WWdN: In Exile

the butterfly tree

When I took my walk yesterday, I passed a set of twins who live up the block from me. They're girls, and I think they're in first or second grade. They're painfully adorable little kids who call me "Mr. Wheaton" and always smile and wave when they drive by with their parents. Their names aren't important, but H loves Ferris and Riley, and A always wants to know where "the grills" are when Anne and I walk without the dogs.

They were sitting on their driveway, drawing with sidewalk chalk and talking.

"Hi girls," I said, as I passed.

"Hi Mister Wheaton!" They said in adorable unison.

"How are you today?" I said.

"Good," A said.

H wiped chalk off her fingers and said, "Guess what, Mr. Wheaton! Today? In school? Melissa C. got her name on the board!"

"It's not good to get your name on the board," I said.

"I never get my name on the board!" H said.

"I don't ever get my name on the board either!" A said.

"That's awesome," I said. "Bye girls."

"Bye Mr. Wheaton!"

I took a few steps away, and a long-forgotten first grade memory of my own rose up and crashed over me in a powerful wave, washing the smile from my face and joy from my heart. The memory was and is so clear, I can close my eyes and see everything in detail that's astonishing to me. It's almost like I cracked open a time capsule in my mind that was sealed in 1978.

I lived in a rural area of Los Angeles called Sunland. I can only see it through the eyes of a 6 year-old, so the whole place is forever the late 70s, and bathed in the golden red sunset of a summer afternoon: tract houses, wide sidewalks, and lots of trees. It was a great place to grow up, but apparently the schools were really terrible, so my parents put me into a private Christian school that was a few miles from our house.

I really liked school. Learning was fun, and my parents always seemed interested in what new thing I'd picked up each day. I liked going to the chapel to sing songs with everyone, and the playground had swings that went so high, you could jump out of them and fly through the air for a whole minute . . . or five seconds; my memory on that is a little hazy and distorted by time. We didn't have uniforms, but we had to wear corduroy pants and collared polo shirts. I didn't mind, because it was fun to get dressed up for school, and I really liked flipping the collar up and down on the drive there every morning.

I also loved my teacher, Mrs. Gleason. She was about the same age as my parents, had really long blond hair, always smiled, and wore blue dresses. She was a lot nicer than Mrs. Krocka, a severe woman who was much older, wore her black hair pulled back in to a tight bun, and always wore pantsuits. Mrs. Krocka was from Czechoslovakia, and spoke with a thick and intimidating accent. As an adult, I wonder now if she was a Soviet Union ex-patriot, or maybe if her parents fled Europe during or after World War II, but at the time, she was just a mean old lady to me.

I only had to see Mrs. Krocka once a day at recess, because she taught the second graders, and once a month when she taught our music class (which actually wasn't that bad, because we learned how to sing the songs from chapel in Slovak. I didn't understand what I was saying, but it sounded cool . . . sort of like when they had us do the flag pledges.)

I left that school after a year, and forgot them both until yesterday, when I heard about Melissa C. You see, I was a really good kid in first grade. I only got the equivalent of my name on the board once. Unfortunately, it was in front of my entire family. Oh, and everyone else's family, too. It happened during back to school night, when Mrs. Kocka took over for Mrs. Gleason, who was called away at the last minute for some sort of family emergency.

Back to school night was different then than it was for my kids: back then, parents brought their kids to school and sat at the back of the class while the teacher took the kids through a truncated version of an average school day for a half an hour or so. When the whole thing was over, the kids got to go play on the playground while the parents talked with the teachers, signed up for PTA, and other school things.

I was really excited for back to school night. I put on my green corduroy pants, and wore my favorite blue polo with the skinny orange and brown stripes across the top. I let my mom comb my hair and use Suave hairspray to hold it in place.

I am the oldest of three children. My brother was almost three in 1978, and my sister was about five months old. For whatever reason, my parents couldn't or didn't or wouldn't get a sitter for them, so they brought them along to back to school night. I thought it would be cool for them to see me in my class. I was the big brother and everything, after all.

We arrived a few minutes early (a rarity with my parents, who would show up an hour late for the end of the world) and I was one of the first kids to sit into my desk, right next to my friend Matthew, who I thought was cool because he had a bible name.

The rest of the parents and students filled the room, and Mrs. Krocka explained that Mrs. Gleason wouldn't be there, but she'd show the parents what their children did on a usual day.

We started with our pledges to the American and Christian flags, did our daily prayer, and opened our math books. I thought it was really weird that we were doing this stuff at night, and wondered if the double prayers were such a good idea, but I kept those thoughts to myself. My parents and my little brother were watching, and I wanted to make them all proud of me.

Before we finished the shortened version of the math lesson, I heard my little brother's voice from the back of the room.

"Mommy! I can't see Willow!"

All the parents laughed. Mrs. Krocka spun around from the chalkboard, and shot a whithering look toward the back of the room.

I concentrated on my math ditto. It was two columns of four problems, printed in purple ink on that paper that dissolved if you erased it too much. I held my oversized pencil tightly in my now-sweating hand and held my breath.

I heard my mom say, softly, "He's right there, Jer Bear."

"Hi Willow!" He called out, louder. "I see you in school!"

The parents all giggled again. To my horror, a giggle escaped from me, too.

Mrs. Krocka looked directly at me, and through colorless, tightly drawn lips said, "I do not tolerate outbursts like this in my classroom."

In the front of the class, next to the chalkboard, there was a cork board. On the cork board, next to the classroom rules, was a laminated picture of a tree. Attached to that tree were laminated butterflies, each with a student's name on it. If a student got into any sort of trouble during the day, Mrs. Gleason would take that student's butterfly off the tree, and pin it to a different area of the board.

Mrs. Krocka walked to the front of the classroom and was at the tree, taking my butterfly off before I even realized what was happening. As hard as it had been not to giggle, it now became even more difficult not to cry.

It was so unfair! It wasn't my fault that my stupid parents brought my stupid brother with them! All the adults were laughing, too! Why weren't they in trouble?

Mrs. Krocka returned to Mrs. Gleason's desk and moved on to the next lesson. The remainder of the time in the classroom is lost to my memory, obscured by an overwhelming sense of humiliation and sadness.

When we were done, I met my parents in the hallway outside the class.

"Why did you bring him?!" I said through tears.

I don't remember what they said, but my baby sister started to cry with me. For some reason, this embarrassed me even more than my own crying, and I started to cry harder.

I can only imagine the scene we were making, the next thing I knew, we were walking to my dad's green Volkswagen bus.

I tried to speak through halting sobs on the way. "It . . . wah-huh-huh . . . wasn't my fa-fuh-fuh-fault! Jeremy muh-mu-hade me l-l-laugh!"

"I know, Willow," my dad said.

"Wuh-wuh-will you go t-tell her that it wasn't muh-my fault?" I said. "And to puh-put my bu-bu-bu-butter --" I couldn't even get the word out of my mouth. All I could see was my butterfly, with the happy yellow face and pink wings and "Wil" written on it in black marker, sitting all by itself, alone, off the tree.

My parents looked at each other. "We have to get home and get Amy into bed," my mom said.

"WHAT?!" I hollered. "That's so un-fuh-fuh-fair!"

I don't remember what they said. I don't remember the drive home. I don't remember what Mrs. Gleason said when she put my butterfly back on the tree the following morning. All I remember is how hurt and angry I was that my parents didn't stand up for me to Mrs. Krocka, who humiliated and embarrassed me in front of my entire class and all their parents. In fact, while I walked through my neighborhood yesterday and relived this memory, I felt like I was going to cry all over again.

My parents did the best they could with all of us, and I don't know why they didn't stand up for me. Maybe there's more to the story than I remember, or maybe they were just as intimidated by that hideous bitch as I was. But it hurt me that they didn't. A lot.

It's always been important to me to stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves. Honor, integrity, fairness, and justice are the most important principles in the entire world to me, and I never knew exactly why I felt so passionately about that . . . until now.

I think it may have started in a butterfly tree, in 1978.

numbers are awesome

Numbers are awesome. The concept of zero fascinates me, phi and pi are as beautiful as they are complex, and even though e and i are way beyond my level of understanding, I still love and respect them all. I frequently wish that I'd had teachers over the course of my life who made math interesting and relevant to real life, instead of something that we just had to learn because it was on the test.

I bring all these neat-o numbers up because I have a new favorite number string, that I wanted to share with you all today:

09 F9 11 02 9D 74 E3 5B D8 41 56 C5 63 56 88 C0

Pretty majestic, ain't it? Yeah, numbers are awesome.

i'll be on the david lawrence show tonight

I'm spending a few hours tonight with my friend David Lawrence as a guest on his radio show, from 7 to 10 Pacific time tonight.

I have no idea what we'll end up talking about, but if enough WWdN readers express interest, I'm sure we can take some phone calls.

There are tons of ways to tune in, if you're interested in hearing us tonight and you have the time to tune in. Details are at David's website.

riot in thunder alley

I picked up both soundtracks to Grindhouse over the weekend, and I've listened to Death Proof more than Planet Terror, mostly because the Smith version of Baby it's You is damn near a perfect song. They are, however, both magnificent, and highly recommended.

I listened to them on shuffle while I walked around my neighborhood this morning, and got to thinking about Death Proof. After my mind wandered around and eventually found its way back into my skull,  thought I should clarify something about my criticism (and love) of Grindhouse.

I love Tarantino. Ever since I first saw Reservoir Dogs in the theater before the damn kids today were born, I've been a huge fan. He makes movies that never fail to entertain me, even when I'm not 100% on board with the idea. At his worst, his stuff is vastly superior to much of the complete garbage that passes for movies these days.

I especially love the way he develops his characters through his dialog, even when it's clear that they're just saying what he would say if you put the camera on him for ten minutes and said, "go!"

While I listened to Death Proof this morning, I kept thinking about the scenes in the bar where we first meet Stuntman Mike, and how much I liked them all. The dialog, the photography, and the music all work together to create something that's pretty damn awesome. I've been in a bar just like that, in the rain, drinking with my friends, or trying to score, and I could seriously relate to that whole sequence.

I guess the dialog I really didn't like, that just fell flat for me, was in the second half, where I felt like he was trying too hard to recreate Reservoir Dogs. Once they got to the stunt work, though, I was riveted until the very end.

I don't know why I felt it necessary to clarify this, but it was important enough to me to occupy my thoughts for the last mile of my walk.

that's my jacket. i looked for it for two weeks

Last week, I did two episodes of a new series for REELZ channel called "Everything I needed to know about ____ I learned from the movies."

It's a cute series, similar to the Best Week Ever format, and I'm happy for REELZ to have the series running, because I helped with the pilot, Everything I needed to know about high school, I learned from the movies.

This week, we did Everything I needed to know about weddings I learned from the movies and Everything I needed to know about dancing I learned from the movies.

To prepare for both episodes, I watched a ton of movies I otherwise wouldn't watch, or missed when they first came around.

Some of them, like Honey, My Best Friend's Wedding and Wedding Crashers were just painful, while others, like Footloose and Dirty Dancing were first class tickets on the Nostalgia Train. You Got Served was so awesomely awful, it's begging like John Turturo in Miller's Crossing to be given the MST3K treatment.

But nothing could have prepared me for Kill Bill Volumes I and II. I missed them both the first time around, and I can't believe I didn't see them in a theater when they were released, because I freaking loved both movies so much, together they earned a spot in my top 20, and maybe even in my top 10.

I liked them so much, I decided that I would go see Grindhouse while it was still in theaters, even though I knew it was over three hours long, and the only showing near our house started at 9 (well, 8:40, but you know they have to give us 20 minutes of bullshit before they start the goddamn movie. Not that I hate that so much I have to mention it in a parenthetical statement or anything.)

Ryan liked Kill Bill, so I took him and his friend with me to watch Grindhouse Friday night. On the way to the theater, I told him what I knew about the grindhouse cinemas of the 70s that the film was based on, so he could put the movie into that context.

We really liked the experience, though we both agreed that Planet Terror was vastly superior to Death Proof, which needed about 40% fewer rambling dialog sequences. All the trailers and announcements from the theater were awesome, too, and reminded me of stuff I saw when I was in my teens, going to watch scratched prints of old movies in crummy little theaters in Glendale and Eagle Rock, which are sadly long gone by now, replaced with cookie-cutter chain stores like Subway and Starbucks.

When the movie was over, as we watched the credits, Ryan leaned over and said to me, "Dude, that was awesome! It was so different than anything else I've ever seen, and I'm really glad that I saw it. Thank you for bringing me with you."

I was really happy to hear him say that, and really glad that he appreciated the movie on more than one level. It was one of those times where I felt like a little bit of me had been passed on to him.

It was sort of a bittersweet moment, because over the last six months or so, I've watched him grow and mature from a teenage pod person into an awesome young adult whose company I really, really enjoy. I'm constantly proud of his intellect, sensitivity, insight, and kindness. I know he's at an age where he'd rather hang out with his friends than his lame parents, but he has grown into a person who I would want to be around even if he wasn't part of my family. I'm really going to miss him when he leaves for school in August.

Oh, and if you have about 4 hours to spend any way you want, you may want to consider Grindhouse. If you only have 2 hours, think about Hot Fuzz.

it's what it's all aboot

I don't watch a lot of TV, but my kids love this show How I Met Your Mother, so I watched it with them this week.

I enjoyed it, and will watch it again, but I don't know if any future episodes can match what they pulled off this week with this music video:



I guess one of the characters was a Canadian pop star in the 90s (everyone is dressed like the 80s in this video because, according to her, "the 80s didn't make it to Canada until the 90s") but was trying to hide it from the rest of her friends, for reasons which were obvious when they watched the video.

If you're of a certain age, I think you're going to love this video. Robin Sparkles is the perfect blend of Tiffany and Debbie Gibson, and every gag in the video, from the lyrics to the choreography and photography, is a pitch-perfect parody of and homage to that 80s pop scene.

can you make one out to me, and three to my friend of the same name

As I sat down to put together this week's Geek in Review, I was faced with a choice: scream and rant and rave and foam at the mouth for two thousand words about how fucking evil and stupid the RIAA is for effectively destroying internet radio, damning many of their artists to obscurity and alienating their customers in the pathetic effort to return the music world to the 1970s, or share an entertaining  memory about signing autographs at the 35th Anniversary convention in Las Vegas which I first wrote about in my book Dancing Barefoot.

I don't want to go to this well too often for the Geek in Review, but everyone seems to enjoy these stories, and I have to be entirely honest: I have a really, really great time telling them.

Over the years, I've learned something from being on both sides of this table: it's never about the signature. It's about that brief moment, that brief encounter with a Star Trek cast member, that is so important to the fans. That 30 seconds or so of hopefully undivided attention is what they're really paying for, and I always do my best to make sure they get their money's worth. Contrary to popular belief, sitting at a table signing hundreds of autographs for several hours without a break is hard. It's not just mindlessly scrawling my name; It's stopping and listening to the always excited, sometimes shaking, always sweating, sometimes scary dude who wants to know exactly why I did "X" on episode "Y" and would I please sign his picture in silver . . . because Marina signed it in gold and now I want the men in silver and the women in gold, and I hated your character and here are 25 reasons why and I expect an answer for each one of them and I'm not leaving until I'm satisfied.

There is, as they say, much more at the Geekwire.

And speaking of Star Trek, did you know that TNG turns 20 this Fall? I just got home from a meeting which was all about that. Oh man, there is some really, really cool stuff on the horizon. Without saying anything that will get me into the kind of trouble that results in the hands on touch you only get with hired goons, I would like to point out that this is going to be a great year to be a Trekkie.

it's just a jump to the left . . .

Have you seen those shows on Discovery about how Star Trek inspired scientists to create everything from the cell phone to the MRI? They're really cool, and totally worth tracking down.

When I worked on the show, I met lots of people who had been inspired by the original series in one way or another and followed that inspiration into a career. You know what's cool? Meeting so many astronauts and planetary scientists that it stopped being such an epic big deal, and I could relax enough to actually talk with them about their missions.

I recalled those days when I saw the following story at Netscape this morning:

NASA announces status of Warp Drive

"Warp Drives", "Hyperspace Drives", or any other term for Faster-than-light travel is at the level of speculation, with some facets edging into the realm of science. We are at the point where we know what we do know and know what we don’t, but do not know for sure if faster than light travel is possible.

The bad news is that the bulk of scientific knowledge that we have accumulated to date concludes that faster than light travel is impossible. This is an artifact of Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity. Yes, there are some other perspectives; tachyons, wormholes, inflationary universe, spacetime warping, quantum paradoxes...ideas that are in credible scientific literature, but it is still too soon to know if such ideas are viable.

There's an awesome little graphic of the Enterprise, accompanied by a discussion of why Chuck Yeager could break the sound barrier, but space ships may not be able to break the light barrier.

The positive impact Star Trek had on the world from civil rights to science during its first run in the late 60s was a frequent topic of discussion at conventions and in interviews when I was a teenager, and even during those die.die.die days, I always felt lucky and proud to be associated with the show because of its legacy. It's really cool to read a story like this one, and realize that the legacy continues.

morning bell

Sleep welcomed me faster than I expected, once my head was on my pillow and the lights were out. In fact, I fell asleep so quickly, it seemed like I closed my eyes and the alarm went off moments later.

The rising sun bathed the kitchen in bright and warm light, and more than two dozen birds sang on my patio. A hummingbird flew right up to the kitchen window while I poured myself a glass of water, and I closed one eye against the sun to see its green breast.

Though I felt a little woozy from being so tired, it wasn't all that bad, and I loved on my dogs (who are always at their most adorable early in the morning while we're all waking up) and got Nolan to school on time.

When I pulled my car into my driveway, one of my favorite neighbors was walking up the street. I got out of the car and he said, "Hey, are you some sort of Ninja?"

I was still in my pajamas, which are dark grey. I've often joked with Anne that they're my Ninja PJs, so I laughed when he said that.

"Well, if you saw me, I'm a pretty lousy Ninja," I said.

his black shirt cries while his shoes get cold

I finally finished up my work about 30 minutes ago, two hours later than I usually stay awake. My whole body hurts from sitting here, and I've entered that weird place where I'm too tired to stay awake, but also too tired to fall asleep.

Though it used to be a common part of my routine, and it's how I wrote Dancing Barefoot and the first draft of Just A Geek, it's been a long time -- maybe even a year -- since I stayed up this late to write.

The silence in the house, broken only by the ticking of the clock in the kitchen and the occasional rumble of trucks passing on the freeway, isn't as soothing and peaceful as I remember it.

Tonight, that silence is lonely and oppressive. Everything feels heavier than it should.

I guess I should get in bed and stare at the ceiling for a few hours.