Wakuwa Vuka (When you fall, rise again)

It’s about as cliché as you get, but boy does it ever make you think. Yes, this will be one of Paul’s long-drawn reflections on life.

I resigned from my position with the high school I was teaching at. For a myriad of reasons, I decided I could not continue to burlesque as a teacher when I’m not one. I’ll get into some of those reasons throughout this composition, but some need to percolate in my head a bit longer before I toss them up for judgment.

Now that I’m unemployed in a city I haven’t felt particularly comfortable in, I’m torn about what to do. Do I finish the year here by working in a coffee shop, bookstore, or other ‘entry level’ position? Do I pack my car and go in search of chance? Do I book a flight home, and ‘enjoy’ some sub-zero temperature therapy? This is that quintessential movie-moment where the protagonist has to make a choice that will set the tone for the rest of the film (At least, that’s how I’m looking at it.). The problem is life doesn’t operate like a movie: There’s no guarantee that I get a satisfactory ending. I know that I’m thinking a little too “big picture” and concentrating on what is way off in the uncertain future when I should be thinking about the right-here-and-now (read, looking for a job), but I can’t help it. Also, I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this. There’s a number of you looking at this thinking “Enough already Paul, you’re not any different from me. I graduated and my immediate thought upon getting my diploma was ‘well now what do I do?!’”

I guess I’m stuck on this because here I am wondering whether what I really did was fail, or if it was an example of making a hard decision, one that doesn’t seem to have a ‘right’ answer or even a ‘best’ answer. Or perhaps my whole framing of life is wrong and theses aren’t even the questions requiring answers. 

If I did fail, then how do I ‘get back up?’ What does that look like? By quitting, did I admit defeat and choose to quit the game. Or was quitting the falling down part? How big picture/little picture am I looking? Does it even matter? Ai yai yai, Paul! Enough already, go to the part where you’re not thinking so hard!

Well, fortunately, I can! Between the last paragraph and this one, I took a break and went out to lunch at my favorite restaurant in Baltimore. Gia’s is a tiny, family-owned, Italian joint on a corner in Little Italy. It opened pretty recently, but the word-of-mouth reputation earned by the tiramisu (I would commit a range of felonies to get my hands on it. Fortunately, they sell it, so I don’t have to.) has generated a small body of regulars. Me included. When I sat down, the owner, Gia, was surprised to find me 1.) alone, and 2.) sitting down for food when I should be at school. I told her about quitting and trying to decide what my next steps should be. At some point, she either called her mother, or her mother called the restaurant. That doesn’t matter, the point is, I was given the phone by Gia and found myself talking to “Momma.”

I should side track here for a moment and explain that Momma is often at the restaurant and the two of us hit it off one night. Anytime I ate at Gia’s, Momma takes a few minutes to check in with me and see how life is going.

Ok, so Momma heard that I resigned and demanded that I leave my phone number at the restaurant so she can call a few of her friends and see if there’s anyone around who can help me out with finding some work out here in Baltimore! Yeah, definitely the little bit of sunshine and good fortune I needed to boost my spirits a bit. Add a piece of tiramisu, and it was a good, good start to my afternoon.

Well, after Momma and I chatted, I gave the phone back to Gia, and a couple across the restaurant made a comment along the lines of “so are you the mayor around here, Paul, or what?” Yes, they knew my name. Gia’s father was in the restaurant so she introduced me to him and the couple overheard me. They invited me to join them at their table and we talked for about a half hour. They were in Baltimore (from Rhode Island) to see their son off before he left for Iraq. Dave was a counselor who took a bit of an interest in my story, he gave me his email address and told me I should contact him if I’m ever in the tiniest state in the country. A few words of wisdom later, I was on my way to my present spot. Latte Da. A coffee joint in Fells Point I’ve never entered before, but curiosity pulled me in.

So now, I’m going to hunt for some work and see what comes up. If nothing looks good by mid-February, I’ll probably roll back to the mid-west for a stretch afnd re-figure out my life. We’ll see.

From the basement of Sam Koelbl's

Well, it’s that time again. You’re bored, Youtube isn’t doing it for you, there’s nothing too exciting on the Facebook gossip grapevine, and you’re not interested in freezing your anatomy off. So here you are, hot chocolate in hand, probably wearing some old sweats and a T-shirt you bought to help some club raise money. Maybe there’s a blanket involved. Perhaps a cookie or two? Actually, if you don’t have these things, I think you should go get them. They sound like good things to have while reading a blog. I’ll wait. Heck, I’m going to go get those things! Meet you back here in 5 minutes.

Ok, I didn’t find any hot chocolate (who are these people?! I suppose I should explain that I’m at Sam Koelbl’s right now.), but there are some fantastic cookies in the pantry…well, said are cookies are in my stomach now.

Al Gore, you might be on to something
It’s January. That’s a month- according to tradition- that’s cold. My body sort of expects to shiver in January. So when I stepped out of my house on Tuesday of last week and found myself in a beautiful spring day (sunny, 70 degrees, birds twittering their happy little spring songs, etc., etc.), I got concerned. Really concerned. I’ll grant that I’m much further south right now than I usually am during the winter months, but 70 degrees do not all belong together in the same day in January. I don’t care where you are, winter is the off-season for degrees. They’re supposed to go on vacation, maybe work on their hobbies, read a book. You know, get rested before summertime. That’s just the way it works. So on Wednesday, when I caught a couple of degrees lounging on my front step, I gave them $40 and told them to high tail it for Minnesota because I can thing of few frigid folk in need of some Fahrenheit. Hopefully, they’re on their way.

Things got a little more normal later in the week when legitimate SNOW fell on Baltimore! I, suffering from chronic snow withdrawal, made it my mission to get in all things winter on that blessed Thursday. I made a snowman in the park with the help of a dog named Booker T. Washington (not kidding at all), and his owner, Andrea. Booker wasn’t all that much help really, he just made sure that no one who’s savvy to the old adage about colored snow would try to eat the snowman. Thanks, Booker.

Once my snowman was complete, a group of kids in the park decided it’d be appropriate to toss a couple snow balls in my general direction. Little did they know, I am an accomplished and highly decorated snow ball hurler. I may have gotten slightly carried away when I whitewashed a 9 year-old who tried to sneak up behind me, but since neither frostbite nor hypothermia was an imminent threat, I should be ok. Alright, alright, I didn’t actually whitewash a 9 year-old. I just threw that line in for the sake of paragraph length. Those of you who were envisioning me laughing victoriously while rubbing a wee boy’s face in a mound of snow should be ashamed of yourselves. Imaginary 9 year-olds do not deserve such treatment. Please take a moment to imagine yourselves apologizing to the child. Bullies.

After the snowball fight (that part really did happen. I dominated!), I was invited to take a few runs down the big hill in Patterson Park by the Pagoda (yeah, we have one of those. Jealous?). The snow was a little too sticky for a good ride, but it was fun. Not late-night sledding on the old ski hill with a bottle of firewater fun, but a wholesome fun that definitely beat what my roommates were up to at the time (XBOX 360 something or other.)

Wii is not for me
I took some time on Friday to explore the other side of Baltimore with Conor (TfA person) and some of his roommates (Not TfA people). We started our night with some shots of Amarula and a few rounds of Wii Sports games. As it turns out, I am not a particularly good bowler unless the object I’m holding is an actual bowling ball. The remote shape just doesn’t seem to trigger my innate bowling instincts. I am slightly worse at Wii tennis, and MUCH worse at Wii golf. Stupid Wii.
Once we left the game console and wandered out into the balmy Baltimore evening, I suspected that our BACs might rise to pre-graduation levels. I should have stretched more. A few games of beer pong in the back of a hole-in-the-wall bar, some shots and one or two or seven beers later, I was relatively certain that up was down and vice versa. As it turns out, I was wrong. Down is still down.

The mouse in my house
It’s been a few weeks now since I mentioned the little bugger who’s been keeping me up with his midnight snack scavenging. Reginald (I decided a nice name might get Reginald to act a little more polite), recently moved downstairs after I plugged the holes I suspected he was using to get upstairs. Reggie was last seen perusing through the overflow garbage in one of the other roommate’s room. The garbage was promptly thrown out and replaced with an excessive amount of rat poison. Reggie has not been heard from since although I suspect that he’s still out and about. Stay tuned for further developments.

Finals week!!
The students finished up their final exams this past week. Of the 90 students I teach, about 70 showed up for my test. Of those 70, about 15 passed. That’s slightly up from last year. Not enough that I can claim to have done anything particularly spectacular, but hey, at least I didn’t screw things up terribly!

Johns Hopkins
I’m still doing the graduate student thing out at JHU. I decided to finish the year’s worth of school, just in case I want to finish up my Masters. So Wednesday nights will be unbearably long, but I’m making myself stronger because of it. As some dead German philosopher said “that which does not kill us, only makes us stronger.” I don’t know why I’m taking advice from a guy who’s strength clearly must have ran out, but I’ve got to take it from somebody.

Shout Outs
Lil Buddy: Your Turn!
J-Bo: Back Door Slam!!! Listen to it and Love it!
Elise: You make me smile a smile I’ve never smiled before.
Tom: Get any good spam lately?
Johnny B: Infinite Jest is LONG! We both know what joke you might to build off that
sentence. Lies are not funny.

Not all those who wander are lost ; )

With a new year comes a new blog. And sometimes a little Tylenol.
Welcome to 2008 everyone. I know we’ve all been aching for this year to arrive. It means we have yet another opportunity to make a long list of resolutions which will inevitably be broken by 9 out of 10 Americans (someone did a study. I’m not sure, or how they did it, but I’ve been assured by a radio personality who uses sound effects such as *boiiiing* *muah, muah* and *doo dooo dooot doo dooooo* that it is a very scientific study.). Despite the odds, I have made my list of RESOLUTIONS. It is as follows (in no particular order)

Get more organized (oh, subtle irony, how I love thee).
Limit my use of profanity.
Stop half-as…I mean, putting 100% of my effort into the things I do. Phew, almost blew it!
Travel to at least 1 place not on the North American continent.

That seems like a pretty manageable list. I haven’t started yet, so look for updates in future bloggles. Why don’t they call these things bloggles? I feel like more people would have one if we called them bloggles. It sounds a lot more upbeat than ‘blog.’ That sounds too much like a cartoon bad-guy. Of course, ‘bloggle’ sounds like an absurd creature from a 1980s Saturday morning cartoon show. Hmmm, I wonder if anyone has ever pitched ABC the idea of a show called “The Bloggles.”

New Years Resolution #5:
Write and submit a script for the first episode of The Bloggles.

I returned to Baltimore from my week-long Midwest therapy session on New Year’s Eve. Worst possible day to be traveling instead of enjoying the company of friends? Yes. I apologize to one and all for my terribly responsible choice. I make up for it by sleeping in and arriving to class late. My students will never notice, they arrive 20 minutes late as it is.

I arrived in Baltimore just in time to catch a cab to my casa and see the fireworks which summon the New Year’s baby and scare away wrinkly old 2007. To Baltimore’s credit, they know how to execute a fireworks display. Nothing burned down, the best fireworks were saved for last, there were two pyrotechnics teams (one on the east side of the city and one on the west side. Perfectly coordinated I might add.), and the grand finale drowned out the noise of every dog in the city. Take THAT Captain Jack! (That’s the name of my crazy neighbor’s equally crazy insomniac dog.). Yes, the fireworks display was the exact opposite of the 4th of July show that followed my grandpa’s now infamous “Lining up all the fireworks on a metal tray right next to the spot I intend to light fireworks at is NOT a bad idea” speech. Thanks to some fancy garden hose maneuvers by Grandma (God bless her green thumb), the farmhouse and barn did not burn down.

That’s a story for another bloggle®.

Why did you get home so late, Paul?
Well, as it turns out, I am not savvy to the rules and regulations that are involved in buying a ticket with Northwest Airlines. I, being a foolish lad, assumed that because I had a connection flight in Minneapolis (my original departure city was Fargo), I could just show up at the Minneapolis airport and check in there. At this point, every single one of you is thinking “Paul, how could you not know that buying an airline ticket is the equivalent of entering a contract with the airline in which you agree to depart from a certain city. Failure to depart from said city is a breach of the formerly mentioned contract which permits the airline to choose either A.) to deny you passage on the flight, or B.) cancel your initial reservation, rebook you on the flight in the same seat as you were originally designated to sit in, and charge an exorbitant fee for booking a same-day flight.” To every single one of you, I say, “oooOOOOoooo you’re soooooo smart aren’t you?” To which every single one of you is entitled to say “Smarter than you, buck-o” so long as you say ‘buck-o.’

When I called Northwest, thinking there’d be no problems involved, I was shocked to learn they would charge me $754 for my flight home! Fortunately, I had the wisdom to demand that I be placed on hold until the next available manager could listen to my whiny plea for mercy. 10-15 minutes later, Stacy (names have been changed to protect the identities of those who spoke to me on the phone…and because I didn’t really pay attention to who I was talking too. Sorry, Susan…I mean, Stacy.) informed me that her manager, Ron (Ted? George? Stanley?), had graciously chosen to exercise his powers over the ticketing department and charge me only $100 for the change in flight. Considering who I was enjoying my last few hours in Minnesota with, it was WELL worth the money.

BUT THEN, when I arrived at the airport, I discovered that I had a ticket to Detroit, MI (originally one of my stops before Baltimore)…but no ticket to Baltimore! Confused, alarmed, and a little bit scared, I rushed through the security gate to my terminal (there was no one at the NWA counter outside the security gate. Damn self-service check-ins!) and found Marge (I remember her name because she’s my saving grace. I did, however change the name for the sake of her job). Marge was quite flustered because the flight to Detroit I was on was overbooked. When I explained my plight, she smiled broadly and told me she’d be happy to put me on the DIRECT FLIGHT TO BALTIMORE, give me a $25 travel voucher, AND $10 to be used in any restaurant in the airport. Thanks for violating NWA’s “how can we make the traveler miserable today?” code of ethics! So, meal vouchers in hand, I moseyed (Yes, I said moseyed. I mosey quite well.) to the Rock Bottom Grill, ordered a $7.00 beer and waited for my flight.

It’s almost 9:00, I have to be awake by 5:00 and there’s still things to be done tonight, so I end this one here.

Till my next threatening fan letter spurs my fingers to action,
PaulStorm

SHOUT OUTS!

Elise: Best Christmas Gifts EVER (Especially the scarf). You’re my favorite.

Heterosexual Lifemate: Thanks for the stir-fry! I’ll do something sweet for you the next time I see you.

Lil Buddy: boop booop boooooop boop boop

Tom: Stop sending me requests for toe-nail clippings. It’s creepy. You’re the threatening fan, not the creepy fan. Now go check your email again.

Morgan: Que Pasa?

Jolene and Chanti: WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR REUNION?!?!?

Ever feel like you're in a bad live-action Disney movie?

For the last week or so, I've been battling a pest that has been harrassing me day and night. Somehow, a mouse found his way up to my bedroom on the third floor and cannot seem to find a way to get his mammalian bum back down to the mainfloor. I don't know why he came up here. There is no food beyond the smudges of peanut butter on the mousetraps I set in the 7 corners of my room (yes, there are 7 corners, feel free to come visit and count them if you're skeptical about this heptagonal-shaped room of mine). He certainly isn't up here for the company, unless he gets somes sort of sick satisfaction out of waking me in the middle of the night with his mousy little scratching sounds against the carboards boxes that used to be stacked in one corner (I've since burned the boxes so my mouse has nothing to play with). I thought about trying to befriend the little guy, but he's a rough city mouse, not the well-mannered country mouse that might make an alright friend. No, this mouse has an attitude and needs to go live in someone else's house.

I've tried poison, sticky traps, voodoo curses, psychological warfare, and the time tested dress-a-stick-of-dynamite-up-like-an-attractive-female-mouse* tactics, but nothing seems to work.

*NOTE: the last one is an obvious exaggeration. If you believed me, then you've never tried to rent an apartment in a large city. Apparently there's some sort of standard lease provision against possessing dynamite for the purpose of extermination in a residence that you do not own.

If anyone can think of a way I can rid myself of my mouse, please don't hesitate to throw a comment up on the 'comment' page.

I should be doing work right now, so this post ends here. Sorry crazed fans, you'll have to wait until I have more time to make up stories about Baltimore to cover for the fact that I"m actually living in the garage at my parents' house. I MEAN...damnit.*

*NOTE: I really do live in Baltimore. If you don't believe me, buy a ticket, fly out here, call me, and I'll pick you up at the airport. We'll go out for a dinner of assorted shellfish if that's your thing, or perhaps just find a greasy Pizza joint then you'll get a tour of the 7 cornered room before I send you back on your merry way. I'd invite you to stay but there's no telling what that angry little House Mouse will do when his date doesn't end with the right sort of bang.

Shout outs and Hellos:
M.: I'll take middle spoon if that option is still available.

J Bo: I want to record a song but I cannot play guitar. Wanna be my band?

Elise: Honeydogs. You'll understand what that means soon...

Tom: Yes, that was a very good song.

Jennifer: Operation Hoopoe Bird?

Koelbl: Aw Deesch

Chanti: Send me a photo

Alright, alright already!

I recently received my first ever threatening letter in my fan mail bag. Fearing that I may soon be facing a very John Lennon-esque fate, I’ve decided to give in to the demands of this sufferer of de Clerambault's syndrome (Check Wikipedia, it’s real. OR, read Ian McEwan’s book Enduring Love, it’s fantastic), and put fingertips to the keyboard once again.

Who are you and what have you done with PaulStorm?
I signed up for a 5K next weekend. Yeah. Me. Running. And not because I’m being chased by savage dogs, octopus police, or crazed fans. I will submit to DNA testing if it becomes necessary to confirm that I am not an imposter. To the sci-fi conspiracy theorists I seem to attract, cloning is not perfected enough yet to make a brainwashed version of PaulStorm. Besides, who would waste the money on making another me when there’s only one Gwen Steffani out there. We will wed one day!

Georgia on my Mind
With the arrival of November also comes my favorite late autumn celebration. It’s a time that brings people together for a singular purpose; we gather, get our fill, disperse, and then sneak back for a little more. Yes, I’m talking about that proud American Tradition, the political protest. On November 18, I boarded a bus leaving from Loyola College headed for Columbus, GA for the annual SOA/WHINSEC Protest. Cost of the bus ride? Zero. Cost of the Marriott Hotel I stayed in? Zero. Cost of the drinks at the bar in the Marriott Hotel? Zero. All thanks to some generous Jesuits and a guy named Frank. And of course, Eric LeCompte (SJU ’98). How did this all come about? Well, after being a part of the protest for 2 years at SJU, I decided I really wanted to go again. A phone call to Eric and a Google maps print-out later, I was heading south.

I saw a few beautifully familiar faces (Chanti, Dan, Kyra, Hannah, and Daven, you’re all included in that title…well, maybe not Dan. Kidding!) and made some new friends (Geoff, Katie, Megan, Genna, Jack, Frank, you’re all in that lot). I got to go inside the SOA facility and see the genesis of so many Latin American atrocities (the buses reeked of coconut and blared Uber-Conservative Christian Radio. Apparently, I’m going to hell for more things than I realized. I was NOT arrested (maybe next year). I played drums with hippies, paraded the streets of GA with other young protesters, explored Columbus’ nightlife with one of the bartenders I and my Loyola crew befriended, stumbled into Alabama by mistake, and even got hassled by some VERY large Columbus, GA police officers.

Really, the only item in there that needs any elaboration is the little tiff I got into with Columbus’ finest. So there I was, laying on the grass outside of an elementary school, along with Megan and Genna, waiting for the bus full of Loyolans to pick us up for our tour of the WHINSEC. I had one apple, and a Nalgene of water. “Hey, what do you kids think you’re doing?” The voice wasn’t particularly aggressive, but it definitely was not about to follow that sentence up with “if you’re going to sit in our grass, you might as well enjoy a hot dog with us and maybe some lemonade.” Nope, this guy wanted us gone. When I turned around to take a look at who was getting ready to kick us off the lawn, I saw- not one- but seven extremely musculated (made that word up, don’t worry people, it’s not real…yet.) officers with guns strapped to their thighs, biceps (which were as big as my thighs), and torsos. Why does anyone need more guns than appendages? If these were octopus police officers, I could understand the six guns thing, but then I’d be really concerned about why an octopus was wearing a badge and talking to me so rudely. Silly octopi, you can’t talk. Or survive out of water long enough to kick me off the lawn. Anyway, we were forced to get up and go stand on the median in the middle of a busy street. Yeah, the guys who are supposed to keep people SAFE moved us from the lawn of a school to the little strip of concrete separating the lanes of whizzing-fast traffic. WHAT?! I mean, sure, we’re protestors, but come on guys, what kind of trouble am I going to cause with an apple?

Planes Trains and Automobiles
Ok, well there wasn’t a train involved (there could have been though!), but I trekked back to the Midwest for that OTHER November treat, Thanksgiving. The potatoes were mashed with a few lumps (the way I love them), the gravy was thick, the turkey perfectly cooked and stuffed, Jennifer’s pumpkin pie TASTED like pumpkin pie (good job buddy, way to avoid that whole salty brownie fiasco. You’re still not forgiven for putting AN ENTIRE CUP OF SALT into the brownie mix instead of sugar. NO EXCUSES!!), and beautiful Elise made a trip all the way to Fargo to see little old me. Ok, ok, so she really just came for Fargo’s exciting *cough* nightlife, but she let me tag along. When a neighbor cam over to take photos of the family, Grandma hid her face behind a placemat from the table. No kidding, I’ve got the proof. She later called me a sissy for having long hair. Dad’s monster truck now has 6 sets (that’s 12 bulbs) of flood lights on the front, a new cattle guard he welded himself, AND all sorts of toggle switches that may or may not have once been used in a 1960’s NASA shuttle. Those of you who don’t know, my dad built himself a monster truck. It was a 1986 Suburban. Now it’s an 8 foot tall destroyer of all things midsize, coupe, and sedan. Oversize tires, 300 pounds of wrought-iron bumper, more fiberglass than the NHL, and one classy paint job. Yep, everything’s totally normal in the Storm household.

Oh yeah, Baltimore
I’ve come to like the city a bit more now that I’m exploring it a bit. There’s always something going on. I’m usually not at whatever event is taking place, but I hear about it. My students are doing better recently. They bring paper and pencils now. Sometimes they even take notes. No one’s been seriously injured recently. They did, for the most part, fail my last test. BUT, I did have a couple of students who normally do very poorly, pass my test. So hopefully, they’ll continue to work hard.

Since the human attention span is always shrinking and I haven’t done the best job of producing first rate material, we’ll call this the end of today’s update. I hope you found a giggle somewhere. If you found two, put one back so someone else can enjoy it. Don’t be selfish. Besides, I don't want to go back and edit this for quality or content. Yes, this is a first draft, so if the spelling is wrong anywherhe, twoo bod!

Miss you all,
PaulStorm

The Usual with a side of mashed potatoes piled high with extra salt ;)

It’s been much too long since my last blog, so I put in an order for a flux capacitor from a website that promises to ship one to me once they’ve been invented (sometime in the future that they assured me isn’t too far away) via their trusty fleet of Dolorean delivery vehicles. Once I get it, I’ll go back and add a blog before this one full of nifty and incredible predictions. Good thing I mentioned that now, or this blog would be REALLY confusing to you in the future (aka present right now). Although, you probably won’t be reading this in the future (present) because we’ll all be in a different present (future). Follow me?

I think the flux capacitor will also be helpful because it will give me a chance to go back to the day I was in Boston and decided to go see a psychic. I’ll save myself $20 and won’t have to hear her tell me how bad I am with money. Yes, this was the best investment I’ve ever made (will ever make?).

Ok, ok, I know you’re not reading this for insight into the future, you want to hear about the past and the present. And that means an ENTIRELY different set of verb conjugations. So goodbye will + verb and hello were, was, am, and are! If a there is a William reading this, I have to refer to you as Bill or William. No exceptions.

Exploding Readership!
According to the latest fan mail, I have 6 readers! PaulStorm publications considers this a wild success and looks forward to its 7th subscriber. Could it be you? To those who loyally take time off from playing Snood, minesweeper, solitaire, and/or mahjong (those mahjong players are odd folk, but PaulStorm publications does not discriminate…too much) at work to read the products of my fingertips’ little fox trot over the keys of this laptop (you can’t see it, but I assure it is a very nice and fancy laptop, the kind that demands fox trots and waltzes. Not so fancy shoes would be required, however. That would be just plain silly. Little shoes on fingers; who thinks of that?).

Pagoda on her head
On Saturday, Patterson Park (The large park near my home, check out google maps for a better idea of what it is. I don’t feel like describing it.) held its annual Halloween Lantern Parade. I had no idea this was an annual event or even an event. So when I saw little ghosties and ghoulies marching past my door carrying lanterns on sticks I assumed what any rational person would: the apocalypse was upon us and I had not qualified for the rapture (some people think that at the end of the world all the good and holy people will be whisked away to heaven via some sort of Star Trekkie teleportation. Why they chose the word “rapture” I don’t know.). So, being the rational person I am, believing that Satan’s hordes were assembling in the park, I decided to take a gander. Turns out it was a parade of little kids in their costumes accompanied by their parents who were either the WAY too excited about Halloween variety (my favorites) or the I’m-too-cool-for-this-but-my-wife-made-me-put-on-these-stupid-cat-ears-by-threatening-to-cut-me-off-from-you-know-what (coverage of the World Series. What were you thinking? Pervert.) species.

While I was watching the crowd of lantern-laden lads and lasses (alliteration!), a woman with a lantern in the shape of a pagoda on her head (yes, a hat lantern) struck up a conversation with me

“Excuse me, sir, you need to either join the parade or step off the sidewalk and observe from the grass.” Her name was Susan and she was one of the coordinators for the event. I talked to her for a little while and she figured out I wasn’t from Baltimore pretty quickly. I assume she heard my Midwestern accent when I answered “Sorry, I’m not from around here.”

The parade ended with a shadow puppet music video about three brothers who try to steal the moon for financial gain only to accidentally awake the dead when one of the brothers’ greed leads him to bury himself alive with the moon in his coffin. I’m not sure if this is the actual story line, but since there was no dialogue, that’s the best deduction I’ve been able to make. At some point a small bird takes the moon in its beak (the moon in the story was not to scale) and flies it back up into space. Presumably the bird exploded once it left the atmosphere. Not the most uplifting story to show children just before their bedtime.

Party at the Bisco. Yes, I said Bisco!
Some of you (Tom Johnson) may know the group the Disco Biscuits. If you don’t they’re a jam band that seems to be between phish and an generic techno group. I enjoyed the energy of the show and the many drug-filled “Bisco-nauts” (my own term, patent pending), but I think they only played 2 songs. 2 hour and a half long songs. That seems to be the way of jam band though; they forget what comes after the bridge so they just keep playing the bridge over and over, trying to find their way to the next verse. Silly Bisco, bring the sheet music next time.

Improvements in the Life of Paul
I’m still working out and I’ve developed what the jocks refer to as “biceps.” It’s a strange swelling of the upper arm that is (apparently) desirable. So I will continue to lift heavy things so I can get better at lifting heavy things.

Meditation and yoga are two things I’ve always wanted to be able to say that I do (without lying). So I finally started. I checked out a yoga place this weekend, touched my toes a few times, breathed some yoga-y breaths, and tried to find my center which is surprisingly NOT my belly button but some sort of metaphysical, floaty spirit place a lot like Happy Gilmore’s Happy Place. Except no midgets, Kiss masks, golfers, or tricycles.

The beard is gone! I grew a sturdy, full, and masculine beard for about a month. Those who saw it can attest to its Jesus-like majesty (Jesus’ beard, not the Son of God majesty. I don’t have that. For those of you who are still uncomfortable with the image, think of Liam Sperl’s beard. Ok, now make it red. Yes, red.), but I felt it was time to let it go. My students panicked when they saw my chin, but they’ve since gotten used to my face. I haven’t decided if I want to re-grow it, but now that I know I have no patchy spots, it’s a tempting thing to do.

Shout outs and love
Tehle- You’ll never read this since you don’t have Facebook, BUT I needed to hear your voice yesterday. Thank you for remembering an old friend.

Elise- I enjoy the way our minds helix around each other once upon a time in a kingdom happily ever after.

J-Bo- The hyphens around your Bo are my heterosexual lifemate bear hug. I miss you bud.

McKeever- You’re still one of the most inspiring people I’ve ever met. If you understand that, then you know why I’ll always consider you one of my closest friends.

Morgan- Let’s talk about Tehle’s proposition. Maybe this is the jump we need to take. Maybe there’s something else we’re supposed to do.

Lil Buddy- just checking to see if you’ve been exploring my profile. Infinity plus 7.

Home is where the Heartland is

Hey dear friends,



Thank you for making my blog a wild success. According to the fan mail, I now have a following of 5 devoted readers. I may need to offer some advertising space on my blog to some major corporations to capitalize on my audience. This is America after all... Don't worry, I promise I won't succumb to the allure of fame and sell out...too much. To those of you not reading: it's alright, I forgive you. You'll never know I was angry with you (or that I benevolently forgave you), but I just had to make sure my conscience was clear.

This posting is a house salad of emotions, drizzled in two different kinds of metaphorical dressing (For the sake of the image, we’ll say Thousand Island and French. I have no idea what the metaphor is, however, so if you come up with something, become an English major and write a thesis about it. I look forward to your many paragraphs about Stormian food imagery in contemporary internet literature.).

As usual, the humor is mostly in between the parenthesis; although, it will occasionally attempted to slip itself into the “actual content” of the paragraphs. If you don’t laugh, that’s ok. That’s why the “funny parts” are caged between punctuation marks. For your protection. In the event you make remarks like “that’s not funny at all. Paul, you’re really dropping the ball this time around.” You won’t have to worry about angering the text, and becoming the victim of a word crime.

A hard day’s night
Since returning from my beautiful weekend home at St. John’s, I’ve had a very hard time being out here in Baltimore. Over the last 5 months, (yeah, I've been involved in TfA for 5 months now!!) I haven’t found much time for reflection. Now that I'm in baltimore, most days are spent scrambling to be ready for the next day. When I’m not at school, I’m thinking about what needs to happen at school. When I’m not thinking about school, I’m at school.

Since leaving St. John’s, the time I’ve looked forward to most is the time I spend asleep. Dreams are the one place I don’t feel frustrated. Sleep is the one place I feel some sense of peace. That admission, that reality, is neither healthy nor uplifting. On the flight back to Washington (I saved myself $100 by flying out of DC!…Only to spend that $100 on parking and gas. Irony?) I spent a lot of time thinking about how different my life is now. I found myself looking at a really terrible conclusion: I haven’t felt genuinely happy about my choice to move to Baltimore. Some of you remember my deep belly-laugh; the one that people could identify me by from several hundred miles away (ok, ok, so I was just loud enough to be heard on the fourth floor from the second floor.). I haven’t been able to laugh like that out here. I forgot what it felt like to laugh like that. Until I came back home, and found myself in the company of John Howard, JEtten/mom, J-Bo, Elise, Kelsy, Chanti, Natalia, and a dozen other wonderful old friends.

So what am I supposed to make of that? Well, at first it really brought me down. REALLY brought me down. Monday and Tuesday were the hardest days I’ve had out here. I told my school I needed some time off to just think about where I am and what I’m doing (Mike, Reuby, J-Bo, Elise, you all know what I mean by ‘told’). My principal, the incredible woman that she is, told me to take the rest of the week to reflect on my reasons for being here. She went to my class and told them that Mr. Storm had submitted his letter of resignation to the school. Did I do that? Not yet. Just to clarify, my school has issues. While I’ve been there:
One student was gunned down in his neighborhood
One student’s arm was broken by a group of kids who wanted his cell phone
One student was jumped before school and beaten very badly
One student was stabbed in the chest in a stairwell
Several fights have broken out
AND a random weapons search turned up about 40 knives, a few bricks, and various
blunt objects
So yeah, stressful environment. Combine that with the lack of order and effort in the classroom and you’ve got one tough place to go everyday. I’m not sure how likely it is that I complete my second year of TfA. There is too much about home that I see myself losing if I stay here. There is too much about myself that will evaporate if I stay under the heat and pressure of this place.

Something on the lighter side
Me. Since coming out to Baltimore, I’ve dropped a few of the lbs. that aren’t so nice to carry around. The love handles are smaller (sorry ladies, there’s less of me to go around), the belly doesn’t hang quite like it used to. So go ahead and start fantasizing about a lean, cut, athletic Paul Storm…it’s not as ridiculously unrealistic of a dream as it used to be. Still a little far-fetched, but sort of plausible.

That's all I have for now. I miss you, beautiful people.