We Were Marshall

June 14th marks the final day in the 51-year history for the Minutemen and Minutemaids of John Marshall High School. The Class of 2011 will be the final class that graduates from MHS. It's amazing that my high school won't exist anymore. That makes me feel really old. Sometimes, I'll run across people who say they went to Washington High School (another Portland high school that closed in 1981) and they're old as shit. Now I've been inducted into the "old ass dude who's high school doesn't exist anymore Hall of Fame."

Of course they couldn't close Jefferson High School because the students there are predominantly black and it would be another case of "white-ass Portland" hating on anybody who isn't white. You can't close Roosevelt for one reason or another (they're building is prettier). You can throw the book at Marshall, whose reputation as a school for gang bangers has only worsened since I left the halls for good in 2002. Also, who cares if we close a school down whose attendance numbers have dwindled every year for the past two decades?

Turns out that some people DO care about what happens to Marshall. But by the time they organized enough to do something about it, the school board had already put its plan in motion. We didn't have enough supporters to change the mind of the powers that be. It's really sad that I won't be able to take my kids there and tell them that this is where Dad went to school. This is where I used to play basketball at lunch. This is where that guy got shot in the cafeteria when your Aunt went here. This is where that guy got stabbed and ran to the health clinic that used to be right there. Isn't that what happens at every school?

The students don't really seem to give two shits about school now. They aren't going to class because what's the point? They're going to have all new teachers next year who won't know if they went to class or not. Brand new beginnings for these kids. Many kids have transferred out to the school they would attend next year to get a head start on making friends and learning the lay of the land. It's gotten so pathetic at Marshall that the teachers are rewarding students for coming to class on time for three weeks in a row.

So now what to do with the building? Probably nothing. Although my sister has other ideas (harassing McMenamins) and nearly no capital to do it herself. Maybe she'll write a blog post on it someday. It just seems like a waste to just let the building sit there behind a movie theater and shopping centers and let it waste away just like Washington High School. Although WHS was used to house people who left New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. So we'll wait for the next terrible natural disaster and open MHS to the stranded masses.

There will be a Tribute to Marshall on June 4th at noon. I can't go because it's my wife's birthday and I'll be working half of the day. Maybe Victory Lane will go and report. Probably not.

I'd leave you with the fight song, but to be honest, I don't know it and I'm not sure anybody else does either.

The Kid

My son turned 21 months old today. I always used to hate it when I'd ask a person how old their kid was and they'd say, "22 months." Now I have to take a second to do math and figure out how old your bastard child is. I now realize that if I told you my kid was one years old, you'd think he was a giant. My kid IS a giant, but every time someone asks me his age, I start with, "he's almost 2" and then submit the painful "21 months." I also realize that this will end once he turns two. There's no way that I'll say my son is 58 months old. See because now you still don't know how old he is (4 years, 10 months) and I sound like a pretentious dickhole.

He is growing everyday and after spending two days at home, I'm sometimes ready to go back to work. He's loud, obnoxious, sweaty, crazy, stubborn, adorable and bipolar all at the same time. He likes to headbutt, attack the cat, smack faces, fist bump, and give you a high-five all at once.

He's quick with a "what's that" but can't say much else. If you tell him no, he'll headbutt the couch or ground. Take something away from him and he'll scream his face off and hold his breath until he turns purple. His new hobby is to shove his hand down his throat and puke all over the place. He's aiming to be the poster child for toddler bulimia.

He's knows a lot more than he lets on at times. He understands what we say, he just has other ideas about what should happen at any given moment. Selective hearing is an understatement with this kid. I imagine this is what most kids are like at his age (21 months....or a year and 9 months...whatever).

I know that all kids are "beautiful" but there are some really ugly kids out there. If we go out in public and somebody doesn't tell me how handsome he is, that will be the first time.

My kid is a lot of things but there isn't one thing I would change about him. He is perfect in my eyes and hopefully my wife and I are doing right by him and raise him to be a responsible young man who will raise a family of his own someday.

Sell Yourself

No, I'm not talking about street walking or organ sales on the black market. I've got another job interview coming up on the 9th. After the last interview (for the same position) I had a hard time figuring out why I hadn't beat out the other applicants or at the very least, the person who ended up getting the job. This person had a reputation for having attitude problems and not treating people the right way. She was up one day and down another. I was really bummed for quite awhile because all I was hearing before the interview was that the job was mine and I felt that I was the best candidate for the position.

My interview went great. I answered all of the questions to the best of my abilities and even got the trick questions they try to trip you up with. The simple things that everyone should know but nobody ever takes the time to research.

After the punch to the gut that was the "we've decided to go in a different direction" phone call, I asked myself what I could have possibly done wrong to let it slip out of my hands. I figured it was because my company has recently shown an interest in promoting women and minorities. "I'm a white guy, that's what I have against me" I told myself.

Recently, I found out that my interview wasn't as great as I thought it was. Sure I had blown them away with the knowledge of 10,000 men, but I had come across to the interviewers as "kinda dull", "not energetic", "not excited."

"Huh?" I said. I immediately knew what was interpreted from my body language and tone. I come from a family of non-smilers. It's not that we don't have a sense of humor, we're actually pretty fucking funny most of the time. Maybe we were jaded as youths or realize that the worst types of people are the ones who display fake smiles all of the time. What the hell are you so damn happy about all of the time. Life tends to suck about half of the time. This leads me to believe that they are on some kind of drug because they can't handle reality. If they were sober, they'd look just like me.

There's a few people at work who are always so damn chipper and laugh at EVERY G-D THING YOU SAY. I could say, "Man, I really don't feel good and I wish I was in bed right now" and they think it's chuckle-worthy. Follow that up with a generic response like, "yeah man that sucks." Is that a nervous reaction on their part? A twitch? All I know is that it's really annoying.

Where was I? Ah yes, we don't smile. Not like ever, but only smiling takes up about 1 percent of our total time. Unless we're drunk (likely) or hanging out together, smiling and being peppy just aren't a part of our repertoire. I'm always accused of not smiling at work or not being happy or looking pissed off. No, I'm fucking working! What's so great about work? Sure I'll ask you how your day was and pretend to care for a few minutes, but that's where it ends. I don't really want to hear about everybody's problems, I just want to do my work and go home. Now I've met some of my best friends through work and formed relationships that will probably last the rest of my life...for godsakes I met my wife there. I wouldn't give that up for anything.

What I'm trying to get at is that I forgot that while I know all of the technical aspects and requirements of the job, I forgot to sell myself. My personality. My charm. My people skills. I don't flash them often, but when I do, I tend to get along with people REALLY well. So for this upcoming interview, I'll be spending as much time researching and preparing to sell my professional self as my personal self. It's one of those life lessons I've had to learn the hard way.

Holy Mother of Skin

Today's high temperature in Portland, Oregon reached 97 degrees. Now this is way too hot for most people in the Pacific Northwest. When it gets hot, people wear less clothing. I don't have a problem with people who want to walk around with no shirt who are physically fit. It's the manatees and sasquatchian that bother me.

Now I'm sure that this epidemic isn't a local or regional thing. It's a national debacle that terrorizes the normals. I understand that it's hot outside and the heat makes you uncomfortable. But, for the love of all that is sacred, put some damn clothes on when you go outside.

Many things go through my mind when I see an unattractive female with the sun shining where it doesn't want to. They include:

Nobody I know would eat that muffin.
When did you think that tattoo was a good idea?
OMFG!
Please let those bikini strings hold.
I didn't know Coleman made swimsuits.
That reminds me, I need to pick up some cottage cheese.
That's an odd shape for a belly button.
Is that the front of you?

And for the grosser, manlier sex:

Why would you buy a sweater with nipples on it?
You need a bra my good sir.
Hey, there's your ass crack...I was wondering what that looked like.
I didn't know you could sweat right there.
Are they having a casting call for a Harry and the Hendersons remake?

I know these people will always be gross and don't care what people think. I applaud them for their lack of self awareness. But that's as far as my praise of these people goes.

If you appetite will allow it, I encourage you to visit The People of Walmart. There is a gallery of these types of everyday people and some pretty funny commentary to go along with it.

Hayden Thomas Dexheimer

Well a lot has happened since those tomatoes tried to ruin my hoagie. On September 1st, 2009, Nikki gave birth to a ten pounder! I started to get a little nervous the night before we went into the hospital because I knew he was coming and I hoped he would be healthy.

I could give a complete play-by-play of the day he was born, but that would bore you. It was about 9 hours into Nikki's labor when I was awakened from the most uncomfortable sofa by the doctor discussing with Nikki that a cesarean section would be necessary. That stubborn boy wasn't coming out on his own. Immediately, I felt like I was going to hyperventilate. I tried to keep calm by taking silent deep breaths. It seemed to work as they brought in scrubs for me and her mom to wear into the delivery room.

I think that the time between the doctors wheeling Nikki into the delivery room and the time we were actually allowed to enter the delivery room was the longest period of time I've ever imagined. I'm sure that if I had a stopwatch, it would have read like 15 minutes, but it seemed like 15 hours.

We finally got to go into the room and I felt like I walked into a refrigerator. It was maybe 50 degrees inside and I could feel it on my feet. See I wore size 13 flip flops to the hospital and the little booties didn't fit over them so I just wore the booties over my bare feet. Nikki was strapped to the table like Jesus. The combo of nerves, two epidurals, the cold room and other sedatives left her shivering like a Mexican in Alaska.

We made a b-line for two stools seated at Nikki's head and behind the curtain as to obstruct our view from the sawing and organ moving that was about to commence. The G-D anaesthesiologist had some of the worst 80's music playing on the stereo. Islands in the Stream doesn't calm me down ever. It makes me emit rage in normal settings. When my wife is strapped to an ironing board having people escort her abdomen out of the way, I definitely don't want to hear Dolly Parton's twang. It's not folksy, it sucks. The whole procedure took about 20 minutes to get baby out and 20 minutes to stitch Nikki up.

The doctors wouldn't let us leave the OR yet, so I was trying to show the throng of supporters in the hallway our new addition through a window that you couldn't squeeze a dictionary through. We finally got to go out in the hallway and everybody took turns drooling over him.

I know it's taken me ten months to write this blog, but I've been busy. Hayden is the best thing that Nikki and I have ever done and I cannot imagine my life without him. Oh, by the way, the stereo was playing "I Wanna Know What Love Is" by Foreigner when he was born. The picture below is of him (9 months) and I.