: (nods thoughtfully) “Piss. I am learning….” A word I’d have to dislocate my jaw to pronounce. “Shit.”

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