JK Brady's Open Salon Blog

Teaching Humanity One Student at a Time

Sat, 13 Mar 2010 11:03:26 -0500

I’ve read a number of childhood memory posts of late, and these leave me thankful for so many of the teachers who passed through my life. I was fortunate. Most of the really good teachers I encountered when I lived in a small town in British Columbia. In my memories, it was a magical town; stuck out on a peninsula, surrounded by Pacific coast beaches, and sunny what seemed like most of the time. In retrospect, I just figured the teachers who landed there felt fortunate to be able to make a living in such a town, and we students were the beneficiaries. Whatever kismet descended on my 4 years there, I realized later in life that one teacher stood out above the rest for his humanity and for the special nature of the lifelong lesson he taught an entire class one semester.

It was grade 10, and I was lucky enough to have Mr. Krieger for Social Studies. He’d just returned from a couple of years of teaching in Ethiopia—this was the late 70s Ethiopia—long before Bob Geldolf launched Band Aid and rich music icons sang woeful tributes to starving children. Mr. Krieger was young, and he was brave, but most of all, he was incredibly human. This was fortunate for us but more fortunate for one student in particular.

I can’t remember this kid’s name, but I can see his face. I searched my yearbook for his picture, but he’s not there. It is not surprising. His appearance in that class, in that year, seems like an apparition looking back. It is almost like he was delivered there to provide a unique learning opportunity for the rest of us and get a brief respite from his shitty life. Somewhere along the way he disappeared again without a trace back into the fucked up ether from whence he came.

Even though his name is lost to me, I’ll call him Greg for the sake of this recollection. I don’t remember Greg in grade nine, but I had arrived in the latter part of grade eight and grade nine was just a blur of struggling to fit in. Grade 10 was the great equalizer; it was the start of a new school for all of us. We left Jr. High behind us and started on equal footing at the big school across the rugby pitch.

Greg sat at the very front of Mr. Krieger’s Social Studies class. To say he was awkward would be a gross understatement. He had unkempt hair, coke-bottle-bottom glasses and no idea how to interact with others around him. He stumbled in, made too much noise and always spoke at the wrong time. He was an easy target. He was prime real estate for some serious bullying. But miraculously, that didn’t happen.

I don’t remember how it came about, but I clearly remember the day that Greg stood before us and, at the behest of Mr. Krieger, told us a little bit about his life. He’d lived in 17 foster homes. That’s all the detail that I remember, but it was enough to leave a lifelong impression. And it was all we needed to hear to change the script that might have played out if not for Mr. Krieger. Rather than hide Greg from the class, sweep his problems under the carpet or allow him to be ridiculed, Mr. Krieger chose to teach us all, Greg included, a most valuable lesson—acceptance.

I remember that it was still early in the year when Greg addressed the class. No serious damage had occurred to him yet…at least not that year and not in our class. I distinctly remember the shift that happened that day. He was awkward. He stuttered. He couldn’t look us in the eye, and he struggled with all his school work. But in those moments, Greg became more human to us than any other kid in the school. We all seemed to realize the magnitude of being passed from home to home 17 times. We were 14. That meant that Greg had likely never spent a full year in one home. He’d never felt the love of his real parents, never had a birthday party full of friends and never bonded with anyone.

Suddenly his awkwardness dissipated and he became more of a hero in our eyes. It wasn’t pity we offered him from that day on, it was protection. When Greg would speak out of turn, when he stuttered, when he struggled for an answer, we waited patiently. We took our cues from Mr. Krieger. He taught us something that was far beyond the curriculum. And our protection of Greg, the lesson we learned, seemed to spill over to the rest of school…at least for that semester.

I never had Mr. Krieger for another class, and I can’t remember what happened to Greg, but I never forgot that day when he stood in front of us. And I never forgot the lesson we learned through Greg and through Mr. Krieger’s humanity. When I read these crappy childhood, crappy teacher stories, I think of Greg. I think few people could hold a crappy candle to his story. The trajectory of his life likely never delivered him from his private hell, but I hope that that one semester and that one class provided him with a small window of acceptance. I am forever thankful for meeting Greg and for the gift of acceptance that Mr. Krieger gave to all of us through him.

Mr. Krieger's signature on my Grade 10 yearbook. The pleasure was all mine Mr. Krieger.

I wasn't on the Jr. Boys Volleyball team, but I love the little story this caption tells. There really are good teachers out there, and if you are lucky, one crosses your path.

Thank you Mr. Krieger...wherever you are.

This is a repost from May 2009 for Scanners request for teacher stories. I thought Mr. Krieger worthy of a second round on OS.

I Don’t Know What To Say To You

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 11:03:21 -0500

As long as I’ve known you, even though I didn’t always know it, you’ve had this thing inside you. At times it’s been big enough to see and feel, and at other times, it plays death-watch peak-a-boo, providing euphoric false hope before popping back into view a few months or a year later.

I hate this beast.

While it has brought me closer to you in some ways, it has prevented me from really knowing you.

You are an amazing woman. I know that. Long before I knew you, you blazed a trail. You created a small empire based on your designs, your special eye. You stood up to the bastions of bankers and business men who questioned your right to frolic in their playground. You didn’t spit in their face; you just stood your ground, took the risks, and made for them a necklace dripping with their patriarchal archaistic attitudes. You won those battles. Women of a certain age all over this country recall your kiosks in the best malls and claim one of your pieces among their favourites. Even though you tired of the business, your talent stands the test of time.

So does this beast.

Mother Nature threw your body into menopause before it was barely done with puberty, but that didn’t stop you from adopting and raising two amazing children. It did mean a life spent replacing those missing hormones. Your ovaries couldn’t give you children, but they could provide you this relentless and resilient beast. Is this Mother Nature’s way of settling scores? How dare you and your doctors play God with her design.

When your first marriage fell apart while the children were still tiny, that didn’t stop you from envisioning and creating a new type of family—the type that was rarely seen in those days. Your reward is an award winning son who stands on the stage with the greats, and a daughter, no less successful or creative, but whose greatest gift came bundled in cotton fleece not a year ago. Your ceaseless courage in the face of immeasurable odds blows me away.

Is it that bundle of joy that gave you the determination to try that damn chemo one.more.time, and now to start it yet again? Is this number four or five? I know why you do it. And I know the odds. But you continue to defy them. (My hand wants to edit that sentence out lest I anger the Gods.) But, in the face of a cancer and a cure that would have killed a lesser woman years ago, you march on.

I watched as your chemically treated blond, wavy hair was replaced by a natural salt and pepper fuzz come shoulder length shag, and we marveled at how much better it looked. On our infrequent opportunities to have girl’s night out, I’ve watched you fiddle with your uncomfortable wig in public and still look fabulous. You even let me try on a selection of them during those times the beast had retreated to the shadows—those times when we felt we could mock its failure to take you.

At the best of times, we drank wine and then stomped noisily through the streets, dog in tow, and laughed and chatted and mocked our ‘hood full of blue blooded privilege. You laughed as I mangled Sheana’s name in wine-soaked revelry, and continued to encourage me to call her Shumaina long after the joke should have been over. You continue to find wry humour when you tell the story of the great deal on an Airedale Terrier that turned out to be a lovable mutt you dubbed a Heritage Terrier. Even better, you slyly let people expose their snobby ignorance when they claim to know the “breed” and remember seeing one at Westminster. We love that story!

At the worst of times, you were too sick to keep our dates. It’s been over a year since our last girl’s night out. Once the baby came, you needed all your strength. With your immune system completely shot, no plate of pasta was worth the risk. And as a result, your granddaughter, who lives barely a mile away, knows you better through Skype than through the feel of your gentle warmth wrapped around her. Grandma love is a powerful thing, and apparently it translates well over a high-speed link.

I’m not close enough to be part of the inner support circle, and I’m okay with observing from afar and getting my occasional updates. I rest well knowing you are well taken care of. But I hate your husband—the one who is sitting on your furniture with that cheap slut in the house you vacated and waiting it out. That fucker rolls the dice on your life by refusing to finalize the papers. But we don’t talk about that. You do not need me to add my rage to the mix. You have enough on your plate.

Maybe I don’t know what to say to you because in you I see all those I loved who didn’t conquer the beast. I can’t talk to them either—now.

I read your email today. It’s only 5 mm, but it is still there. And the study let you back in either because it is less than 1 cm or in spite of that fact. Your written voice reveals an exhausted ambivalence as much as it does courage and determination. And so you choose again to enter the ring. I know what you are fighting for, but a lesser woman would have folded years ago. I hate that it got to you first; before me; before we had time to cement our friendship in bedrock. There is so much I could have learned from you, and yet, there is so much I am learning from you now.

I don’t know what to say to you, but I can’t wait to see you again. Yes, I can make it for coffee next Tuesday; I hope you can too.

How Far Would You Go For An EP? Munchausen's by Blogger

Tue, 9 Mar 2010 15:03:34 -0500

LOS ANGELES – In what may be the first ever cyber case of Munchausen’s by Blogger, a local blogger has been arrested for causing unnecessary harm to several of her family members and pets. (Munchausen's by Blogger is a newly discovered strain of Munchausen's by Proxy, a disorder in which a person deliberately causes injury or illness to another person, often his or her child, to gain attention.) In the year since a blogger posting on the popular Open Salon followed in the footsteps of Julie of Julie and Julia fame, her family has befallen a mysterious variety of illnesses and accidents.

At first, the occurrences of accidents and illness in the blogger’s home seemed unrelated, but a careful investigation revealed a darker side to the story. The blogger, using the avatar name IAMSURLY, it seems would go to almost any length in her relentless quest for an Editor’s Pick and a Cover. To that end, her dogs, her husband, her extended family, and even International friends were put at significant risk.

In her early days on the blog site, her dogs were her main target when she tried to feed them a variety of household items in the hopes of a woeful, pity fest of a “my pet is sick” post. She went so far as to boldly post a list of the items which included spatulas, 3 ring binders and something called a leather Filofax in a desperate attempt for ratings and comments. Her attempt at humor proved to be as weak as her dogs proved to be strong. Labratards are very hearty animals and also survived her attempts to feed them fake Christmas trees and drown them in a child sized pool in the backyard. When these cheap ploys failed to fell the sturdy pooches, she upped her game.

Even though she alluded to a crime spree from her high school days in her post The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past, her real motives would not be fully revealed until many months later when the true nature of her deviant behavior would become fully apparent. Not coincidently, her activity increased dramatically as she became a surefire hit with the Open Salon editors who awarded her numerous EPs each week – much to the consternation of her lesser talented blog mates.

Early in her quest for attention on the blog site, the Surly blogger tried offering blow jobs to readers in exchange for ratings and comments. When that post failed to bring her the sustained attention she longed for, she stooped to doggie porn with, Bruno Stop Blowing Your Brother. Apparently, she actually does not know bounds, and her Labratards do not have the ratings pull of cute cats and horny birds.

She dropped further clues to her evil nature in her post The Language of Death where she showed her propensity for all things death by listing 61 terms that mean to kill someone, many of which were cake related, as in “blow out someone’s candles.” Her increasing number of cake related posts later in her career would prove an eerie premonition of her intentions towards another more famous blogger named Freaky Troll. But even with posts titled It’s Not Necrophilia If You Don’t Dig Them Up she continued to fool her readers and the watchful eye of the FTCA (Freaky Troll cake alert).

A savvy Internet user, the Surly blogger realized that death and illness are an almost guaranteed way to get the attention of Open Salon editors. A quick glance at the daily cover of Open Salon clearly demonstrates that. So, with a garage sale find of a file card box full of 3x4 inch recipe cards from the seventies, IAMSURLY charted new ground in the blogosphere. When her tongue-in-cheek nod to ugly food photography and seventies era recipes proved a hit with the Editors, she quickly realized that she could put her foodie posts to other more dastardly uses. Thus, she began actually making the recipes that she posted and using the results to poison her closest family members.

Interestingly enough, it wasn’t her latest, and most hideous, foodie post that tipped off investigators. The truth was discovered when she hit a new low by doing a foody post on Dave's crusty wiener. Even that was too much for the iron gut investigators apparently. It would however take several months of detective work to pull the entire case together.

Fortunately, during the time it took to bring the case together, no innocents were seriously injured, although she did try to take her crime spree global with a trip to Canada that risked the lives of two other Open Salon bloggers and entire ski resort full of B-list glitterati. This was not her first attack on Hollywood, and no one would say whether her repeated attacks on these elite B listers further played into her undoing.

Apparently, it never dawned on Ms. Surly to simply make shit up like everyone else on Open Salon.

Poor Jack. Fortunately, he just wasn't the ratings pull she was looking for and she dropped him off somewhere near the Mexican border earlier this year. But he returned.

She may have offed the entire family with one meal if Dave hadn't been so greedy about his crusty wiener.

It the clip above, you can see as she enlists her unsuspecting husband, and resident cutie, in her attempt to drown her dogs through exhaustion in another failed ratings grab.

For the love of God, stop throwing the toys back in the water and let the poor beasts rest!!

Postscript: The next obvious question is one of accountability. What about the complicity of Open Salon editors in putting the lives of innocent family, friends and pets of desperate bloggers at risk with their cover choices?

IAmSurly being taken away in cuffs and living up to her moniker.

Celebrating the Olympics in Style - Frozen Champagne Sorbet

Mon, 22 Feb 2010 09:02:38 -0500

As a proud citizen of the host country and a past resident of Vancouver, I triple toe looped at the chance to help Salon.com find an appropriate frozen dessert with which to celebrate the Olympics. I know a little about winter sports and skiing at Whistler and even more about celebrating appropriately.

I realize that many (too many) in the world do not quite understand the lure of winter sports. We in the north have adapted over the centuries to make the best of it. I mean when you live in a country with 10 months of snow and 2 months of poor sledding, you learn to find new ways to make the most of a chilly situation.

It takes a special kind of person to strap on a pair of boards and hurtle down a steep snowy hill or assume the mantle of Christ to traverse a frozen pond on a pair of shaky blades. I am that person. Of course, I do not do it with Olympic talent, but, like the running shoe company and the disgraced golfer advise, I just do it.

I started skiing Whistler Mountain at the age of 12. Back then, the village consisted of liquor store, a general store and a gas station. The only bar was The Ski Boot and there was one restaurant, The Keg, tucked off the highway somewhere. The Sea-to-Sky highway was as picturesque as it is today, but far more treacherous.

In the eighties, sleepy Whistler was transformed into the two mountain mega resort you see on the Olympic coverage now. But even with all that change, the runs at Whistler remain largely the same, so I watch the events with a little insider knowledge of the terrain.

Take the run where they are holding the Downhill and Super G races for example, Franz. I’ve skied Franz; I’ve trembled on Franz; I’ve crashed on Franz, and I’ve almost messed my ski pants going too fast on Franz. One year, when Whistler hosted a World Cup downhill event, I ventured over to Franz after the crowds had moved on and the gates had been dismantled. I was curious. I pointed my skies down the rock hard, icy slope where only hours before athletes had sped down at breakneck speeds, and challenged myself to let go. It was TERRIFYING, and I barely made it past the first turn before I put the brakes on.

So with this personal experience, I can truly attest that ANYONE who makes it to the bottom alive deserves to celebrate. And let’s face it; nothing says gold medal celebration better than a chilly glass of champers. The extra added bonus of winter sports is that there is always a nearby snow bank where you can keep the golden elixir cold.

Please lift your flute to the brave athletes of the 2010 Olympics and to Frozen Champagne Sorbet.

The recipe I found actually calls for a 200 ml bottle of champagne… To wit I say pfft. Get yourself a full-sized bottle of your favourite and do not waste the opportunity to quaff some bubbly while cooking. Are we celebrating or just kitchen slaves?

Ingredients:

1/4 cup sugar
1 cup water
200 ml bottle dry Champagne or sparkling wine
2 egg whites
¼ cup sugar (extra)

Method
Step 1:

Dissolve 1/4 cup of sugar and 1 cup of water in the saucepan over medium to low heat. Remove from heat and cool.

Transfer the cooled sugar water into a freezer friendly shallow container (approximate dimension of 3” tall x 8” x 8”) and gently add the Champagne. Freeze until firm. This should take about one to two hours.

Once the sugar water and Champagne mixture is firm it is time to start Step 2.

Step 2:

In a deep glass bowl beat the egg whites until firm. Beat in the extra sugar until it is dissolved into the egg whites and it forms soft peaks. (The use of beaten egg whites is important as they prevent the formation of large ice crystals. Using a fork, break the frozen Champagne mixture up slightly.

With a spatula, fold the meringue into the Champagne mixture to form the sorbet. Return the sorbet to the freezer.

Step 3:

Freeze the sorbet until firm. To prevent the freezing sorbet from forming a solid block, stir occasionally with a fork.

To serve, flake the sorbet with a fork and gently spoon into champagne flutes. Garnish with fresh fruit or chocolate shavings.

Next grab your favourite latex clad skier and celebrate a day of winter sports from the deck of your chalet.

Childhood DNA (updated with bonus video)

Fri, 19 Feb 2010 08:02:35 -0500

I am often amazed that I have so little memory of my childhood, or should I say the voices of my childhood. While I marvel at other people’s ability to recall entire conversations with family and friends, I remember nary a word I spoke or that was spoken to me before the age of eight. Sometimes it’s like I never existed at all, yet here I am almost fully formed.

So, I assume that childhood is like DNA. Even though I can’t see the individual gene strands that make my eyes brown or my hair straight, every reflected image confirms that to be true. So what of my childhood? What absorbed the auditory detail and rendered it a solid mass? I do remember bits, not so much vignettes as snippets of my life back in the day.

I recall, for instance, coming home from lunch one warm day and sitting at the picnic table, my feet not touching the ground, and eating a grilled cheese sandwich and Campbell’s tomato soup while my mother sat across from me. We didn’t have a school lunch program, so I’m not sure why my older siblings are missing from this image. And was my mother gazing at me with motherly love enjoying a carefully staged home scene, or was she tapping her foot rushing me to finish? Did she ask me about my day, and did I ramble on excitedly about making crepe paper flowers and reading the latest story in our first grade reader? These details are lost to me, but not the image of mother and daughter sitting at a wooden picnic table stained cedar red, like the nearby fence; the table halfway down the yard and the shade of the nearby apple tree barely teasing the edge of the scene. This snapshot is in my DNA.

And walking to school; I remember the uneven dirt path along Ninth Line and the kids walking sometimes bunched together and sometimes in a straggled line of broken colours. I remember the various styles of houses all so different from ours and passing the entrance to the church parking lot. I remember the houses of kids I knew and those of strangers; I remember brick houses in every colour and just a few wooden houses. I remember the little white and black clapboard house next to the school and how I always wondered who lived there. I remember the line of giant maple trees that dropped blankets of coloured, crisp leaves on the ground every fall, and I remember pressing the brightest of these between pieces of waxed paper. These colours are in my DNA.

I remember the day I heard a “beep beep” behind me and dutifully stepped off the path right into the bike that was racing along. It was one of the twins; the school bullies. I remember my hand jammed in the spokes of the front wheel and embedded gravel bits and mom soaking it in a warm salt water bath all evening. I remember tears. This pain is in my DNA.

And I remember the first time I went to the store alone. I remember everything about the two men who watched me enter and exit the store and then chased me through the parking lot; them in their car and me on my sister’s bike. I remember outsmarting them by heading for the pedestrian bridge and casually telling my mother about it when I got home. I remember her saying, "oh, it was probably your imagination dear." I didn’t believe it to be a real memory until recently when I asked her about it. This fear is embedded in my DNA.

I remember the smell of the school hallways, the piles of pink sawdust they mopped around to trap the dust and slop up the inevitable puke that happened a couple of times a year. I remember the chalk dust from cleaning the erasers and the polished linoleum gymnasium floor. I remember the day the new addition to the church erupted in a giant black plume of smoke and we stood in the schoolyard to watch, until we were rushed inside for our own safety. I remember the fresh spring grass in the yard and the piles of ploughed snow that quickly became kid covered sliding hills. I remember the smell of wet woolen mittens arranged like soldiers on steaming hot radiators. These scents are in my DNA.

I remember the wide flight of stairs to the bathrooms in the one room schoolhouse that housed the kindergarten class after the new wing was added. I remember the little-person sized toilets and sinks that didn’t feel at all small and the tall windows that seemed enormous in that century old building. Mom made me a craft smock to protect my clothes, not a hand-me-down, and I remember the square wooden cubby holes where we stored our smocks along with our indoor shoes and nap blankets. I remember the girl who snored during nap time. And I remember the hallway lined with snowsuits and winter boots.

I remember finger painting the first time and trying not to get paint on my beautiful smock as I stood at the tiny easel that was the perfect size for me. I remember the way the paint felt squishing through my finger tips, and my teacher walking by, but I don’t recall what she said. I remember purple and red and yellow and the inevitable brown that resulted after too many finger passes. These experiences are in my DNA.

I remember ice skating at Janet’s house three doors away. But I don’t remember that our next door neighbours always had an outdoor rink, yet there is film of me skating there. Maybe I remember skating on Janet’s because it was our own private snow palace – no boys allowed. When we skated at night, her father would put on the big light, and the fresh snow against a black sky would sparkle like a million diamonds, and we would skate until our toes froze solid and then come inside for hot chocolate. And I remember the year our own backyard froze over and I could skate around our perfect-for-climbing apple tree. This ice and snow is in my DNA.

I remember when Scott moved in across from Janet, and Janet and I fought all summer over who was his better friend. I remember him building deluxe palaces out of Lego for my Barbies and a maze in the sandbox for our hamsters. I remember putting our two hamsters in the maze, covering it and waiting for what seemed like forever for them to emerge…first his at full speed and then mine in hot pursuit. I remember his little sister Leslie peeing on my best mustard coloured dress when I let her sit on my lap on the swings. And I remember the year he turned a pile of snow at the end of his driveway into a real igloo that we played in for the entire season. These engineering feats and bladder failures are in my DNA.

I remember summer nights so hot that long after we went to bed, Mom and Dad would rouse us from our fitful sleeps and drag us out to the pool. Dad would shine the giant flashlight on the pool, and we’d quietly slip in and under the water. And I remember the way the light reflected on the bottom of the pool as I navigated the depths like a fish seeking shelter. I remember the towel wrapped walk back to the house and the moment when Mom would flick the cotton sheet high in the air and let it float gently over me landing like a silent white cloud. I remember wet hair on my feather pillow. But, I never remember being carried in from the car after an evening out, but I remember the security of drifting off with a tummy full of grandma’s treats while the car wended its way to the highway. These memories are part of my DNA.

So maybe memories are all the more evocative without sound. When I watch our old home movies, I recognize the faces and places, but I’m blissfully deaf to the conversation and the clatter. Perhaps our less technical generation had the edge over this Facebook generation who will have every flurry and fart recorded in surround sound, full colour glory forever. I wonder what will make up their childhood DNA.

UPDATE:

bbd, my one YouTube fan insisted I add this current video of me skating on my pond filmed Monday. I guess skating is part of my childhood DNA too.