Why I Teach

On a January morning in 1996, I walked into the Woodbury Middle School, in Woodbury Connecticut, dressed for an interview.  I had on a navy blue suit, a crisp white oxford shirt, red tie, black belt, and black shoes polished to a shine in preparation for my meeting with Principal, Linda Demikat. I couldn’t help but notice, as I stood waiting for the woman who would be my boss, that this was pretty much the same kind of outfit I had worn a decade before as I sat chatting with Shirley Hermansen, the secretary of the Municipal Bond Pricing department at Standard & Poor’s as I was waiting to interview with her bosses.  By the end of that day in 1986, it was the day after St. Patrick’s day, Joe Storer and Tommy Harrison had interviewed 16 or so candidates for an entry level position in muni bonds.  My future bosses had narrowed it down to me and another recent college graduate. Holding two resumes in his hands, Joe Storer asked Shirley, “Which one do you think?” How could he be so cavalier right? People’s futures were on the line!  He’s going to let his secretary make this decision? Studying both resumes, Shirley says,  “I would go with Jim Spinner, he had the right suit on.”  Of course Shirley would let me know that my Wall Street fate eventually fell into her handsJ (I was just happy she remembered me. Probably because I wouldn’t stop talking to her.) That fateful moment was on my mind, ten years later, as I was waiting to speak to the middle school principal about a new job.

After a decade in the financial arena, hopscotching around the canyons of Wall Street, with a modicum of success, I decided to look into changing careers.  With the quiet nudging of my wife (you’re miserable you need to get another job), Maureen and Eddy Grice (Jimmy you would love teaching), my father-in-law John Skorpen and his wife Lucy Calkins (teaching might be a good fit for you), I decided to try my hand at education. Since my move to Connecticut in 1994, my supporting cast hammered home the most important points about teaching: you love to read and write, you love history, I’ve seen you work with kids as a counselor and you loved it, and you were pretty good at it. Eventually, frustrated by a lack of personal fulfillment on the Street, I caved.

There I am, standing in front of the WMS office, the bell rings and I am swept up in the frenetic activity of the changing of classes. It’s been years since I’ve been in a school like this. Most kids whisk by as if I am part of the scenery. Smiling, making eye contact, I give a friendly nod here or there. I hear some of the whispers that a stranger will elicit in a small town school, “Who is THAT guy?” “What do you think HE’S doing here?”  And in a school of adolescents they’re sizing me up, some wise-guys and gals even lobbing aspersions at me, “Who are you?” “Nice suit, what are you a lawyer?”  It was so easy, natural for me, I jumped right in, “You’ll find out soon enough who I am. I’m going to keep an eye on you.”   I knew right then I was “home.”

The only cause for hesitation for me with a career in teaching was the money, to start all over after 10 years on the Street felt like giving up. However, I knew my wife was right, I had changed jobs so many times, the sequence always the same: interview, honeymoon phase, reality phase, disheartened phase and let’s look for a new job phase.  Not this time. Not since I became a teacher. After my interview with Linda Demikat, I have been returning to the Woodbury Middle School, daily, for almost twenty years now.  Turned out to be the right move, finally. I mean it when I say, I truly enjoy going to work every day.  I mean sure, sometimes I hit the snooze button but Kira can attest to the fact that I get out of bed easily and I almost always come home in a good mood. In this time of giving thanks, I thought I would write about finally finding a job that I love, a job that energizes and challenges me. I wanted to write about Why I Teach…

First and foremost, I teach for the possible ripple effect…For the thrill of knowing that something we are doing today, this week, this month or this year might have a lasting impact on someone or something somewhere down the line.

And because I love to learn-I thank my mom for taking me to the library as a kid. I thank all my teachers at Immaculate Heart of Mary and the staff at John Dewey High School for sparking something in me that still burns today.

It’s fun, particularly in middle school. Adolescents are incredibly naïve yet worldly, they are cynical yet vulnerable, irreverent and respectful, stubborn and malleable…what a great age to teach! 

Hanging out down the gym with Richie Archambault and Bobby O’Sullivan during my lunch period one day early in my career and this wiry little sixth grader comes in for class. Richie bellows across the gym, “Jeff, You don’t have this class now, you’re in Health, get down to Mrs. Hubbard’s class before you're late.” Without blinking, this little urchin says, “I don’t want to go Health, we’re doing sex in Health and I don’t want to do that anymore.”  As Arch always says, “You can’t make this stuff up."

Teaching is never the same-day, week, month or year- it gets a little crazy. Like most jobs I suppose, we have to think on our feet: assemblies and fire drills, state tests and field trips, and oh those announcements at inopportune times. At WMS we have countless printed schedules: Regular Day, Modified Day, Early Dismissal, One Hour Test at the Beginning of the Day, One Hour Assembly at the End of the Day, Advisory Schedule, sheesh.

I’ve been teaching in Region 14 all these years because it’s a new home for me, because I have become a part of the community. When Kira and I got married, I left my family and friends in Brooklyn and was accepted into the Region 14 family with open arms.

A school is a community building something precious together: parents, students, administrators and teachers in concert, molding young minds.

I teach because of my colleagues and my administrators, because I have had great mentors along the way. Archambault, O’Sullivan, Celello, Grenfell, Slowikoski, Milardo and Jones to name a few.  See Alice Jones, you made it, organically. Early in my career, I leached onto Alice like a remora does to a shark. As an intern I told Linda Demikat I had been out of school for so long and I wanted to learn from all of the teachers so I designed a schedule that would allow me exposure to the entire staff. But when I walked into Alice’s classroom and saw, and felt,  how she worked her magic, I knew we were kindred spirits. She has been a cherished teacher, mentor and friend ever since. (And you know I’m not a suck up!)

Brainstorming and creating with my peers, my colleagues, is something that makes the job fun and something we all agree, we don’t get to do quite enough.

I teach because the first day of school is still exciting;  at some point in early August, I start gearing up to go back.  Because on that day I will hear, Mr. Spinner, you had my brother, You had my sister and she says hello… If I’m lucky, someday, I’ll have the kids of former students. The Woodbury/Bethlehem kids are great, a super-majority are still respectful and they come to school because they like it. It’s a great place to work.

Every once in a while someone will ask me why I don’t go into administration. First of all, I’m not that organized, second of all, I’m not that diplomatic but most of all, I like the work we do in the classroom.  Because I've changed jobs so many times, the axiom really holds true, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

I teach because I was a Big Brother, and a Camp Counselor.

I teach because I read  An Invisible Thread, by Laura Schroff, Patriots by A.J. Langguth and No Ordinary Time by Doris Kearns Goodwin and…

For that Light Bulb Moment, NOW they know how to craft an essay, Now they know why we have freedom of speech and why it should be protected…

I teach because there just might be a student like (                                                *) in my class this.

*I had to use a fill-in-the blank here because I have had the good fortune to share my classroom with so many kids who made me want to come to school every day. You know who you areJ

I teach because sometimes it moves me to tears. A few years ago we had a very special student haltingly work his way through a singing performance of Katy Perry’s Firework at a school assembly. At the end of his performance, the entire school stood up and gave him a standing ovation. 

Because of 9/11. My class that year got me through it. I’m sure they know, based on how many times I cried, but if it wasn’t for: Matt Levine, Ashley Curtis, Alex Maki, Rebecca Martinez, the South twins, Ashley Rego, Kate Murphy and the WMS class of 2002…I don’t know how I would have done it.

I teach 8^th grade because it was such an exciting, formative year for me

And because of drugs and peer pressure and bullying, these middle school years are so crucial

For the Freedom to be yourself

Because of Mr. Holland’s Opus and Freedom Writer’s Diary

I’m happier being  Mr. Ganeles than Scott Ganeles. This is what I told my bosses in my exit interview from The Carson Group. (Scott is an uber successful friend, former colleague and eventual boss of mine and his dad was a teacher at Yorktown High School for years)

I teach because I can’t imagine my life without reading

Or writing

Because I am an unabashed patriot, the story and stories of our country are so damned interesting

I have a quirky sense of humor, in an office I was a square peg in a round hole. I told my buddy Paul Schulman, we shared a cubicle for years at The Carter Organization, that I was teaching and I asked , “Do you believe it Schooby?” He said, “Doesn’t surprise me, that office thing was never for you.”

At heart I’m a people person

For the pomp and circumstance of graduation day

I teach because I might get that email, letter, card or Facebook message that says, Mr. Spinner, you had a positive influence on my life.

And contrary to popular belief, it has nothing to do with having summers off.
 

 

Happy Birthday to the T-Shirt

 

 

 

The t-shirt turns 100 this year

That’s worth celebrating, as a red-blooded American.  I didn’t have to think about it, didn’t have to look it up, I just knew the t-shirt was invented in the U.S. There’s nothing more American than the t-shirt. And we love our t-shirts don’t we?

I did some research and found out that the t-shirt was first used by the U.S. Navy, 100 years ago this year.  Our little undergarment was first called a t-shirt because of the shape. As you might assume, T-shirts started out as utilitarian, they did a job, they are workers, like us. And we Americans took to these shirts by the thousands, eventually by the millions.

My thoughts about t-shirts and how much they apparently mean to me, had me germinating this piece for a while. Then I saw on Good Morning America recently that the t-shirt was turning 100 and that was my cue. I don’t know why I like t-shirts so much. Maybe it’s my working class upbringing? Possibly I’m immature? Maybe I just have something to say? You think? Apparently a lot of us have things to say. I know that a lot of my friends, in talking about tee shirts over the years, have the same affinity.

There’s a part of me, as I am getting dressed that feels like, I really should grow up. I have this feeling that, as a 50 year old father of 3, it might be time to move beyond the t-shirt as a major component of my wardrobe. Maybe I should at least move on to golf shirts? They seem a little more grown up anyway.

According to “A History of the T-Shirt” on T-Shirt Spotlight, an industry website, our beloved t-shirt, after starting off as an ensign in the Navy, was coopted by other branches of the armed forces. It didn’t take long for the working man like: dockworkers, farmers, construction workers and the like to see the benefits of the comfortable and reasonably priced t-shirt in the early decades of the 20^th century.

By the 1930’s, USC football managers saw the tee as a tool to prevent chafing under football equipment. Of course if guys on the football team were wearing these shirts, they garnered a little cache. T-shirts became a prized possession on campus.  I would imagine girlfriends were the first to don the shirts, then other students started pilfering them. The t-shirt became cool. Apparently, to prevent the widespread theft that was going on, the school printed Property of USC Football on the shirts. As you might figure, that only encouraged more theft.

According to multiple sources, it was Brando’s 1947 appearance in “A Streetcar Named Desire” that caused an upswing in t-shirt sales.  Brando, in a thin t-shirt that barely hid his animal magnetism (I’m quoting here) drove women crazy. This in turn drove men to go out and buy t-shirts to be like Brando. Isn’t that the picture of the 50’s? Greased back hair, leather jacket and white t-shirt underneath? Who can forget James Dean, cool in a tee under his jacket in Rebel Without a Cause? The tee shirt, maybe with a rolled up pack of stogies in the sleeve, meant toughness, coolness, one of the defining images of the 50’s.  Some time during that decade, Walt Disney had the idea to put Mickey Mouse on a t-shirt and a HUGE industry, the vacation t-shirt, was born. In the 60’s, the t-shirt takes off as a means of self-expression, t-shirts with yellow smiley faces, groovy tie-dye t-shirts with sayings for protest make an appearance in head shops from Greenwich Village to Haight-Ashbury.

 

 

We Americans took this work shirt, something that is designed to do a task and morphed it into a vehicle for self-expression. Your t-shirt says something about you, Christ it says something FOR you. Your shirt can tell us about where you went to high school or college, or at least visited. We can learn, as we pass you on the street, where you like to vacation. In a split second encounter I will know what kind of music you listen to or what teams you root for. During an election year, I can find out what candidate you are supporting. Based on the shirts you wear, I can see what industry you work in or the company you work for. Often times I can find out about your hobbies. Maybe you like to run? Or ride a bike? You can show me that you are quirky, funny, odd, angry, cynical….Maybe you will share with me your personal mantra, on a t-shirt?

 

 

Maybe you’re like me but I love this stuff. I read people’s shirts, I assume they took the time to choose that shirt because they wanted a response. T-shirts keep us human, they are a conversation starter, an introduction, an attempt to connect. I love making conversation with strangers, “So you’re a Cardinals fan? How did that happen?”  “Did you go to Stanford?” “Elvis Costello, gotta love Elvis, he’s in my top 5.”  “I’ve never been to Yosemite but it’s on my list of places to go.”  “I love NY too!” I know that often times, some thought goes into the shirts that I wear, so I’m assuming others do the same. Sometimes we just grab what’s on top but it’s always fun to ask.

 

 

I was so happy to hear that other guys my age care about their t-shirt collections. I have friends whose wives complain about their husband's attachments to their t-shirts. A lot of us have our own t-shirt idiosyncrasies: patterns for folding, methods of storage, sequences for wearing our t-shirts. Initially, when a shirt is new, it will be in the “dressy t-shirt” category. I know that’s an oxymoron but guys know what I’m talking about. When a shirt is brand new, if it’s not too loud and doesn’t have something obnoxious printed on it, you can wear it out for a decent meal. Not to a nice restaurant but out for burgers or pizza. Once the shirt gets a little older it moves into the sports category, for working out, hoops, bike rides, running and stuff. After doing yeoman’s work, t-shirts get beat up, usually the collar is the first to go, and then it winds up in the yard-work category which is the last stop before the rag pile. That’s a really tough decision to make, to actually euthanize a shirt. The shirt has done so much work for us, 10-12 years depending on the quality and frequency of wear; so you can’t just throw it away. How can you toss it under the sink, waiting to be used to clean up dog puke or wipe grease off your handlebars? That does not seem fair. There are memories connected to these tees. I do buy them on vacation, at say Lake Placid or Montauk and then every time I put the shirt on, those memories come flooding back. I think of boogie boarding with my boys, or hiking in the Adirondacks. There is an inherent sadness with each retired t-shirt as we are confronting our own mortality.

 

Some shirts I hardly ever wear. We won some intramural championships at SUNY Buffalo, the pinnacle of athletic achievement I know, and I prized those t-shirts, wore them sparingly until they “shrunk” somehow since I was in college. I’m sure they are still around somewhere, deep in the recesses of a closet. My 9/11 memorial t-shirts are now in this sacrosanct category as well, for other reasons. They are too frayed to wear in public but I can’t just throw away a Captain Vinny Brunton memorial t-shirt. That would be sacrilege. Those guys deserve better. Maybe there should be a ceremony for burning tees like that? Kind of like the U.S. flag.

 

 

 

Every once in a while I will remember a shirt I have lost, Hey, whatever happened to that….Maybe I left it at the gym on the change-over? Lost at the beach? Laundry catastrophe? Sometimes they get stolen. Kind of cool to think that a girlfriend would keep a t-shirt just to be close to you but what happens when you break up? They don’t still wear the shirt do they? Do they burn it? Throw it out? Use it as a rag?

 

I have tee shirt envy sometimes. Knowing when I see a shirt that I might never be able to find it. One of my buddies has a Life is Good shirt that has a picture of a stack of books and it says, “Read ‘em and Reap.” I love that, but no amount of searching on the internet helped me to find it.
In closing, besides the ones we've already seen, let’s take a look at some of the more notable t-shirts we’ve seen throughout the past decades:

 

 

 

 

 

In reading up on the history of the t-shirt and contemplating this for a while, I have decided that No, I don’t have to grow up. Like a lot of guys my age, I am going to continue to celebrate the t-shirt. And I am sure you will too.

The One Uppers

 

It’s Fourth of July 2013, sunny and hot in Middlebury Connecticut. The Spinners  are at our local town beach, The Middlebury Recreation Area (MRA)  on Lake Quassapaug with hundreds of other Middlebury families and their friends. Like it is in your town, whether it’s Northampton, Massachusetts,  Kendall Park, New Jersey or Charlotte, North Carolina you can’t miss this day in your town.  In Middlebury, everyone is there. The best part is, most people, give or take the stress to get a table and a spot on the beach, are in a great mood. We are celebrating our nation’s birth!  Joe Laporta, in charge of the MRA, is on the PA announcing the next teams up for horseshoes or hoops. Jack Worgan is walking around busting someone’s balls. Pat Lewis is bumming a free beer off of a new friend and the smell of barbequing is in the air.

Sitting in the picnic grove around lunch time with some of our closest Middlebury friends, biting into some Cape Cod Chips and sipping our beverages of choice (for me it’s water or Snapple until at least 6 0’clock) passing around condiments and hot dogs we are talking about the food. The Jorgensens brought a full watermelon and we are cutting that baby up and it looks great. This watermelon is just the right amount of red, juicy…we pass it around. I realize in the middle of my first bite, I’m going for seconds. Carrie Jorgensens says, “There’s nothing better than cold watermelon on a summer day.”

Oh no she didn’t! She dropped that gauntlet, just like that? NOTHING better than…cold watermelon on a summer day…Nothing? My verbal wise ass goes into overdrive….nothing? Sure, watermelon on a hot summer day is good but does it top the list? Is it at the pinnacle? The apex of all existence? To be put up on that oh so lofty perch of…there as nothing better than…Well we started riffing right away…my first comment is, “Nothing? How about a cold beer taken from a cooler full of ice and water?”  Joel Jorgensen, always quick on the uptake even though he’s from Iowa, goes to the opposite end of the spectrum, “How about hot chocolate after a cold day of skiing or sledding?” 

The writer in me goes into action, “Hold on, this is perfect for a blog, we have to write this down.” We had a great time, thinking of all of these life affirming things, simple things that make life good, events that make life fun and exciting and full of taste and zest and well, LIFE.” So in no particular order, this is what we came up with sitting around that picnic table on the Fourth of July…

There’s nothing better than… 

A hug from your children, a REAL hug with hearty squeezing.

A Belly laugh. Preferably a group belly laugh. Belly laughing so it hurts, so you have tears in your eyes.

Hearing a great song on the radio while you are driving…singing at the top of your longs.

Hitting a line drive on the sweet spot, knowing it’s over the shortstop’s head as soon as it leaves your bat, thinking two as you round first base because it might be in the gap…even better if there are men on base.

Ice cream in the summer, here in Middlebury, we go to Rich’s Farm in Oxford, or Charlie’s in Woodbury…whatever your flavor from soft serve vanilla or chocolate to Razmanian Devil…is there anything better than ice cream on a summer day?

Sticking a jumper from 20 feet. In my case it’s a set shot but you get the idea. Knowing you let it go with the right amount of arc and rotation, that it’s good on the release…even better if it’s point game and cherry on top if the game is hard fought and you know the guys on the other team.

New book smell.

Finding a book to really lose yourself in; one that you don’t even realize you are reading, just escape into this other world the author has created just for you, the reader.

Endorphin rush after a bike ride, run, a workout.

Coming home to a clean house. (this was Kira’s)

Crafting the witty comeback, the one that vanquishes your opponent or makes everyone laugh.

Reminiscing with old friends, Facebook has been pretty good for this.

 

Thin crust NY style pizza (Totonno’s in Coney Island, Grimaldis at the Brooklyn Bridge, Pepe’s in New Haven, Anthony’s in Oakville…

Thank You Notes. Giving or receiving.

New York City in the spring time.

A really good movie. Movie pop corn.

My mom’s lasagna.

Diving into a pool on a really hot day.

That light bulb moment when you teach someone something and they get it. Like teaching your kid to ride a bike, or to swim…there’s nothing better than that smile…when your pupil realizes…I can read, I can dive off the dock, I can swim!

 

Working together as a team to get something done: a family garden, a home improvement project, a community clean-up…

Sleeping in your own bed after being away for a long time (especially if you’ve been camping!).

Smell of coffee in the morning, tied with bacon apparently. 

Steak.

Mashed potatoes.

Lemon Italian Ice.

 

The smell of fresh cut grass.

That first t-shirt day of spring after a long winter.

Or that first sweatshirt night after a brutally hot summer.
 

This was a lot of fun to brainstorm and to craft the list. So what’s on your, “Nothing Better Than” List?

Preset Buttons

The power of music to move our emotions is a known part of the human condition. Man has been listening to music since we created a drum with a hollowed out log, an animal skin and a stick. Through the centuries music has evolved. From Beethoven to The Beatles, from Louis Armstrong to ZZ Top there are myriad genres and artists for us as we find: comfort, escape, motivation, kinship…in the music we listen to and play.  For recent generations, and my peers in particular, it’s been rock & roll that has given us goose bumps. Starting with Elvis…to The Beatles, The Stones, Led Zeppelin, Elvis Costello, The Counting Crows and on and on we have been rocking and rolling.  From Bob Dylan to his son Jacob Dylan from Bryan Adams to Ryan Adams rock & roll has just “done it for us.” Over the years, I have figured out that I like singer-songwriters: Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, James Taylor, Tom Petty, John Mellencamp, Bob Dylan. But this piece isn’t about those artists or that kind of music.

I’m driving to work one morning recently and “Low Rider” by War comes on the radio. As soon as I hear the cow bell, I jab at the preset buttons as I say, “I hate that song” to an empty car. Driving down Ben Sherman Hill towards school, I was thinking about other songs I REALLY hate. I thought we could have some fun with this, sort of a Kasey Kasum in reverse. Let's take some time to vent about stupid songs…Our Least Favorite Songs, our Bottom 40.

There’s a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote that’s appropriate here, “In order to truly feel and appreciate love, you have to feel and know hate.”  Actually, most of you won’t recognize this quote because I made it up.  Sounds pretty good though right? It does make sense that we need that foil, songs that we love vs. songs that we hate. You need that opposite, for comparison, the highs and then the lows. We go from “Let it Be” by The Beatles to “Get it On” by T. Rex (definitely on my least favs list). The Beatles classic is timeless, otherworldly and “Get it On?” Not so much.

There appears to be some commonalities with the songs in my Bottom 40. First of all they all suck, the lyrics are invariably stupid, nonsensical and usually repetitive. Often times the topic is bizarre, not exactly songworthy, something like an animal, or a car. Often times the musicians use things that aren’t even instruments, like the aforementioned cowbell. When I listen to Neil Young “Heart of Gold” there’s meaning there, when I listen to “Bang a Gong” I want to bang my head against the wall!  So after “Low Rider” and T Rex’s “Get it On”…in no particular order…

“Barracuda” by Heart. Sorry Pete Savino, I know I gave you a hard time about this song when we were kids but I couldn’t help it; even as a 12 year old I was a lyrics snob.  I mean, how could a musician waste time writing a song about a FISH? Or maybe it’s the Plymouth Barracuda?  Either way.  Bob Dylan was asking us, “How many roads must a man walk down, before you call him a man?” Paul Simon was writing, “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls, and tenement halls.” And the Wilson Sisters are singing….”Oooooh, Barracuda.” Ooooooh, give me a break.

Sometimes songs are connected to painful memories, tough times in our lives. When we were playing little league for the Beverley Boys club, my father managed our team, The Hurricanes. One of the kids on our team was stabbed by his father during a domestic dispute. My dad took us to visit our friend in the hospital. Standing there with my father, who loved me very much, I could not fathom what would push a dad to stab his own son. As we were heading home that overcast day, sitting in the back seat of the Chrysler New Yorker, trying to wrap my brain around this family in turmoil, “Dance with Me” by Orleans comes on the radio. Staring out the window as we circled Park Circle, that song was haunting, painful. In 2013, if I hear that song, the confusion, the sadness of that day resurface. The early harmonies of “Dance with me, I want to be your partner can’t you see?” force me to change the station.

Disco? Don’t even get me started. It’s decades later, yet when I hear anything off of the Saturday Night Fever sound track…I am back in John Dewey High School, wearing my Disco Sucks t-shirt and Frankie Sylvestri, and his Bensonhurst goombahs are chasing me around the cafeteria threatening to throw me in a locker. Actually they did stuff me in a locker. It was pretty funny, as soon as I walked into the caf, all 100 pounds of me I heard, “Fucking Spinner, no way.” I took off but the chest hair mafia caught me down by the gym and stuffed me in a locker.  The sound of a whistle as one of the lead instruments makes me think of polyester shirts,  gold chains, Jordache jeans (which looked pretty good on Rosanne Cinamo). How can we listen to the Bee Gees?  God, even my son was incredulous, “Dad, that’s not a guy singing, I’ll bet you anything.”  Donna Summer gave us, “Last Dance” and I’m thinking, God I hope so. Maybe that Disco Sucks shirt still fits me?

This revulsion to certain songs might be genetic? It’s ingrained in the Spinners to hate stupid songs…when Nick was a toddler he loved “Blackbird” by the Beatles and “Hanging Around” by The Counting Crows would make him squeal in his car seat. There was one song that would make him arch his back in pain. When Raffi did his version of Harry Belafonte’s “Banana Boat Song, Nick would freak out. He loved every song on that Raffi tape, listening to “Baby Beluga” or “Down by the Bay”…Nick was a happy camper. As soon as he heard….”Daaaaaaaay O” Nick would throw a tantrum for the ages. Every time we listened to that album, we had to skip that song. Sometimes I would leave it on just to see him lose it. Funny stuff.

Sometimes I hate the band, the entire catalog of music. The guttural riffs, the hackneyed raunchy guitar of ZZ Top, does NOTHING for me. The lyrics are weak and every song sounds the same. She’s got Legs and she knows how to use them? Yeh, well I have fingers and I know how to change the station. I’ll never go crazy for a sharp dressed man.

For similar reasons, I hate Jethro Tull. I mean what’s with the fife or lyre or flute or whatever that thing is? It’s rock and roll.  And do any of us know what an Aqualung is anyway? Is this song about a superhero? A bong? Aqualung my friend won’t you go smoke more pot and play your freaking fife somewhere else just so I don’t have to listen to it.

My friends who are musicians, guys who actually play instruments, have a thing for Rush, Neil Peart on drums and Getty Lee’s vocals.  And my musician friends always talk down to me, like I’m not sophisticated enough to appreciate the guitar licks and drum solos. Puhleeze….they’re a second rate band for a reason. Today’s Tom Sawyer should go back to 1840’s Missouri with Mark Twain and dunk themselves in the Mississippi River for a good loooong soak.

Some songs we like initially, then they wind up on the list…I call this the Jersey Shore effect. Hanging out at DJ’s and Bar Anticipation in the 80’s every time I was there we had to hear Billy Idol cover the classic Mony Mony by Tommy James and the Shondells. Just the sound of that rhythmic clapping in the beginning gives me a hangover, I can’t listen to it ANYMORE…everyone shouting in unison…Get Laid, Get __________ed. It’s  enough already! The song is played!

I know some of the least favorite songs of friends. Right around 1984 or so, my buddy Stemmer picks me up in his Sentra for a night of partying on the Upper East Side. We were two Brooklyn boys, college age, heading into the big city, trying out our game with the prep school clientele of The Tumble Inn, Fitzpatricks and Pedros. As we hit the Prospect Expressway, John Waite’s “I Ain’t Missing You” comes on the radio and Steve, cobra-like, changes the station. I say, “Hey, I like that song,” and put it back to WPLJ. Steve’s next response is a little more emphatic, “I don’t like that song, leave it off.”  Sensing an exposed nerve, as only good friends can do,  I nudge, “Why Steve? Who does it remind you of? I bet I can guess.” We all have those songs, artists that remind us of an ex, call to mind a tough time in life, and we usually choose avoidance.

 

My list of songs I hate is not all that extensive because I genuinely love music. I have music on all the time (much to my wife’s chagrin) a variety of artists, depending on my mood. Diana Ross and the Supremes, perfect for doing chores.  James Taylor or 70’s light rock is perfect for a walk in the country. There’s no better après ski music than Van Morrison. Walking in the city I might listen to Nick Lowe or Elvis Costello. Actually, if I am walking in the Village it would have to be Dylan but you get the idea. The Eagles are perfect road trip music. Cleaning up my classroom at year’s end, I always listen to Tom Petty, “The Waiting is the hardest part.” Assuming most of you like music, just for fun, take a few minutes to share your least favorites. What songs make you change the station, or give the Thumbs Down on Pandora?

Holy $#!+ I'm 50

Billy “Weekend” Weizner, an old college friend, called recently. When Weizner and I talk, I have to make sure my kids are asleep because it gets a little bawdy. We call each other names, argue politics, bring up funny stories.  During these conversations, the memories of playing football on the field outside Fargo Quad and pursuing co-eds at The Wilkeson Pub seem awfully close. “What would you give to go back there?” Weekend asks. I know what he’s asking. To be young, carefree, fast, healthy, able to eat and drink anything and have our bodies rebound, quickly. “I wouldn’t,” I say.
Weizner’s incredulous, “Really?”

 Really. Occasionally, a precocious 8^th grader will say, “Mr. Spinner you’re getting old.” My retort, “Beats the alternative.” Some will realize I mean, if you are not getting older, you’re dead. One of the benefits of losing my father when I was in college, is an underlying appreciation for our mortality. Stevie Nicks sings in Landslide “Can I handle the seasons of my life?”  I want more than that, I want to enjoy the seasons of my life in a Morrie Schwartz/Tuesdays With Morrie kind of way. But the gods don’t make it easy.

 Those of us who are lucky enough to grow old ( isn’t it weird to have friends passing from things reserved for grandparents?)  have to enjoy the ride.  Our lives are cliché in that, we are aging, like those who have come before us. I can write about growing hair in useless places, ears, nostrils and losing it in more useful places, like on my head. But as I am heading toward the Big 5-0, my radar is up for other things.

 Suddenly, I can’t ride rollercoasters. I was the parent that rode the crazy rides with the boys, they wouldn’t even ask Kira. I love that stuff. This past summer, my three boys and I went on the Wooden Warrior, a fairly benign coaster at Quassy, our local amusement park. As we rode, clankety-clank to the top of the first hill, I am contemplating leaving my hands up the whole ride. I thought I would be goofy and make Charlie, my 8 year old,  less scared. This “coaster” is barely 4 stories high At the apex, I am admiring the view of Lake Quassapaug, smiling at Charlie. Schwoosh! After  the initial drop my heart is in my throat.  Into the first turn, I am squeezing the safety bar, holding on for dear life, wondering, why am I so scared? I look over at Charlie,  he’s  laughing hysterically, many more rollercoaster rides ahead for him. Brian, my 11 year old, has his hands in the air. Every turn, dip and dive I’m counting the seconds until I can get off. The entire ride might be a minute? When we pulled in I knew I would never ride another rollercoaster again. Okay Weizner, maybe I would go back?

 Middlebury Park & Rec runs pick-up basketball for men, over 30, on Monday nights. A group of us have been playing together for years. Monday nights are sacrosanct, our routine, routine. We know each other’s games, personalities, t-shirts. One thing does change, each year we see an influx of guys who recently hit the over thirty mark. Nearing 50, I am almost 20 years older than the new, more agile hoopsters. Over the past decade of Mondays, I see a growing lack of respect for my game. It starts with the defensive match-ups; I can tell by who covers me, usually one of the older, slower players on the other team. If the other team is stronger, and I wind up with a tough match-up, I catch the comments, “Are you sure you can cover him?” Or the other team, with a nod to some athletic prowess will say, “You have to cover Spinner, he can hit that outside shot.” HEY, I’m standing right here! I’m not deaf, just slower. 

 Increasingly, I’m a non-issue with the younger women at work. I have now reached the age that with anyone under thirty, I can’t make the double-entendre joke, it’s just inappropriate. When one of the younger, cute staff members slips and hangs a curve ball, something ripe for a sexual joke, I have to let it go. If I make the comment, I get the look that says, Eww, creepy old guy. So I hold my tongue. At least I know to stop; some guys don’t figure it out.

 Not only can’t I say anything, I can’t even look. If my glance lingers on an exposed leg in a skirt or a buxom blouse and I get caught, I am no longer in the, Oh, he was checking me out category. Now I’m just leering. I have to be clever about appreciating beautiful women, which I am sure I am not. Clever that is. I know I don’t want to be old dude who stares. Can I rethink my answer Weizner?

 My wife and I tease each other about being single. We joke that if we were to get divorced, there might be opportunities out there. We take the next step and joke about our dating prospects. “Sure Jim, you’d be hot ticket, three boys, no money, sometimes grouchy, only one dance move.”  I continue the joke, recognizing that if I was single, I don’t have much game left. The flirting part of my brain has atrophied. Whenever there’s a cute bartender, or waitress, that used to be low hanging fruit. I do know that they are working for tips, but back in the day, I had some game. Today, not so much. I want to say funny things, I want the bartender to linger a little longer, to think that I am clever but I think of stuff to say, too late. The things I do say wind up being weird and I get that look over her shoulder as she walks away, What was THAT supposed to mean? Is he hitting on me? Or just weird?

 And I am getting weird. I talk to myself constantly. At least I think it’s to myself. I worry that, while perusing the produce section, the things I am thinking, I am saying out loud.

 I am starting to gross myself out. When did I start growing fungus on my toes? Now my farts can make me leave the room. Sometimes when I see myself in a window at the local supermarket, I think: You left the house looking like that? You have food stains on your hoodie, your hair is a mess. Your father used to not care what he looked like.

 Of course we are turning into our parents. I sweat the decision to drive if it’s going to snow. Right after college, we rented a ski house in Vermont. If it was snowing, we were definitely going because that meant great conditions. Now? I’m the target audience for the 8 day forecast. My wife and I will keep each other posted, “They are saying N’oreaster for Friday night. Sleet and freezing rain.”  I am increasingly becoming a home body, worried about the dangers of travel, thinking about things like: should both parents take the same flight? Hey, if I stay home, it's safer.

 Other things are changing. The unwritten rules I have are starting to increase. You know the rules, like: I will never wear a jean jacket with jeans; because it looks like a jeans suit. Never will you see me wear the logo of two teams simultaneously. If I am wearing a Notre Dame hat, I will not wear a Met t-shirt. Once I have on one team, I simply cannot wear the logo of any other team, college or pro, on my hat, t-shirt or shorts. Why? It’s dork city. It’s a slippery slope. Wearing multiple logos of the same team at the same time? You are saying to the world, I have no life and I just might still live in my parent’s house.

 There are some good parts to aging.  I have carte blanche to tell the same stories. I know you’ve heard it before, but I like the story, so I am going to tell it anyway. After you say, “Yeh, you told me that already.”  I’ll bulldog forward because I like the story. Hey, if you can’t ride the rollercoaster and you’re petrified to drive in the snow, I'm not building a reserve of new stories.

 

I can choose not to hear. Anything that involves more chores, visiting with family, taxiing people around, selective hearing kicks in. My hearing clears right up when I hear the phrase, “Oh forget it, I’ll do it myself.” 

 Becoming crotchety old guy has other benefits, I only drive, kinda fast.  If I’m doing 74 in the left lane and slowly passing cars doing 68 in the center lane, I will ignore the flashing brights behind me. “You’ll have to go around! I’m not changing lanes, those people in the center lane are doing like 70.”

 In my early days as a subway commuter, I would always give up my seat for anyone who needed it. Recently, I was taking the train after a long day of sightseeing and I was happy to get a seat. It was rush hour and with each stop, more passengers. Watching the throngs spill into the car, some clearly in need of a seat, for the first time in my life I’m thinking, I really need this seat. Why doesn’t that young guy get up?  I’m tired, and we’re only on 34^th St. As you get old and tired, you get to keep your seat.

 While giving directions to my 8^th graders recently, one of my students dropped a pen off the front of his desk. Six months ago, my reflex would have been to bend down and pick it up while continuing to teach. This time, I looked at the pen, the class looked at me, the student looked at me as if to say, “Mr. Spinner can you grab that pen for me?” I ignored him. He groaned. I said, “I’m too old kid, it’s nothing for you to bend down and grab that pen. For me, it’s a monumental effort and might actually be dangerous.” 

 Pretty soon I will get a pass on saying exactly what I want to say, what other people want to say, but don’t because they’re polite.  When a new mom tells me she named her child Pooh Bear, I can say, “What the hell did you name her that for? You just set her up for a lifetime of abuse.” It’ll be okay, people will say, “You know, he’s old school.”

 
In the end, like most of us, I am ambivalent about aging. Part of me longs for the days when I was faster, carefree, reckless. However, I do look forward to becoming this wiser, grandfatherly version of myself. And that version thinks of the people who I’ve lost in my life, people my age who left in an untimely manner. I know they would love to be playing hoops, even a little slower. They would love to process getting older, dealing with acid reflux, creaky knees and thicker glasses. How happy they would be to age with friends and family, to watch their kids and grandkids grow up. Wouldn’t it be cool to get a do-over so that they could continue to do the things they love like: going to ball games, skiing, family trips to the beach, playing golf…I think of Al Duarte, Randy Giles, Andrew O’Callaghan, John Quinn, Drew Thomas, Georgie Ullman, Craig Summa, Jeff “Canarsie” Karchensky, Pete Vega to name a few. I know I am forgetting some and I know they would all be,  just happy to be here.

It's Not Complicated, It's Common Sense

I keep shaking my head, No. News of the tragedy at Sandy Hook, images of our local community torn apart, causes me to shake my head from side-to-side, involuntarily. No. Driving to work in the morning, I hear the I95 DJ’s talking about the tragedy in Newtown, I gaze numbly at the road ahead and my head shakes, this can’t be. Watching the news, pictures of cherubic first graders, taken all too soon, there’s that movement again, No. Is this tragedy so big that I am subconsciously denying it ever happened? Like a child avoiding bad news? Am I just unable to get a handle on the fact that a lone gunman slaughtered all those kids with an assault rifle as if he was at an arcade? For most of us, that’s it, it’s unfathomable.

 

In trying to wrap my head around this inhumane tragedy, I’ve been visited by the many stages of grief. Eventually, I do what we Americans do, look for solutions to the problem. America has a problem if every couple of months some disaffected boy gets a hold of a machine gun and thinks it’s okay to commit mass-murder. We have to solve this problem, now. It’s bad, we have come to the point of knowing, how these things go. There’s a predictable pattern to the news coverage of a mass shooting and that’s just unacceptable. We cannot, as a society, become desensitized to a killing spree of this magnitude.  It’s time to do something about this. And we don’t need Congress or President Obama all we need is the American people. There’s such a groundswell of support for a sea change that we need to get it done, now.

 

We all agree there’s a problem. Look at a graph of the occurrences of  mass shootings and you will see, that by any measure, shootings like Columbine, The Batman movie, in Aurora, Colorado and now Sandy Hook Elementary are on the rise. Like a heart disease patient, who continues to have chest pain or shortness of breath, you go to the doctor, and the doctor tells you, “If you want to improve your chances of survival, if you want to live your life with a healthy heart, I would recommend some common sense changes. You should eat healthy, exercise regularly, drink alcohol in moderation, decrease stress, quit smoking.”  That same doctor will tell you that this is not an exact science and other factors weigh into your heart-health but if you can do those things, you will clearly be increasing your chances of living a long life. Now you might still get heart disease or you might get shot while attending the midnight showing of Batman but at least you did something about the things you could control. There are things we can control, as Americans, to decrease the chances that some young man will commit mass murder in your home town. We should do these things, now.

 After each mass shooting we see what pro-gun people call a knee-jerk reaction. The pro-gun lobby claims people are politicizing the tragedy. News flash, this is a political issue. Were anti-war protesters politicizing the Vietnam War? Were our Revolutionary forefathers politicizing the Boston Massacre? Yes they were, because it is a political issue. Finally, the American people are saying, enough is enough.  Our society is saying that, in the name of those innocents at Sandy Hook, we have had enough. There are things we can do as a society to at least decrease the chances that these mass killing sprees will happen. Now don’t get me wrong, some nut might still get a gun and shoot up his place of work but like that heart patient, there are things we can do, as a society, to decrease the chances that mass killings will happen. I’m no expert on psychology, I’m not a statistical wonk, I've read a few articles and researched charts and graphs about shooting sprees in America. And with my credentials as an American, with a little bit of common sense, I propose we try a few things that just might help. I know I am reiterating some things others have said but I felt compelled to do, something.

Decrease violence in the visual market place. Our children and young adults should not be bombarded with images of blood and slaughter.  Clearly most normal kids can watch a slasher flick or play “Call of Duty” and know enough to not shoot up their local elementary school. Sure most kids know it’s a game and will go about their daily routines but as we sadly know, sometimes there’s an outlier, an Adam Lanza in any random sample. These games are abhorrent and our kids should not be playing them, it HAS to desensitize all kids to the violence.  Do we notice that the shooter is always a boy? How many girls are playing Call of Duty? Think there’s a correlation? Who could argue that these shooter games weighed into these boys winding up in a crowded place with a machine gun? It had to be an influence, no? I would love to see video game makers stop making these games but independent of that, we can stop buying them. We didn’t have these games in the 50’s, 60’s or 70’s. Do we really think it's a coincidence that terror did not visit our country in this manner back then?  Shouldn’t we remove this variable on the off chance it just MIGHT cause these shootings? Aren’t we willing to stop smoking because it just might help our heart health? So why not try to quit violent video games, as a nation?

Another analogy might help: All New Yorkers are now standing away from the platform as the train is pulling into the station. Why? 5 million people commute on the subway every day. Multiply that times days in a week, then year, the probability that you will be shoved in front of a Brooklyn bound F train is miniscule. Yet we all stand away on the off-chance that some psycho might try to push us in front of the train. Statistically it makes no sense to have this fear, but it’s a simple solution that will take away the chance for  tragedy. And that’s what we should do to help decrease these killings; make the small changes that  might decrease the probability of this happening again. Decreasing the violent images our kids see, our society sees, is one of those changes, like moving away from the edge of the platform.

If kids are playing less video games, they’ll be outside, socializing. Were there less of these shootings when we were kids because we knew each other better?  I can’t help but think the “suburbanization” of our world, where it’s so easy to go about our days and only interact with people via a computer, has altered our society. We are becoming socially inept and in extreme cases, people hunker down in their basements, get trapped inside the scary world inside their head and eventually become Adam Lanza.  I know I am a hopeless romantic, and admittedly I know very little about the Lanza family dynamics, but if Nancy Lanza took Adam to visit his cousins? If she took him on hikes on our beautiful Connecticut hiking trails? If he joined the Boy Scouts or a church group or the Chess Club maybe he would have found a friend? Or if not, someone who would see the warning signs and get him some help? Or at least figure out how to stop him.
 

The mental health of the shooter is always part of the post-shooting discussion. As a school teacher, over the past 16 years, we have seen an excellent move in the right direction on anti-bullying. As you know, this was in reaction to the boys who perpetrated the shootings like Columbine. For a few years in the late 90’s, boys who were bullied were choosing to kill, for revenge. Because of this, our entire society now speaks a language of anti-bullying; there was a sea change. Today, teachers, students and parents are ultra-aware of the signs and evils of bullying. Now by all accounts, Adam Lanza does not seem to have been bullied; I daresay an outcome of Columbine. But something was clearly amiss with this young man. And there seems to be some commonalities with Adam Lanza and our more recent mass murderers. I can’t believe we now talk about them so cavalierly. We as a society should be more aware of boys who are at risk of falling off the deep end and into an elementary school with an assault rifle. We have to become better at identifying, diagnosing and treating the small percentage of young men who are in danger of becoming the next Adam Lanza.  Please hear me, I am not suggesting a witch hunt but a collective awareness, just like we had in the wake of Columbine for bullying. We should all be looking for the warning signs so that we can intervene. These boys are not social pariahs, we should not look askance at them, we should be reaching out to them, intervening, nurturing them and giving them strategies on how to maintain friendships and communicate with peers. If these boys had gotten strategies in early childhood on how to better interact with society, just maybe, we could have avoided these tragedies.

 
I am not for outlawing guns. In America, the right to own a gun is in the Constitution, based on how we are reading it. I would not tackle that Cowboy but I do say, if we go back to the analogy of the patient with heart disease, one of the common sense changes we should make is to ban rapid fire guns and high capacity magazines. I knew Dawn Hochsprung and she was one tough lady, there’s a reason she ran AT Adam Lanza and not away from him. If that skinny little boy had a handgun, she would have disarmed him, I know it. No matter how tough Dawn or anyone is, what chance do we have against countless bullets per second? Let hunters, and Americans who want a firearm to protect themselves, own guns. But let’s get rid of these killing machines. If you know of a retailer that sells these guns, these clips of bullets, boycott. Don’t shop at a store that carries these weapons, and let the owner  know WHY you are not shopping there.

The NRA is a powerful organization but there are only 4 million members. And a decent percentage, (George Stephanopoulos said 74%)  of members support a ban on assault weapons. We Americans are over 300 million strong, we don’t need the NRA, Congress or President Obama to get rid of these weapons. We have to use our outrage, in the wake of Newtown, to make this change.  Like Dawn Hochsprung, and her incredibly brave staff, we should be running towards this problem, it’s the least we can do. As Americans we should do anything to decrease these shootings: protest, boycott, start a letter writing campaign, submit editorials, reach out to our president, senator, representative, neighbor…Now we might not be able to end shootings of this kind but like the heart disease patient, shouldn’t we at least make changes to decrease the probability? Wouldn’t we live in a better country if we at least made some changes to decrease the chances that this kind of tragedy would be visited on another innocent American community? It’s just common sense.