Middle School "Alternative Education" Subbing Thoughts of the Day:
1) Never again.
2) UNO doesn't seem like the best game for the disturbed kids to play.
3) A trained counselor is not a trained teacher. Clearly not all are aware of this fact.
4) Substitute counselor plus substitute teacher plus four socially challenged kids = good thing they like UNO.
5) I'm starting to understand the paradox of adults cursing, but not wanting kids to curse.
6) Of all the classrooms to NOT be equipped with a camera...
7) Today I discovered my ghetto voice. Yes, we all have one. Right Megan Teer?
8) How does one discipline kids who are already at the bottom of the disciplinary barrel?
9) I think the end of the childhood disorder maze is what we've known all along: that each child is unique. But each adult is also unique, and adulthood doesn't care what disorder you have.
10) When student fights can begin life as conversations online, physically separating them in class doesn't seem to accomplish much.
11) At some point you resign yourself to "at least they're quiet".
12) I'm starting to believe that a child's taste in music could demonstrate his/her mental state, at least to some degree. We naturally seek out art with which we connect, so it makes sense for a child wanting to lash out physically to find music which does so verbally.
13) Sometimes my subconscious feeds me what-if images or scenarios that make me tear up in awkward situations.
14) I find it interesting that seemingly none of the people shouting "don't force obedience on children" are parents.
15) Never forget: Robb Stark's child could still be alive.
16) Among my top 10 favorite parts of childhood was that science was all exciting facts and no math.
17) It feels really difficult to be a hard authoritarian when your worst student is named "Duard".
18) It's amazing how easily one becomes offended on behalf of one's wife. Especially if she's a teacher.
19) Someday, I'd like to meet a public school coach who isn't a walking mass of conservative American cliches.
20) Every guy needs at least one male friend who embodies at least two negative male stereotypes.
21) That awkward moment when you find yourself accidentally trying to translate "La Bamba".
22) Remember when we trusted each other enough to have live-fire shooting galleries at the state fair? Remember that it was also the time when only white people were allowed in? Coincidence?
23) Student quote of the day: "I don't get anything for not getting in trouble!"
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Sunday, May 10, 2015
May Write Away 5, 6, and 7
Ya get into a pattern and flake out for a few days, and suddenly you're playing massive catch-up.
Lately I've started becoming more comfortable with the prospect of being a Socialist.
I don't think I'm alone in that sentiment.
Especially after forty-plus years of it being treated like a curse word in my country, and as a result the scales of political balance becoming so UN-balanced in favor of business that they've pretty much fallen off the table.
Unfettered capitalism is nothing more or less than the pursuit of money (capital), without regard for human rights, safety, or the needs of anyone other than the one pursuing the money. Without oversight of an objective, enforcing legal body, capitalism is just a monetary equivalent of bestial eat-or-be-eaten instinct.
Of course, what American corporate capitalists have managed to do is buy out the supposed-to-be-objective legal body, and completely run roughshod over laws designed to protect the average person from exploitation, to say nothing of writing some new laws designed not only to exploit the average person, but prevent any kind of future oversight.
They've used their control of mass media to create a massive chunk of the American population who willingly shoot themselves in the foot again and again by supporting the corporatists, having been convinced that part of being a "real American" is acting against one's own and one's children's best interests, and these people are also indoctrinating their children with this idea.
Which is the truly insidious part.
I grew up in what I thought of at the time as a "very conservative" home.
Adulthood and Internet access has moderated that description to "fairly conservative," at least in the American sense of the term.
The older I get, the more Leftist my opinions become, especially due to the United States not truly possessing a hardline Leftist party.
The Democrats (at least, those who actually hold to their party's original standards and are not simply corporatist toadies in sheep's clothing) are basically Centrist compared to the rest of the world, especially as the Republicans continue to plow toward the cliff at the Rightwing end of the political spectrum.
Between the above state of things and the fact that pretty much everyone in the American federal government is wealthy beyond the dreams of the average person, there doesn't seem to be anyone to represent me and mine at the top of the heap.
And then there's Bernie Sanders.
Bernie's the longest-sitting Independent in the history of the United States Congress.
And he's a self-identified Socialist.
Which kind of confused me at first, being from a notch in the Bible Belt and seeing hundreds of posts online from frothing-at-the-mouth American conservatives swinging the term like a blunt instrument against anyone they didn't agree with.
The more I examine his actions as a Congressman and his stated opinions, the more I find myself agreeing and sharing them on Facebook, even as a voice in the back of my head seems to whisper "But that's really, reeeally Leftist".
But that's okay.
I think the only reason that voice is even still around is because I've spent so many years trying to avoid political labels and examine every issue and argument from as many sides as possible to avoid being pigeon-holed.
...not that it's been completely successful, especially since some people online will try to stamp you with a label of their choosing the moment your opinions clash with theirs.
This is especially true of self-identified "Christians" who can't help but No True Scotsman all over the place the instant they realize that another self-identified Christian is fighting against them.
I've always endeavored to find a balancing point between "Left" and "Right" as we Americans call them, because a great mentor of mine told me that pushing too hard on one side of a scale or the other makes you miss out on something the other side had to offer.
But as a country, we've tried it the hardline "Conservative" way for decades, and we're in a shambles as a result.
Time to overthrow and try it the hardline "Liberal" way for once.
Lately I've started becoming more comfortable with the prospect of being a Socialist.
I don't think I'm alone in that sentiment.
Especially after forty-plus years of it being treated like a curse word in my country, and as a result the scales of political balance becoming so UN-balanced in favor of business that they've pretty much fallen off the table.
Unfettered capitalism is nothing more or less than the pursuit of money (capital), without regard for human rights, safety, or the needs of anyone other than the one pursuing the money. Without oversight of an objective, enforcing legal body, capitalism is just a monetary equivalent of bestial eat-or-be-eaten instinct.
Of course, what American corporate capitalists have managed to do is buy out the supposed-to-be-objective legal body, and completely run roughshod over laws designed to protect the average person from exploitation, to say nothing of writing some new laws designed not only to exploit the average person, but prevent any kind of future oversight.
They've used their control of mass media to create a massive chunk of the American population who willingly shoot themselves in the foot again and again by supporting the corporatists, having been convinced that part of being a "real American" is acting against one's own and one's children's best interests, and these people are also indoctrinating their children with this idea.
Which is the truly insidious part.
I grew up in what I thought of at the time as a "very conservative" home.
Adulthood and Internet access has moderated that description to "fairly conservative," at least in the American sense of the term.
The older I get, the more Leftist my opinions become, especially due to the United States not truly possessing a hardline Leftist party.
The Democrats (at least, those who actually hold to their party's original standards and are not simply corporatist toadies in sheep's clothing) are basically Centrist compared to the rest of the world, especially as the Republicans continue to plow toward the cliff at the Rightwing end of the political spectrum.
Between the above state of things and the fact that pretty much everyone in the American federal government is wealthy beyond the dreams of the average person, there doesn't seem to be anyone to represent me and mine at the top of the heap.
And then there's Bernie Sanders.
Bernie's the longest-sitting Independent in the history of the United States Congress.
And he's a self-identified Socialist.
Which kind of confused me at first, being from a notch in the Bible Belt and seeing hundreds of posts online from frothing-at-the-mouth American conservatives swinging the term like a blunt instrument against anyone they didn't agree with.
The more I examine his actions as a Congressman and his stated opinions, the more I find myself agreeing and sharing them on Facebook, even as a voice in the back of my head seems to whisper "But that's really, reeeally Leftist".
But that's okay.
I think the only reason that voice is even still around is because I've spent so many years trying to avoid political labels and examine every issue and argument from as many sides as possible to avoid being pigeon-holed.
...not that it's been completely successful, especially since some people online will try to stamp you with a label of their choosing the moment your opinions clash with theirs.
This is especially true of self-identified "Christians" who can't help but No True Scotsman all over the place the instant they realize that another self-identified Christian is fighting against them.
I've always endeavored to find a balancing point between "Left" and "Right" as we Americans call them, because a great mentor of mine told me that pushing too hard on one side of a scale or the other makes you miss out on something the other side had to offer.
But as a country, we've tried it the hardline "Conservative" way for decades, and we're in a shambles as a result.
Time to overthrow and try it the hardline "Liberal" way for once.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
May Write Away 3 and 4
The stage felt cold.
The kind of cold that comes from an empty house, even with the lights blazing down from rafters and balcony and a stuffy costume cutting off most of one's breath.
Charlie felt her knees creak as she hobbled onstage to stand on the square of black wood that marked the hidden trapdoor in the middle of the white oak-paneled stage, dust clinging to the octogenarian curtains billowing in the cheap breeze of an oscillating fan somewhere backstage.
She let her eyes trail over the rows of identical red velvet seats covered in plastic sheeting, leap over the cracked movie projector mounted in the front face of the balcony, crawl up the warped paneling along the far wall, and settle onto the fragmented face of a golden statue of a woman seated above a curtained theater box, hands raised ready to applaud.
"Hello beautiful," she whispered, joints popping with her movement.
Down the stage steps, up the center aisle, around the broken ticket booth, up the squeaking, creaking stairs, and huffing and puffing down the balcony's stage-left aisle she strode to stand next to the seated statue.
"How many shows have you seen?" Unthinking, she caressed the cracked cheek with a wrinkled hand, gazed into the unseeing eyes.
"How many dances?" She leaned against the wall next to the broken facade, abandoning her cane to grasp its upraised right hand in both of her own.
"How many of mine? How many of mine did you see?" she whispered, the room's acoustics carrying her words on a whirlwind journey from balcony to stage and over every seat in the house.
"Every last one, sweetheart."
Her eyes opened as her lips pulled into a grin at his voice.
He strode towards her through seats and railing in his red and yellow pinstripe suit and a matching straw hat, holding his dancing cane like a drum major's baton.
"Jim."
"That's right, honey. And now it's time for the finale."
He held out a hand.
"Oh!" she gasped. "Oh but Jim, I'm not ready! I don't have my costume!"
He grinned a grin to make a grumpy cat laugh.
"Sure ya do, honey! Looks as gorgeous on you as it ever did!"
She looked down, feeling lightheaded.
Fur and lace and a feathered fan covered her from neck to high heels.
She laughed and took his hand, the years falling away from both of them.
"C'mon babe," he said. "They're playing our song."
The kind of cold that comes from an empty house, even with the lights blazing down from rafters and balcony and a stuffy costume cutting off most of one's breath.
Charlie felt her knees creak as she hobbled onstage to stand on the square of black wood that marked the hidden trapdoor in the middle of the white oak-paneled stage, dust clinging to the octogenarian curtains billowing in the cheap breeze of an oscillating fan somewhere backstage.
She let her eyes trail over the rows of identical red velvet seats covered in plastic sheeting, leap over the cracked movie projector mounted in the front face of the balcony, crawl up the warped paneling along the far wall, and settle onto the fragmented face of a golden statue of a woman seated above a curtained theater box, hands raised ready to applaud.
"Hello beautiful," she whispered, joints popping with her movement.
Down the stage steps, up the center aisle, around the broken ticket booth, up the squeaking, creaking stairs, and huffing and puffing down the balcony's stage-left aisle she strode to stand next to the seated statue.
"How many shows have you seen?" Unthinking, she caressed the cracked cheek with a wrinkled hand, gazed into the unseeing eyes.
"How many dances?" She leaned against the wall next to the broken facade, abandoning her cane to grasp its upraised right hand in both of her own.
"How many of mine? How many of mine did you see?" she whispered, the room's acoustics carrying her words on a whirlwind journey from balcony to stage and over every seat in the house.
"Every last one, sweetheart."
Her eyes opened as her lips pulled into a grin at his voice.
He strode towards her through seats and railing in his red and yellow pinstripe suit and a matching straw hat, holding his dancing cane like a drum major's baton.
"Jim."
"That's right, honey. And now it's time for the finale."
He held out a hand.
"Oh!" she gasped. "Oh but Jim, I'm not ready! I don't have my costume!"
He grinned a grin to make a grumpy cat laugh.
"Sure ya do, honey! Looks as gorgeous on you as it ever did!"
She looked down, feeling lightheaded.
Fur and lace and a feathered fan covered her from neck to high heels.
She laughed and took his hand, the years falling away from both of them.
"C'mon babe," he said. "They're playing our song."
Saturday, May 2, 2015
May Write Away 2
He flicked another gray hair off the razor, trying not to think, trying not to assume, trying not to remember that his thirtieth birthday was days away.
No awards hung on the walls from triumphs of his twenties, except for a bachelor's degree that had taken eight years to attain, and had yet to profit him in his search for any kind of meaningful work.
He looked down at the small cluster of gray in his sink surrounded by the other remains of his beard removal. His phone chimed for the thirtieth time, and for the thirtieth time he ignored its pleading for him to check out the achievements of his peers, now giants in their career fields and/or multi-time parents.
They couldn't help that their successes left him feeling empty inside.
It wasn't there fault the overload of social media left him depressed.
But if they weren't posting their successes on the great digital notice-board, they were posting "inspirational" messages, ostensibly for everyone who wasn't them, that left him feeling pissed on top of depressed.
He set the razor on the sink counter and embraced the touch of burning, searing blue lava erupting from Mount Aquavelva.
At least it made him feel alive, something neither his dead-end job nor his attempts at hobbies could do.
Pain was real.
Pain reminded his heart to beat.
He picked up the razor again, turning it, watching the four blades reflect the dim light of the single remaining bulb.
He set it lightly on his opposite palm, feeling the cold blades against his skin.
He pressed.
And dragged.
Four thin red lines appeared without any of the alarms in his brain telling him he'd been hurt.
No. Not enough.
He reached into his jeans pocket, removing the Buck folding knife she had given him.
Before she'd stepped in front of that truck.
He flicked it open, a click of interlocking steel against itself.
"Yes," his voice choked out.
He drove the point into his palm, the short blade impaling his hand and oozing blood from both sides.
"Yes!"
He drove it into his wrist at the joint.
"I'm alive!"
He closed his eyes, grinning, and slammed it into his stomach.
"I'm alive!"
Taking it in both hands, blood soaking his shirt, he slammed it into his chest.
"I'm ah-"
No awards hung on the walls from triumphs of his twenties, except for a bachelor's degree that had taken eight years to attain, and had yet to profit him in his search for any kind of meaningful work.
He looked down at the small cluster of gray in his sink surrounded by the other remains of his beard removal. His phone chimed for the thirtieth time, and for the thirtieth time he ignored its pleading for him to check out the achievements of his peers, now giants in their career fields and/or multi-time parents.
They couldn't help that their successes left him feeling empty inside.
It wasn't there fault the overload of social media left him depressed.
But if they weren't posting their successes on the great digital notice-board, they were posting "inspirational" messages, ostensibly for everyone who wasn't them, that left him feeling pissed on top of depressed.
He set the razor on the sink counter and embraced the touch of burning, searing blue lava erupting from Mount Aquavelva.
At least it made him feel alive, something neither his dead-end job nor his attempts at hobbies could do.
Pain was real.
Pain reminded his heart to beat.
He picked up the razor again, turning it, watching the four blades reflect the dim light of the single remaining bulb.
He set it lightly on his opposite palm, feeling the cold blades against his skin.
He pressed.
And dragged.
Four thin red lines appeared without any of the alarms in his brain telling him he'd been hurt.
No. Not enough.
He reached into his jeans pocket, removing the Buck folding knife she had given him.
Before she'd stepped in front of that truck.
He flicked it open, a click of interlocking steel against itself.
"Yes," his voice choked out.
He drove the point into his palm, the short blade impaling his hand and oozing blood from both sides.
"Yes!"
He drove it into his wrist at the joint.
"I'm alive!"
He closed his eyes, grinning, and slammed it into his stomach.
"I'm alive!"
Taking it in both hands, blood soaking his shirt, he slammed it into his chest.
"I'm ah-"
Friday, May 1, 2015
May Write Away 1
The air crackled with the oncoming blast of ions. Thera shuddered in her harness, trying to stay focused on the controls, trying to punch in the right command each moment to keep the reactor from going critical, trying to keep the ship on course, trying to avoid the swirl of cosmic dust and gas trying to melt the Stormin Norman in the heart of a star aborning.
"Warning. Emergency evacuation protocol is in effect. Please proceed to escape pod," the main computer's voice chimed for what seemed like the hundredth time.
"Thera, the reactor's fuel balance is nearing total instability. Your training does not include maintaining it and piloting the ship simultaneously." Her suit's A.I. whispered via her cochlear implant.
"I know, Melvin," she whispered, keeping her fingers moving and the rest of her mind focused on the too-many tasks at hand.
A more violent shudder racked the ship.
"Thera, the escape pods are ready. Everyone else is in them. The fleet is on its way to pick us up. There's no reason to continue."
"Yeah, no reason except the look on my dad's face when he sees the other side of this nebula." She couldn't help but smirk, continuing to send commands to the reactor's dueling fuel cores, pumping liquid hydrogen and liquid anti-hydrogen into and out of each as the other's level increased or decreased.
The next shudder felt weaker. She checked the sensor screen.
"Time to nebula boundary?" she thought.
"Two minutes thirty seconds. Mark!" came Melvin's reply.
She allowed herself a moment, a breath, allowed herself a smile now that they were almost out of-
"THERA!" Melvin screamed. "LOSS OF ANTIMATTER CONTAINMENT! SIX SECONDS TO DETONATION!"
She fumbled for her harness, fumbled across the cockpit to the release switch for the other pods. One hand flipped the switch, the other pushed the hatch control for the pilot's pod hatch.
The other pods rocketed away at near-light speed.
The pilot pod hatch didn't respond.
She pressed it again.
No response. The screen had gone dark.
No power. The reactor wasn't providing any more power as it vaporized itself.
No hope.
Fleet Command officially christened the newly-formed star Thera2420.
"Warning. Emergency evacuation protocol is in effect. Please proceed to escape pod," the main computer's voice chimed for what seemed like the hundredth time.
"Thera, the reactor's fuel balance is nearing total instability. Your training does not include maintaining it and piloting the ship simultaneously." Her suit's A.I. whispered via her cochlear implant.
"I know, Melvin," she whispered, keeping her fingers moving and the rest of her mind focused on the too-many tasks at hand.
A more violent shudder racked the ship.
"Thera, the escape pods are ready. Everyone else is in them. The fleet is on its way to pick us up. There's no reason to continue."
"Yeah, no reason except the look on my dad's face when he sees the other side of this nebula." She couldn't help but smirk, continuing to send commands to the reactor's dueling fuel cores, pumping liquid hydrogen and liquid anti-hydrogen into and out of each as the other's level increased or decreased.
The next shudder felt weaker. She checked the sensor screen.
"Time to nebula boundary?" she thought.
"Two minutes thirty seconds. Mark!" came Melvin's reply.
She allowed herself a moment, a breath, allowed herself a smile now that they were almost out of-
"THERA!" Melvin screamed. "LOSS OF ANTIMATTER CONTAINMENT! SIX SECONDS TO DETONATION!"
She fumbled for her harness, fumbled across the cockpit to the release switch for the other pods. One hand flipped the switch, the other pushed the hatch control for the pilot's pod hatch.
The other pods rocketed away at near-light speed.
The pilot pod hatch didn't respond.
She pressed it again.
No response. The screen had gone dark.
No power. The reactor wasn't providing any more power as it vaporized itself.
No hope.
Fleet Command officially christened the newly-formed star Thera2420.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Teaching Thoughts 1
As an aspiring high school and eventually college English teacher, I've started compiling things my past teachers and/or professors did and didn't do, as well as what I've witnessed this past school year as a sub.
I'm attempting to form my own preferences and policies for teaching.
Obviously, these probably won't touch much of the day-to-day teaching.
Feel free to verbally shred at your leisure.
1) I'm going plan out the whole year's lesson plans for Pre AP and AP classes during the summer, so I can give my students a syllabus with a course schedule at the beginning of the year, just like they'd get in college.
2) My opening lesson each year will involve, among other things, projecting the words "TRIGGER WARNING" on whatever screen in available, so that no one can complain about anything read or written in any of my classes. People go through terrible things, and it is the writer's job to put those terrible things in full view so that society can roundly denounce them and hopefully grow out of them. And it is the duty of literature teachers to expose their students to literature for the same reason, not hide it away from them in some twisted attempt at protection from life's harsh realities.
3) Every year, we will read at least one novel or short story or poem with a whole lotta cussin'. Partially because deliberately avoiding it is limiting art (which as a writer and musician is among my top three cardinal sins), partially because it's been around since people could speak, and in some contexts is the correct word choice. We'll see if students can better remember the author's name if they know he/she isn't afraid to drop an f-bomb or two.
4) I will ban "literally" from my classroom, whether written or spoken. I don't care how many failed daily or essay grades I have to give out before it sticks. Gah.
5) Every year, we will read literature from a country, culture, or time period with different values from our current time and place. Racism, sexism, and other forms of culturally approved bigotry can't be eliminated from our culture if we deny their existence.
6) I solemnly swear that as a teacher I will NEVER leave meaningless busy-work for my students if I have to be gone for any reason. I will grade every assignment I leave for them to do, and will by the grace of God condition them to take every such assignment seriously.
I'm attempting to form my own preferences and policies for teaching.
Obviously, these probably won't touch much of the day-to-day teaching.
Feel free to verbally shred at your leisure.
1) I'm going plan out the whole year's lesson plans for Pre AP and AP classes during the summer, so I can give my students a syllabus with a course schedule at the beginning of the year, just like they'd get in college.
2) My opening lesson each year will involve, among other things, projecting the words "TRIGGER WARNING" on whatever screen in available, so that no one can complain about anything read or written in any of my classes. People go through terrible things, and it is the writer's job to put those terrible things in full view so that society can roundly denounce them and hopefully grow out of them. And it is the duty of literature teachers to expose their students to literature for the same reason, not hide it away from them in some twisted attempt at protection from life's harsh realities.
3) Every year, we will read at least one novel or short story or poem with a whole lotta cussin'. Partially because deliberately avoiding it is limiting art (which as a writer and musician is among my top three cardinal sins), partially because it's been around since people could speak, and in some contexts is the correct word choice. We'll see if students can better remember the author's name if they know he/she isn't afraid to drop an f-bomb or two.
4) I will ban "literally" from my classroom, whether written or spoken. I don't care how many failed daily or essay grades I have to give out before it sticks. Gah.
5) Every year, we will read literature from a country, culture, or time period with different values from our current time and place. Racism, sexism, and other forms of culturally approved bigotry can't be eliminated from our culture if we deny their existence.
6) I solemnly swear that as a teacher I will NEVER leave meaningless busy-work for my students if I have to be gone for any reason. I will grade every assignment I leave for them to do, and will by the grace of God condition them to take every such assignment seriously.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Sports
I seem unable to maintain lifelong interest in any athletic competition.
When I was a kid I followed basketball, football, and baseball.
All three began with young-me totally buying the hype about Michael Jordan, Emmett Smith, and the Atlanta Braves, and seeing them all as superheroes (a state of mind not helped by advertising).
Baseball fell off the truck first, once I realized that watching actual games isn't nearly as fun as what I played in the front yard.
Then once the Cowboys won the Superbowl I trailed off on following football.
Basketball stuck around the longest mostly due to the Dream Team and "Space Jam," but by age 13 (ironically the year I actually played school football) I was completely disinterested.
I still enjoy watching live football games (good thing, too, being in marching band), but anytime someone starts rattling off "stats" I open a book.
Sometime around my third year of college, I ran into Mixed Martial Arts.
I had never followed combat sports of any kind, even in the Olympics, but catching an interview of Randy Couture about his "return" somehow piqued my interest.
I was able to download his fight with Tim Sylvia a few days later.
...and I loved it.
Maybe because the smaller, older fighter completely dominated the younger, larger fighter for 25 minutes.
Maybe because it was a slower pace than anything I'd seen before, but even more intense.
Maybe it was the detailed commentary that allowed a novice to know exactly what was happening at all times.
Who knows. But I was hooked.
And the Internet is a great place to be hooked on MMA.
I was able to consume huge numbers of fights, interviews, training videos, etc.
I was right back into superhero-mode.
Randy Couture, Anderson Silva, Georges St.Pierre, and Lyoto Machida were the names I latched onto in those first few weeks of fandom.
Which was nice, given that three of the four were dominant champions, and the fourth won the championship unbeaten.
I was able to see every event for free the day after, and after my wife and I got married we started hosting parties in which we'd be able to see everything live on pay-per-view.
But somewhere along the way, I started to trail off again.
I stopped following everything, and only followed the UFC.
Convenient, given that the UFC at one point had bought all of the competition.
I still followed my heroes, but one by one they started to lose badly and/or retire, though it took a looooong time given Silva and GSP's respective title reigns.
I've followed the upswing in female fighters as well, and haven't seen a boring one yet, but the feeling of attachment isn't there.
Which brings me to today.
I have one "superhero" left, one fighter in whose successes and failures I am emotionally invested, and it seems like he's on the way out.
I'm fairly active in the MMA fan community, and I'll watch a fight between two to-me-unknowns if my fellow fans rave over it, but I don't anticipate fights months in advance like I used to.
I don't know if this is just the result of personal tastes changing over time, or if I just don't have the sports-oriented-male mentality.
When I was a kid I followed basketball, football, and baseball.
All three began with young-me totally buying the hype about Michael Jordan, Emmett Smith, and the Atlanta Braves, and seeing them all as superheroes (a state of mind not helped by advertising).
Baseball fell off the truck first, once I realized that watching actual games isn't nearly as fun as what I played in the front yard.
Then once the Cowboys won the Superbowl I trailed off on following football.
Basketball stuck around the longest mostly due to the Dream Team and "Space Jam," but by age 13 (ironically the year I actually played school football) I was completely disinterested.
I still enjoy watching live football games (good thing, too, being in marching band), but anytime someone starts rattling off "stats" I open a book.
Sometime around my third year of college, I ran into Mixed Martial Arts.
I had never followed combat sports of any kind, even in the Olympics, but catching an interview of Randy Couture about his "return" somehow piqued my interest.
I was able to download his fight with Tim Sylvia a few days later.
...and I loved it.
Maybe because the smaller, older fighter completely dominated the younger, larger fighter for 25 minutes.
Maybe because it was a slower pace than anything I'd seen before, but even more intense.
Maybe it was the detailed commentary that allowed a novice to know exactly what was happening at all times.
Who knows. But I was hooked.
And the Internet is a great place to be hooked on MMA.
I was able to consume huge numbers of fights, interviews, training videos, etc.
I was right back into superhero-mode.
Randy Couture, Anderson Silva, Georges St.Pierre, and Lyoto Machida were the names I latched onto in those first few weeks of fandom.
Which was nice, given that three of the four were dominant champions, and the fourth won the championship unbeaten.
I was able to see every event for free the day after, and after my wife and I got married we started hosting parties in which we'd be able to see everything live on pay-per-view.
But somewhere along the way, I started to trail off again.
I stopped following everything, and only followed the UFC.
Convenient, given that the UFC at one point had bought all of the competition.
I still followed my heroes, but one by one they started to lose badly and/or retire, though it took a looooong time given Silva and GSP's respective title reigns.
I've followed the upswing in female fighters as well, and haven't seen a boring one yet, but the feeling of attachment isn't there.
Which brings me to today.
I have one "superhero" left, one fighter in whose successes and failures I am emotionally invested, and it seems like he's on the way out.
I'm fairly active in the MMA fan community, and I'll watch a fight between two to-me-unknowns if my fellow fans rave over it, but I don't anticipate fights months in advance like I used to.
I don't know if this is just the result of personal tastes changing over time, or if I just don't have the sports-oriented-male mentality.
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