An Education in Muffin Tops

In April of 1017 we were on a car trip and passing through a trendy city looking for some morning chow. I saw a sign for muffin tops at a breakfast place. At the time I thought the term muffin top was an euphemism for fat bulging over one's belt.

"Why would anyone refer to a muffin top at a restaurant?" I thought.

We pulled in to investigate. What we discovered was that some clever entrepreneur came up with the idea that people shouldn't have to soldier through the bottom of a muffin to gain access to the more desirable cap. Science and technology has allowed us to just purchase the muffin top and get on with it, straight away. I asked a young guy behind the counter, named "Chet," how they made just muffin tops,

"We cut the bottoms off and throw them away," Chet replied.

Apparently, I pay just as much for a full muffin as I do for a muffin top except Chet tosses half my muffin into the landfill instead. Thank you, Chet!

We all selected our muffin tops and sat down for a family discussion on the ethics of muffin marketing. Our oldest, Aidan, offered,

"It's like All Stuf Oreos."

"What's that?" I inquired.

All Stuf Oreos are for busy, important people who are constantly on the go. You know, discriminating, power users who reject the cookie all together and go straight for the "creme."

"Is there All Double Stuf?" I asked.

"Not yet," Aidan answered, "But that's a good idea."

"I read some people eat frosting straight from the can," my wife, Christine offered.

"It's just wrong that in the wealthiest country some people can't afford cake," I declared.

"They can afford cake. They just prefer the frosting," Christine explained.

I was puzzled.

Christine has a friend who has the annoying habit of eating just the cheese whenever we share a pizza. She strips a slice naked, scoffing up the cheese and a little bit of sauce, leaving the naked bread behind. Watching this unfold annoys me to the point where it has become questionable who is more nuts. The problem I have with all this is that you aren't eating pizza if you're eating just the cheese. You're eating cheese. The crappy cookie that sandwiches the stuff is what an Oreo is. If you forgo the wafer, you're not eating an Oreo cookie. You're eating frosting which is not cake just as the top of the muffin is not a muffin.

Marketing to narcissists may seem harmless; after all, you're giving people just what they want, but there's a downside. Today, kids freely admit that they don't want to work hard in college. That's why more and more kids are avoiding STEM classes in favor of easier courses of study. Many colleges are creating programs for students who want to avoid math. Worthless degrees have always been offered by higher educational institutions, but now that there is a greater demand for higher education there seems like there has been an explosion of bullshit majors.

When I toiled away at degrees in engineering and computer science, I was required to take courses in the humanities, but fine arts students weren't required to take calculus. Today you can major in Exercise Science which sounds like STEM, but you won't have to take any actual science courses. Library Science is a degree in which the Dewey Decimal System substitutes for linear algebra. By the time you get your diploma, there won't be any libraries anymore. It's like getting a degree in Morse Code.

Worse yet a recent online poll revealed that 87% of college students skip class with the most popular reason being to spend time with their friends. With the astronomical cost of college tuition today, it's dumbfounding that any student would opt out of attendance for any reason other than uncontrollable bleeding. Advertisements for online schools show students in their pajamas "doing it their way." The problem is signing up for a four year degree in an easy major that can't help you get a job is not getting an education.

Apathy is not just affecting college students either. The trades have their share as well. I hired a father and his son to do some work on my house. On the first day, the son didn't show up. His father explained that his boy graduated from high school and was out all night partying. I thought,

"On his first day of work in the real world, he called in sick."

When you're too blotto from the pervious night's drinking, you're not sick. You're hungover.

It's okay if the muffin top appeals to your hedonistic side, just keep in mind that anything worthwhile comes about from hard work, and you can't do it drunk or in your pajamas.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on April 27, 2017. All Stuf Oreos was an April Fool's prank pulled off by Adam Padilla.

Eclipse Underwelms Americans

The last total solar eclipse visible in North America occurred in the summer of 2017. It had been 40 years since the celestial event was last seen in the United States and won't return again until 2024. Eleven states resided in the path of totality resulting in a boon in eclipse tourism as Americans in droves flocked to the next big thing. Unfortunately, many of them didn't read the fine print. Most once in a lifetime celestial events are nothing more than two heavenly bodies appearing close to each other in the night sky.

When I was a kid, I went outside to witness the conjunction of Mars and Venus which in technical terms means that the two planets were right next to each other in the sky. The "Mars-Venus Encounter" as it was deemed was heralded as a once in lifetime cosmic event in the newspapers even though I later learned that it happens all the time. Apart from the fact that this transpired early in the morning in the middle of winter, the two planets did look awesome in the clear, crisp, cold night sky even though in reality they were nowhere near each other. They just looked like they were in close proximity from earth. The two planets looked something like this ( : ). Back then, I learned that in the world of astronomy, two celestial bodies getting really close together in the sky creates a bit of a stir. Now, years later, the moon and the sun were going to occupy the same space overhead. This happened a few times in my childhood when misinformation spread as fact more slowly as compared to today. In those days, we were told that looking at the sun during a solar eclipse would kill us.

From our location on that Monday in August of 2017, we saw the moon cover 66.9% of the sun. That was plenty for me. Millions of people trekked to places like the western Kentucky town of Hopinsville, which boasted one of the longest total eclipse experiences. Two minutes and 41 seconds. The town bills itself as "a wealth of adventure, history and mystery" being "the home to the 2017 Total Solar Eclipse," that is, "the point of Greatest Eclipse." States like Kentucky that advertise summer swimming in ponds always conjure up the image of open wounds from freshwater, flesh-eating bacteria for me. You jump into some green, lukewarm water and cut your foot on a broken bottle of Piels, then the next thing you know, you're in the emergency room, puking up your pancreas as some nurse person, in oddly mismatched floral patterns, tells you that they have to amputate your leg below the knee before it spreads to your nuts.
 

When the eclipse was over, I felt bad for the people who travelled great distances just to see the brief astronomical event. Mitch "Del" Flint drove four hundred miles to Carbondale, Illinois, advertised as the "Eclipse Crossroads of America." Mr. Flint said,
 

"That's it? I went to my truck for a beer and when I got back, it was over. What a rip off!"
 

Kent Rolla from Palmdale, California hitchhiked to Corvallis, Oregon to view the eclipse. Mr. Rolla, who took time off his barista job said,
 

"I slept on my friend Stewie's couch for three days just to see the eclipse, and it was over in like a few minutes. I rolled a special fatty just for the occasion. By the time I found, it was over. Next time I'm gonna go to Burning Man."
 

Some encountered bad weather prior to totality while still others were disappointed for other reasons. Kevin Raulston traveled with friends to Saluki Stadium on the campus of Southern Illinois University for the "Super Bowl of Eclipses." Describing the experience, Raulston said,
 

"Quite frankly, I was expecting more. Halfway through I realized that this was just another solar eclipse. I thought we were going to the apocalypse. Boy was I disappointed!"

The eclipse wounded flooded emergency rooms across the country. Steve Faber of De Witt, Nebraska was texting his friend about the progress of the eclipse while wearing protective glasses as he drove his 2007 Chevy Equinox down Highway 80. The resulting four car pile up snarled traffic for hours. Clara DeClare of Kimmswick, Missouri was walking while wearing eclipse glasses as she observed the celestial event during her lunch break. DeClare tripped on a curb, breaking her ankle. Peter Miller of Delano, Tennessee strained his neck as he attempted to take a selfie with the eclipse.

In 1986, I was fresh out of college and found myself getting up early one morning to witness the reappearance of the most famous heavenly body, Halley's Comet. The newspapers of the day heralded the apparition as a once in a lifetime event. With a period of about 75 years, only a lucky few would see Halley's Comet twice in a lifetime. I was geared up for a fiery, streaming tail, streaking across the early morning sky. Instead, the comet looked like a green, hazy smudge low on the horizon.

 

Many things can be disappointing. When I finally got up to the top of the Statue of Liberty, I found it to be much smaller than I first thought. The "It's a Small World" ride at Disney would be far less monotonous if they gave you a few baseballs to see how many dolls you can take out. Olympic curling is the only sport that is more boring for participants than it is for spectators. Fireworks are like a B movie you already saw. Halley's Comet is a hazy blotch on the horizon on the way to breakfast. Solar eclipses are not all that rare. Most things in life don't live up to expectations, but admittedly, I'm glad I had the opportunity to experience each and everyone of them.

Just once.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on August 24, 2017. The names in this article have been changed to protect people's privacy. Most of the facts were made up too.

A New Organ for You and Me

God on the Brain with Adam
in Repose on the Mesentery

Scientists have discovered a new organ, the mesentery. They're not sure what it does, and there's a lot of literature concerning whether the mesentery is continuous or discreet. Either way, it's up there with the discovery that Pluto is not a planet then is a planet again.

The supplement industry is going to be working overtime making a pill to ensure a healthy mesentery. Someone will certainly come out with a mesentery cleanse by the end of the week. Electrical stimulation of the mesentery will soon follow. It will become all the rage in Hollywood. It will be important for the rest of us to learn which vitamins and minerals help with a healthy mesentery.

Da Vinci was one of the first to describe the mesentery in the 1400's. His drawing of the mesentery was a bit off, and he described it as,

"Et viscera parum stilla,"

loosely translated,

"A small blob of guts."

The more recent findings in the medical journal, The Lancet Gastroenterology and Hepatology, indicated,

"Whether the mesentery should be viewed as part of the intestinal, vascular, endocrine, cardiovascular or immunological systems is so far unclear as it has important roles in all of them."

Circulatory System

We've come a long way with our understanding of the mesentery. Heck, it's its own organ now. Surgeons will try to figure out if having your mesentery removed will be a good idea. Yearly mesentery screening will be the next reason to shell out a $30 copay.

Mesentery health will become key to an active life style. In fact, it's probably important for a happy, fulfilling life. The significance of the mesentery cannot be overlooked. You should eat more fiber to maintain a healthy mesentery unless you're on Atkins, then you should gnaw on a sausage.   

I think the discovery of a new organ inside our body will usher in a whole new understanding of the human condition. There are 79 known organs, most of which we know what they do. My guess there is at least one more yet to be discovered. Perhaps something that regulates your aura, helps with the digestion of Pez or balances the humors. Either way, maybe now that a new organ has been discovered scientist can finally agree that blood going back to the heart is not blue.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on January 10, 2017.

A Fatal Flaw on Campus

Located west of Boston in a former manufacturing town that stockpiled ammunition during the Revolutionary War, a hundred-fifty year old technical school draws the best and brightest students from all over the world. Classes are taught at a very fast pace during a short span of seven weeks. Undergraduate students earn either an A, B or a C, and there is no grade point average. Additionally, if a student underperforms they don't fail the course. They get an "NR" which means "No Record." Courses that students receive the latter designation don't appear on transcripts and can be retaken. There is an emphasis on projects in lieu of exams and summer internships are undertaken for credit. The school boasts of high job placement after graduation with starting salaries as much as $20k more compared to other institutions. It's not a school for jocks or artists. It's a school for my people, that is, geeks.

I first heard of Worcester Polytechnic Institute (WPI) back when I was in the engineering program at the University of Rhode Island. One professor we all hated was from WPI. I had him for a one credit lab. He was fond of four question, multiple choice tests which he gave to upper class students. His exams included the instruction to "show no work." Just pick a letter, miss two, and you failed. I met with him during office hours only once. After I asked for clarification on a topic, he questioned whether I belonged in the program. At the time I was a junior with a 3.9 grade point average. A year later I graduated magna cum laude.

One of my friends learned that WPI had a policy of never failing students and allowing them to retake a course for a better grade. In my school, a state university, if you tanked a class it was on your record forever. So here we were being harshly judged by a professor who graduated from the Worcester School of Mulligans. On top of that he had us perform and write up five experiments for one credit. He instructed his TA to grade our reports based on word choices. For some reason he disliked the term "utilize," and if you wrote that word in lieu of "use," you lost 20 points.

When we learned that he was going to add a sixth project which involved the Nusselt number, a non dimensional number in fluid mechanics related to the heat transfer in the boundary layer, someone snuck into the lab at night and overturned the experimental apparatus. The next day in class Professor Do-Over was livid. He berated all of us demanding that the perpetrators of the "Nusselt Affair," as it came to be known, come forward. I can still see the crimson bald spot on the back of his head as he paced back and forth while shouting a string of adjectives laced with obscenities to describe the vandals. That afternoon Professor Redo found his car turned 90° in his parking spot such that the front bumper was inches from the building and the back was up against a dumpster. The TA taught his class for the rest of the year.

In theory the grading policy at WPI appears to benefit the students, but in practice it allows professors to pile on the work since no one ever actually fails. If poor grades were recorded on official transcripts, students would be more apt to demand fairness from their professors. Some instructors are exceedingly inflexible. I read online a student's request for leniency was denied by her professor after she was a victim of a violent crime. Another professor told his freshman class,

"You might have heard rumors about me. That I'm very strict, that I expect you to work hard, that I don't take excuses, that I don't care if your whole family dies, you'll either do the work, or I'll fail you. I'm here to tell you all of that is true."

Students accept abuse from professors because they know in the end they won't actually fail. Some students espouse the idea to "just ignore grades" because the only mark you shoot for is "not an NR." In addition to being extraordinarily rigid, some professors at WPI teach exclusively with YouTube videos created by teachers from other institutions. Imagine spending $70,000 a years for a degree from Khan Academy.

The grading policy certainly benefits the endowment. Each time a student receives no record for a required course, they are rolled back seven weeks. No record means no credit, but it does not mean no cost. The longer a student stays at WPI the deeper in debt they become as they chase the dream of a lucrative job offer. Many students report having to take five years to complete their course of study. Most NR a couple of classes each year. The professors do their part to increase funding by routinely tanking students who believe the system is in their best interest.

The students at WPI are highly intelligent. The majority are fervently supportive of the administration. The campus is often described as "a-political," but I think "apathetic" is a more appropriate word. You'd think these highly capable, well informed young people would figure this out, but intellect does not equate to experience. One lesson they haven't yet learned is to always beware of Greeks bearing gifts. Recently while on the campus I witnessed this firsthand.

As a parent of a WPI student I received the first email from President Laurie Leshin in mid September informing me that three students had passed away. The families of two of the youths disclosed that they died of suicide. They were not freshman. I was shocked. When I talked with my son, he said that everyone knew why this had occurred. The most stress is felt by students who are deepest into the system. As they take and retake classes their progress slows as their debt grows. Not every student has supportive parents willing to continue to shell out money for their kid to toil away in school.

The worst part is that the students most susceptible to this are from lower income families. This doesn't seem to bother the administration all that much as they move forward with their plan to increase the size of the freshman class. For the past few years the number of students at WPI has increased with little expansion of services and infrastructure. Most students who paid for a meal plan can't get food on campus between 11:00 am and 1:00 pm. The pressure on the system continued to mount into the second term when in early November I received yet another email indicating that a student had died. On the day the campus was shutdown for a mental health break, a young man committed suicide.

The response from students was meek at best with many backing the administration's fervent assertion that this was all the result of the pandemic. Students were perishing and the administration was concerned about liability. A few organized a protest which was promptly brought under the auspices of the administration wishing to partner with student leaders to come up with a solution. Leshin met with students. She welled up. She vowed support. They hugged.

On the day of the protest, I drove to Worcester bent on listening to students to learn if what my son was telling me was true. He wasn’t able to attend since his instructor decided to hold class during the protest. A group of about a thousand students gathered on the quad. One of the leaders instructed us to form up in a line as we would be marching in silence past the administration building. I surmised Leshin negotiated that we march quietly to ensure that their message didn't get out especially around prospective students touring the campus. The organizers initially wanted students to wear clothing with the WPI logo crossed out. That devolved into all black attire. When we marched past the administrative building an employee held up a small, handwritten sign that read,

"We love you."

We settled in a large room set up with tables and chairs. As the space filled, a woman took to the microphone and instructed the students with an open seat to raise their hand. Then she requested anyone who could stand should do so such that others could sit. Everyone but me vacated their seats. Since that didn't work, she tried to get more tables set up by having the students push all the furniture forward. When the students dutifully complied, she barked at them to all stop and then warned everyone to be more careful.

This was supposed to be a protest. The last time I was spoken to so condescendingly I was in 5th grade. One of the student leaders opened up with a brief story of his struggles with mental illness. Next was President Leshin who blathered on a good fifteen minutes, stroking the students into submission. She referred to how hard "the past 20 months had been" in support of the idea that these tragic events were the result of the pandemic, and not the lousy tenured teachers playing TEDx videos in the classroom. She concluded with the familiar theme which even she described as corny,

"I love each and everyone of you."

Next an invited faculty member took the mic and chronicled her lifelong struggles with mental health. When she was six years old she was diagnosed with a mental illness. Relying on her memoirs, she chronicled her many diagnoses and subsequent medications. She went on through to expulsions in high school, troubles in college, marriage, births, grad school, all laced with copious therapy, drugs and outrage. When she finally came in for a landing, twenty minutes had expired.

Next on the agenda was the student input forms which were on each table. The woman who orchestrated the seating debacle returned to the mic and began spewing instructions such as

"Someone take notes, but take turns so everyone gets a chance."

and

"Don't let one person dominate the conversation. We want to hear from all of you."

And my favorite,

"We are going to spend no more than seven minutes on each question."

Okay. With five students at my table that leaves 1 minute and 24 seconds for each of them to express their views. As we put our heads together to tackle the problem of students killing themselves, we were instructed to move to the next question. A sophomore at my table recalled the loneliness he experienced at WPI when he was cut off by the moderator. This happened twice more after which I asked,

"Are they always this way here?"

"What?" a junior asked.

"Telling you what to do and when to do it."

A young man from California majoring in chemical engineering said,

"That's the way things are done around here."

I was dumbfounded. This was supposed to be a student organized protest against insufferable policies that led to tragedy, and these kids were being told what to do by an administrator. After rifling through all the questions, they offered the opportunity for a representative from each table to come up and summarize our findings. No one from my table volunteered. As I listened to a series of brilliant students weigh in thoughtfully, I was hesitant to offer my perspective. I asked a student seated next to me if he thought it would be appropriate for me to address the crowd to which he reasoned,

“You are the only parent here.”

I queued up behind a young woman. She fist bumped me before taking the mic. I smiled behind my mask. When she finished I said,

"I'm a parent. I'm the one who pays the bills around here. My son couldn't attend because he’s in class. I tried to get him to come over afterwards, but he said that he has only 15 minutes for dinner, then he has to study the rest of the night."

The students clicked their fingers. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I surmised it was a sign that they understood my message. I expressed my concern that I didn't think COVID was the culprit but instead an aggravating factor.

"Something is amiss here,”

I surmised before concluding with my belief that you can not consult your way out of this. Hiring another expert to meet with stressed out students won't alleviate the burden they are under. Many of the students expressed that too many professors treat students unfairly, don’t actually teach, assign an excessive amount of work and lack compassion. Maybe the administration ought to address these concerns first.

People with real mental illness want to be anonymous. They seek a normal life, not one in the spotlight. I suspect that students at WPI are under so much pressure that they don't have time nor the desire to seek help especially when doing so will only exasperate the stress of their workload. Throughout this ordeal the only moratorium on academic requirements was a single day of campus wide fun activities and a three day extension of the break in between terms. They ended up extending the second term by four days to make up the time. In the end it doesn't matter since I don't think a day of corn hole on the quad was going to do anything to stem student suicide.

Until the administration acknowledges the role they played in the deaths of those four students, nothing will change. My recommendation to the students of WPI is to occupy the administration building and effectively shutdown the school. It will require mass participation and solidarity as well as a leader willing to put their future on the line to save the life of another student.

What is needed now is not taught in any school. Someone must search their soul for the courage to come forward and unite them before this happens yet again.

Editor’s Note: Sadly, four more WPI students died after this was posted.

More Pictures I Took

A few months ago, I posted ten pictures I took with my phone. My attempt at an art exhibit was rejected by a local gallery for being socially irrelevant. The photos, often modified in Photoshop, are just not artistically worthy of public display. The piece in my blog proved very popular, garnishing enough hits to rank in the top posts for the month. Turns out pictures are worth a thousand words.

So here is my second art show that never was.

"Knitted Hat" is William at seven months. The hat was a gift he received for his brief stay in the neonatal unit.

"Me and 3025" was taken the first time I drove a steam engine. The opportunity was a gift from my wife, Christine, for completing my first feature length script which was about the demise of steam engines.

"Night Light" finds William in a doorway of a historic home in Providence, Rhode Island in the evening.

"Centered" has William standing in the middle of our rural road while waiting for the bus.

"Seaman Languedoc" stands at parade rest before playing Taps in front of the World War I Memorial in Providence, Rhode Island on November of 2017.

"Work Desk" finds William engrossed in a display of the lunar landings at a museum when he was one years old.

"Trumpet Section" has Aidan, second from the left, playing in the state regional band. The picture has a 1950's look to it even though I took it last year.

"Lone Piggy" is the first picture taken by Willy when he was a year old which he managed to text to Christine. To date, we don't know how he figured out how to text images before he could speak.

"Banister Boy" is William in jail. Years later, while running in socks, William broke two banisters in that railing.

William and Aidan "Taking a Break" in 2012, oblivious to the massive rock behind them.

Editor's Note: Orginally published on October 23, 2018.

Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge

Before our oldest son, Aidan, went to middle school, he attended a private institution known for the arts. The music program was mostly percussions and bells. There was no school band nor jazz ensemble. Whenever my wife, Christine, and I attended a concert, I was struck at how mediocre the students performed which was odd since the kids had to play only one note. I imagined that this private arts school, costing well over $20,000 a year, would be staffed with former pot smoking hippies from the 60's who were all avant guard thinkers. I couldn't have been more wrong. Most of the instructors at one time worked for a parochial school, that is, the only place that pays less than a private institution.

When I attended the first concert, I was ready to be blown away by a high caliber of musicianship. Nine grades plus kindergarten and pre-K performed for the Winter Arts Festival which included some music as well as contemporary modern dance that dragged on for hours. The look of boredom on the parent’s faces was in juxtaposition to the middle school headmaster expressing to the crowded auditorium,

"Your children are soooo talented!"

After an hour I was thinking of a different adjective, something along the lines of uninspiring banality. Being a parent with a first child, I learned to scale back my expectations. A colleague encouraged me to attend a concert at the local public middle school to hear the student jazz band. I went by myself because Christine was home with our newborn, William. I sat in the crowd as a spectator, not a parent. As the concert went through the music program, I was impressed. When the jazz band played, I was mesmerized. I called Christine and held my phone aloft.

"What's going on here?" I thought.

The jazz band was so crisp and vibrant as they played the music my father listen to. I left that night resolved to move Aidan to the local public school. At the time, my boy didn't play an instrument. I wanted him to take piano, but he wasn't interested.

When he started school, he was musically a year behind all the other kids. The music program was mandatory. His music teacher, Mr. Hilbie, suggested that he play the trumpet. Aidan struggled but kept with it. After a few weeks, Mr. Hilbie told Christine that Aidan had "a natural ability and should take private lessons." He called a local music instructor, Jose Cordero, who I heard was hard to get, urging him to fit Aidan into a lesson. I thought trumpet instruction would be just another thing I ferried my son to in which he would be half interested.

While in Mr. Cordero's waiting area to his music studio, I noted the pictures and memorabilia he had on display. Although now retired from the military, he played in the Coast Guard Band on active duty. He seemed strangely familiar to me, then I realized who he was. I had seen him in uniform on television playing at presidential inaugurations. He confirmed what Mr. Hilbie had heard in Aidan.

At the private school, the feedback was always negative. They were sure Aidan suffered from attention deficit disorder having badgered us relentlessly to have him tested. A third of the student body were on Ritalin. Almost all of them were boys. I was incredulous having recognized that my son’s problem was boredom. That and he was in a classroom with over thirty students.

One time at the private school when I was offering help to Aidan’s first grade teacher, she was going over a lesson on making change. She was particularly forward with her assertion that my son had a short attention span. When she noticed as I had that Aidan was staring blankly out the window while his friends were all eager to answer a question, she called on Aidan certain that she would catch him daydreaming.

"How much is it Aidan?"

Without turning from the window, he answered monotonically,

"A dollar thirty-three."

He was correct. Instead of praising him, his teacher ignored his response. Of course she did since it didn't fit her diagnosis. I never doubted my son's abilities. Being a new parent, I just didn't know what to do about it. Sometimes, imperceptible forces push you in the right direction and away from the things that don't work. I was an engineer and computer scientist. The arts were something I thought appreciation for was just as good as participation in. I was never a good musician. I often say that I was pretty bad at the guitar until I got worse. Christine took piano lessons for years and was moderately accomplished.

I experienced music through my eyes rather than my ears. I looked at a staff full of notes, memorized what a symbol meant then learned how to translate each to an instrument. My son learned what a note sounded like rather than how it appeared. When he was in middle school, music was mandatory. In contrast, both Christine and I were not required to take music in school.

Now, I had two accomplished musicians telling me that Aidan had a natural embouchure. I wasn't sure what that was, but I figured it was a good thing. For the first time in eight years a teacher said something positive about my son. A year later, Aidan was trying out for the middle school jazz band. Mr. Hilbie had high expectations of his students. It's no coincidence that most, if not all, the band members were on the honor roll. Aidan was eager to perform trumpet solos which propelled him in other studies resulting in high honors. After a successful audition, he held his trumpet aloft as he exclaimed,

"A year ago I didn't know what end to blow into, and now I'm in the jazz band!”

I attended a Catholic school for secondary education so while I was exposed to some music, there wasn't any school bands. When I went to the public high school in my town, I tried out for the jazz band. I played the upright bass. Not only was I tone deaf, I couldn't keep time at all. Making matters worse the school's bass was fretless so I had to hear the notes to play them correctly. None of this deterred me.

Earlier I had taken a composition class which was considered the hardest music course in high school. Many of the band kids avoided that class as they regarded writing an original piece of music as next to impossible. I don't know what made me think I could compose music. Making matters worse I sometimes had to recall that every good boy deserves fudge just to determine which note was represented by a line on the staff. I struggled. My music teacher, Mr. Trevor, helped me tremendously. Somehow I managed to completed my score. It was no masterpiece. A little more sophisticated than a nursery rhyme, it was an easy piece to play. The jazz band got through my score on the second take. Many of the musicians in the band were quite accomplished, and I was proud when they told me that my piece was fun to play.

Pride makes you do stupid things. Fresh off the success of my one and only arrangement, I decided to try out for the jazz band. Mr. Trevor was less than encouraging. He needed a bass player, but his years of experience and sound musical talent led him to believe that I was not up to the task. He was right. I was not a good musician. Given ideal instruction and unlimited practice, I would never be any good. To me the bass was an easy instrument to play because it had less strings than a guitar and was in the background, but don't try to float that by Paul McCartney. For some reason Mr. Trevor wanted me to audition with the jazz band instead of with just him. Undaunted, I practiced night and day in preparation for my performance before the entire musical student body.

On the day of my audition, I first played by myself. When I finished, Mr. Trevor said,

"Okay, try it again, but this time play the notes on the staff."

My second take was better, but he pointed out that I played too slowly as he clapped out 3/8 time like a metrodom. For my third try Mr. Trevor summoned the whole band. I didn't have a full score in front of me so I was unsure when I was to come in. As everyone brought their instruments to bear, I noticed that they all concentrated on the band director. Thats right! Mr. Trevor would tell me when I was to start playing.

Most musicians might recall the first time they played with a brass band. Some of the auditorium seats are better than others when it comes to experiencing sound. When playing an instrument from inside a band, you would think you have the best seat in the house, but the nearest instruments often can be so loud that you are unable to hear the rest of the band. When I took my queue to play, I knew right off I came in too early. When I tied to adjust, I fell behind. As we finished, I was pretty much on time, but I knew the bass line should be driving the beat not following it. The distain on the face on the drummer told me that I screwed up, and everyone knew it.

Mr. Trevor scowled as he shook his head. To this day I think he was hoping I would just quit instead of continuing to punish the ears of the actual musicians surrounding me. Some of the students vocalized their opinion of my poor playing ability to their neighbor. Others whispered as they looked in my direction. Although I knew I was over my head, I don't know why I did what I did next, but for some reason I blurted out,

"One more time."

Everyone readied their instruments as if directed by the conductor rather than the baseless instructions of a lousy bass player. Mr. Trevor followed the familiar routine after the jazz band was locked and loaded. He momentarily looked about oddly before he motioned the band to play. I came in closer to my queue, and played more forcefully. In retrospect, I wasn't angry nor was I stubborn. I just wanted to experience playing from inside a band one more time. On this last go around I did much better, enough to stifle any overt critism. If this had been a play, the contortions culminating in the frown on my Mr. Trevor's face would be described by critics as method acting. The music teacher had just taken direction in front of the whole jazz band from a student, summoned for evaluation as a bassist, who couldn't keep beat to a Devo tune. When he cobbled together some semblance of composure, Mr. Trevor said,

"Again."

After a brief pause, he added,

"Just you."

I readied the school issued, fretless bass as Mr. Trevor stared sternly in my direction. He raised his baton then froze at the apex. His hands sunk unceremoniously to the podium. When they came to rest, Mr. Trevor commanded,

"Sing it."

I was unsure what he wanted. Did he want me to sing the notes? I can barely find where they are supposed to be played on the neck of this bulky string instrument, and he wants me to sing? I don't sing even when I'm alone. Some of the students looked about and smiled broadly. Others were giddy.

"Sing?" I asked.

"Yes," Mr. Trevor replied, "Sing it."

I could've packed it in right there to cut short the torment, but with little hesitation I belted out my best interpretation of the notes on the staff before me, much to the amusement of the entire high school jazz band. When the laughter subsided, I backed away from the music stand before me. Returning the large instrument to the case resting on the floor, I ran my fingers over the strings for the last time before I closed the lid. I collected the sheet music from the stand then retrieved a piece of paper from a notebook in my backpack. As I threaded through my once and only bandmates, I stopped in front of Mr. Trevor's podium where I neatly placed the papers then turned for the exit. Walking down the hallway, the jazz band began to play. The sound was wonderful.

When Aidan climbed into high school, his audition for the jazz band went pretty smoothly. He made it on his first try. Aidan coupled his love of music with technology to streamline the process of writing music. He's remastered arrangements based on the music in video games like the MII Channel and Chemical Plant Zone from Sega's Sonic. He also wrote a score for Memories by the band Lucky Chops which was to be played by the school ochestra. Unfortunately the public concerts were cancelled his senior year due to the pandemic. He spent his time editing individual tracks from students to create virtual performances for the school's online coffee house concerts. Currently, he is working on an orchestral arrangement based on a three part medley from the game Deltarune.

When Aidan learned that the education board in our town was considering dropping the music requirement from the middle school curriculum, he went to the town meeting to tell his story, how mandatory participation brought out the best in him. The board listened to many former students explain that exposure to music at an early age helped shape the kind of student they were now, but unfortuately the music program was pushed off to an after school activity making way for “more important” subjects like environmental science and personal finance.

I've read an article recently that espoused the idea that playing an instrument makes a kid a better public speaker, more of a leader. Studies show that musical kids do better in school. I have a friend who adamantly says that musicians make better STEM students. Even if this is true, I think it's misguided as was my long time belief that appreciation of art is just as good as participation. Some people need to express themselves in music and that is good in itself even though our pragmatic society would only note its value if it helps students with math or science. I believe now that music is important not just to help kids with more practical studies. It is good in itself.

I never again played an instrument after I auditioned for the jazz band in high school and was doubtful of the value of doing so when Aidan took up the trumpet. When I was in the composition class back then, Mr. Trevor once asked us if all the conceivable songs would someday be written. He told us that the number of unique sequences which can be formed by twelve notes was infinite. He was wrong. It's not infinite. There are 479,001,600 permutations which can be made with twelve notes. I know this because when I was in high school, I deduced the formula by listing all the sequences formed from two, three and four notes.

That's what was on the extra piece of paper I added to the sheet music which I left on Mr. Trevor's podium.

Editor's Note: Based on a post originally published on June 19, 2018.

What It’s Like Living with a Superhero

Our youngest,Willy, occasionally wears a cape. At first I wasn’t sure if he had any special powers, but then they revealed themselves in a not so subtle way. You see, William has “super X strength,” that is, might disproportionate to his size.

Willy is in the 75th percentile for height and 100th for width. He’s a very stocky, dense kid. The gravity must have been greater on his home planet compared to that here on earth. In 2018, he started second grade weighing in at a fourth grader's mass. He’s unusually muscular. Instead of baby fat, Willy has a six pack. It’s not easy raising a superhero. They have to learn all the things just like every other human child, but they also must discover, harness, and eventually master their extraordinary gifts.

At first Willy’s unusual strength caused him to break a lot of things. It all started with his older brother’s pristine Thomas the Tank Engine collection which Willy inherited. Aidan always took impeccable care of his toys. At a very early age, William became fascinated with Thomas and Friends careening off the table. It wasn’t long before William broke Thomas’s face. He handed me the hapless tank engine's head in three pieces, while saying,

“Fix please.”

His brother, who is eight years older, is our go to babysitter. Whenever my wife, Christine, and I enjoy a night out on the drive home we always wonder aloud what William might have destroyed. He tends to plow right through things rather than bothering to go around.

He broke two banisters on the handrail to the staircase while running in socks. He also cracked the glass on his iPad three times. That was kind of my fault. I didn’t know that superheros are supposed to get tempered glass on their mobile devices. He also managed to rip a seam in our newly reupholstered couch by sitting too forcefully. When young, superheroes tend to gravitate to high places like the backs of couches as such vantage points offer the best opportunity to scan the landscape for bad guys.

Recently, while getting toilet paper from the roll, William snapped off the spindle. It’s made of metal, but it broke like a twig. When we had William's grip strength measured by his pediatrician, he broke the tester. The other day after spending some “we time” at the gym, Christine and I returned to find that William accidentally tore the door to his room off the jam. We never got a straight answer how it happened because he is somewhat self conscious over his unusual strength, and we thought it might not be a good idea to upset him too much should he turn green and grow in size before going on an anger induced rampage. I’ve got an ever expanding list of things to fix, most of which will have to wait for winter to set in as fall outdoor cleanup absorbs most of my time.

The other day we got a note from his teacher. William was selected to participate as a “partner” for the Unified Sports Team, a national program coordinated by the Special Olympics. As a participant, William is to assist athletes in achieving their goals. His teacher said he was chosen due to his "leadership, positive attitude, and compassion for others in the school setting." He was very proud as was I, but I wasn't surprised.

Compassion is his other superpower, the one he's already mastered.

Editor's Note: Originally published on October 9, 2018. A few readers asked if William really pulled the door to his room off the jam. He did. We're a bit unsure how he managed to do it and suspect his older brother was involved, but neither is talking.

Recently William announced that as a fifth grader he would no longer smile for his school picture. He said that the time for seriousness is upon him. He must be thinking about the task before him, a life of fighting for truth, justice and equity but not the bad things historically associated with socialism.