Summer is drawing near, bringing with it Floridian vacations with family, cookouts amid 90 degree afternoons, and an opportunity for a little soul-searching. I’m not sure how other teachers begin their summer. Alcohol and long morning naps surely are incorporated in some way. My Aunt Sue often visit us in June and July when we were kids, before she retired after nearly thirty-years teaching science in Arkansas. She would bring large plastic bins — the size of pound-cakes — filled with a powerful concoction of alcohol and fruit-juice for which my mom would ceremoniously clear a place in the family freezer to harden overnight. The next day the two of them, Mom and Aunt Sue, would extract ice cream scoops and dig out the slushie mixture with the same care and joy as a miner unearthing a golden cache. They’d sit out by the pool and while away the day until they’d be too exhausted or drunk to move.
“My summer has begun!” Aunt Sue would shout. “No kids. No grading. This is the life!”
Your partner writes a Craigslist ad to get rid of an item of yours that they totally hate. What does it say?
This assignment required only a small amount of imagination. I love anime. My brother and roommate, Kevin, can appreciate my collection of comics, movies and video games, but my other interests . . . well, he pigeonholes Japan as a nation of perverts and anime as a product of that perversion. Daring him to watch Spirited Away or Cowboy Bebop, two excellent examples of the quality of the medium, affected no change of his opinions. Secretly, I wonder if the subtitles prove daunting to my dyslexic sibling . . . Reading in order to enjoy a movie may taint your opinion of the genre in much the same way that Jersey Shore or The Bachelor has infected my enjoyment of documentaries. Then again the beautiful strangeness of these tales can overwhelm the more practically minded. Kev enjoys operating heavy machinery and tilling the earth. Case closed.
“So picture this, Murph: a death metal concert in the heart of Amsterdam. Me and Jason disguised in leather, fake beards, and goth t-shirts . . .”
“I for one do not need to imagine any man much less Rodney in leather,” Sean sighed next to me.
“The beard I can get behind, though . . .” Ryan added.
We all agreed that a man with a beard is a man to be reckoned with.
“If Batman had a beard, he’d be unstoppable,” I considered aloud.
“Man, enough about Batman. I’m talking about real heroes,” Rodney shouted. “I’m talking about Jason Borne!”
I chose not to discuss Matt Damon’s heroics or what constituted a imaginary character. Frankly I didn’t have the time.
Of late, the boys have started this group message thread to whittle away the hours while pretending to work and yet still reap the benefits of a real paycheck. Like all the best Seinfield, the thread is mostly about nothing: BSing each other and counting down the minutes until happy hour. Since my phone has sold its digital soul to the ‘robot devil’ (i.e. it broke), I could not read these messages or in truth comment on them. Luckily, last Easter I lost my cellphone down a storm-drain while stomping on it with my right heel. It will not be missed. My subsequent purchase of an iPhone opened a doorway to a whole new world of texting and communication. Moreover, I can now chat with my brothers while they work during these June days and I contemplate my next blog post in my PJs at home. Teaching does have its merits.
The following conversation delved into how my presence has affected the Groupchat (as they dub it) for better or for worse. If you, dear reader, find these conversations interesting, I might try to post a few more now and then.
Three accounts. Three computers. If I thought it would improve my chances to heft some of the house’s scattered PCs — outdated, abandoned, or consumed by spiderwebs — down to my room, I might have risked electric shock and wolf spider bites to heave the towers into my room. But I had three accounts, thus only three computers.
The other members of my party were working across the street at Katie’s new house, knocking down trees and feeding the sap-soaked limbs into the chipper, giving Mother Nature the ol’ Fargo-special (as I call it). Thus, the task of procuring tickets to the Comicon fell to me.
Now, we’ve attended comic book conventions in the past here in Baltimore and DC. These are typically low-key affairs, occupying a single floor at the Baltimore convention center, which — to quote the Hulk — is puny in comparison to its counterparts in DC and Boston. Still it manages to stock the panels with some pretty awesome writers and artists: Scott Snyder, Greg Capullo, Don Rosa, and Neil Adams to name a few that I’ve seen (Batman and Uncle Scrooge fanatic that I am).
“Am I some kind of condescending prick for feeling mildly embarrassed for these kids?”
“Well,” Kevin said after some consideration, “it’s a Sunday night in May and this IS a Walmart parking lot. You would think that there’d be some better way of spending your time . . .”
Kevin and I had parked our car and stared in wonder at the convocation of pick-ups and supped-up Hondas at the far end of the Walmart. Carroll County Maryland has never proven itself the most . . . urbane area in the state, but occasionally my neighbors go out of their way to check off every stereotype in the book.
Local teenagers leaned against the bumpers and sat on car roofs, watching some kid attempt to drop-kick a basketball at one of the parking lights. Occasionally, he’d routinely lose control, and their heads would turn with the syncopation of a Wimbledon crowd to gaze at kid and ball bouncing across the asphalt. Another weird feature: there was no music. Nothing audible at least. It seemed the kid and his basketball was the main event here.
I’ve been sitting on this particular post for a while now. The last few months has bore witness to snow storms, weddings, my sister’s new house (to-be-constructed), my brother’s new house (to-be-bought), and a burgeoning addiction to Blizzard’s Hearthstone, which like all obsessions in my life (i.e. women, writing, chess, MMORPGs) I kinda suck at. As such, the blog has received the short-end of the time-sink, a fact I’d remedy here soon. We may have received tickets to Comicon in San Diego this summer. More on that later! In the meantime, join us as the Murphey clan goes laser-tagging, much to our own amusement.
“Blimey, ‘ere we ‘ave the female white girl in ‘er natural attire,” Sean whispered to Shannon in his best – that is most stereotypical – impersonation of the crocodile hunter. “Brown boots and leggings, tools of cunning to attract potential mates . . .”
“Shutup, Sean,” Bree snarled strapping on her suit, now glowing blue in the darkness. “I am not dressed like this to ‘attract mates.’”
She feigned a glancing shot with her laser gun at grinning brothers before continuing.