How on earth did he make it past the 3rd grade? I looked at him blankly; he looked back, even more blankly. I went through the same explanation again. Then later, again.
I am an educator, but not a well respected one. Driver’s education. Everyone needs it, but it is not considered to be something that “molds minds” or “builds character” it is simply a life skill. On par with coloring in the lines, and making Thanksgiving turkeys from the outline of your hand.
I am also the youngest drivers education instructor I have ever heard of. I’m 26. My job is one that takes a lot of ridicule, but the focus is generally on the instructor and not the actual course itself. I remember my drivers Ed. Teacher, W.R. Evers.
“I’m looking here, here, here, here, and here” he said to me pointing in various directions. “You must know what is going on at all times!”
He taught all my friends how to drive, and we all had an impression of him, mine was the best. I was often put on the spot to imitate our vehicular master, and was happy to do so, but had I known I would follow in his footsteps, I certainly would not have found the humor in it.
“I have the equivalent of 10 college degrees” W.R. said to me once.
“How many do you actually have?” I quipped back.
“None” he said.
Well, neither do I.
I go out at night with other people my age, and their lives seem so much more exciting, there is an upward optimism, a carrot dangling in front of their young lifeline. I have no carrot. There is nowhere to go in the field of Drivers education. What I am doing now will be what I am doing in 30 years, and the pay will be about the same.
I raced go carts growing up, I always loved to drive, and I had aspirations of being a racecar driver. At 19 I was there. I had a crew, and was making money in a small midwestern circuit. But, almost as soon as my career started, it was wrecked into turn 4 at Stevenson’s expressway. A broken car, a broken leg, and no money to fix either, meant a broken career. I dropped from #2 on the Heart of America circuit to unranked in less than a month. The two sponsors I had quit, and my crew split to find work with other drivers. I recovered, at least physically, but I am left with hospital bills along with other life payments. I am become so far removed from my dream.
I pulled into the parking lot of Edgerton High School and parked. I take a deep breath. One more student left today. I turn and look at the passenger side window and see a skinny girl with a blonde ponytail walking my way. Her book bag bulges out from the sides of her tiny frame, she looks ready for a trek through the Andes.
Carrie Hass, my 4:30. This bitch is going to kill us both.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
There must have been some magic in that old silk hat they found.....
By E Wolferman
The story of Frosty the snowman is a well known and loved children’s tale, but you don’t know the whole story. Where the modern day story of Frosty begins does not represent the turmoil and despair that precedes it. In a multitude of half-truths, the dancing snowman known as Frosty comes to life with the aid of a magic hat. I am here to explain to you where that magic came from, and to shed light onto this mysteriously happy winter saga.
The real story of Frosty begins in January of 1850, when a young hat maker, a haberdasher, opened his first store on the tony east side of Manhattan. His designs were sleek, elegant, and if he had not already been successful with his business, a store in upper Manhattan, would have been out of the question. He had regular customers, who referred friends, who in turn, referred more friends. Haberdasher James F. Rosty was making a name for himself, and fulfilling his dreams.
Anyone who was anyone donned a genuine F. Rosty cap. He made hats for all occasions, and customized any model to the delight of his patrons. James was receiving orders from people all over the city, shipping them to customers up and down the coast. The pressure was enormous, but James F. Rosty was a rock.
By June, F. Rosty haberdashery was the most prominent and exquisite shop in all of Manhattan, and word had spread. In that month of June 1850, James received a request he could not deny, no matter how difficult he thought it would be. President Zachary Taylor had requested a genuine Rosty to wear at his 4th of July speech in Washington DC.
James could not take this lightly. He worked day and night, corresponded with White House staff for measurements, used models, denied new customers, and shut down all hat production for 30 days. During the month of June, James rarely made it out of his shop.
The people were silently stating that James had become “mad as a hatter”. You see, the production of felt was not possible in the 19th century without the use of Mercury. So this term, “mad as a hatter”, was not without weight behind it. Mercury poisoning could result in the depletion of thiamine in the brain, causing amnesia, and confabulation, or invented memories.
James was going to finish no matter what the cost.
On July 3rd, President Zachary Taylor stepped into James F. Rosty’s fine establishment, and was handed the finest piece of headwear he had ever seen. Taylor slid the garment onto his head, took a peek in the mirror, smiled and left without saying a word.
James had done it.
Taylor’s speech was a huge success, and Rosty hats were back on track, or so it seemed. 5 days later, James casually scooped up the evening paper from his hat shop stoop, opened it up, and stopped in his tracks. President Zachary Taylor, Old Rough and Ready, died in office.
Taylor died of acute gastroenteritis just 16 months into his term. There were also rumors that he was poisoned with arsenic, but such claims have gone unproven. These unproven claims were brought down on the shoulders of hat maker James Rosty. James had been vocal about his disapproval of the Whig party that President Taylor represented, and the previously shielded rumors of Rosty’s madness were now spreading across the city.
The people of New York turned on Rosty, “it was the hat!” they proclaimed. James turned to drugs and alcohol to dull the pain, and continued to try and make his hats, unsuccessfully. In October of 1850, James was arrested for assault after a near overdose of a unique combination of absinthe, opium, and a trace amount of mercury. The cocktail made a powerful hallucinogen. He was thrown in a Brooklyn jail, and never heard from again.
Rosty hats were burnt by the hundreds in Central Park the night of James’ arrest. Once the talk of the town, James F. Rosty had become an outcast in the hat world, and in the city of New York.
This brings us to the Frosty you know. The children had built an amazing snowman, this is not under dispute, with a carrot nose and coal eyes, Frosty was almost complete. The young boy ran to the attic of his house, to see if he could find any other props for their seasonal sculpture. In the corner, in a trunk, in a hatbox, sat one original James F Rosty hat. It was well worn, so the only letters you could see were F. Rosty, or Frosty. They both tried the hat on and played with it a bit before setting it a top of Frosty’s noggin.
This is the part of the story where Frosty comes to life, but this is not the true story.
The children’s parents came outside to the sound of hysterical laughter. Both of their offspring were lying in the snow, half naked, giggling and twitching. They took them inside, and eventually to the hospital. When they had come to, they told the story of Frosty coming to life, dancing and singing.
When James F. Rosty was arrested for assault, the opiate combination James had concocted was found concealed in the brim of his hat. This was his hiding place, and it is unknown how many other hats were filled with this powerful hallucinogenic drug cocktail.
Frosty never came to life; the kids were high as kites.
The story of Frosty the snowman is a well known and loved children’s tale, but you don’t know the whole story. Where the modern day story of Frosty begins does not represent the turmoil and despair that precedes it. In a multitude of half-truths, the dancing snowman known as Frosty comes to life with the aid of a magic hat. I am here to explain to you where that magic came from, and to shed light onto this mysteriously happy winter saga.
The real story of Frosty begins in January of 1850, when a young hat maker, a haberdasher, opened his first store on the tony east side of Manhattan. His designs were sleek, elegant, and if he had not already been successful with his business, a store in upper Manhattan, would have been out of the question. He had regular customers, who referred friends, who in turn, referred more friends. Haberdasher James F. Rosty was making a name for himself, and fulfilling his dreams.
Anyone who was anyone donned a genuine F. Rosty cap. He made hats for all occasions, and customized any model to the delight of his patrons. James was receiving orders from people all over the city, shipping them to customers up and down the coast. The pressure was enormous, but James F. Rosty was a rock.
By June, F. Rosty haberdashery was the most prominent and exquisite shop in all of Manhattan, and word had spread. In that month of June 1850, James received a request he could not deny, no matter how difficult he thought it would be. President Zachary Taylor had requested a genuine Rosty to wear at his 4th of July speech in Washington DC.
James could not take this lightly. He worked day and night, corresponded with White House staff for measurements, used models, denied new customers, and shut down all hat production for 30 days. During the month of June, James rarely made it out of his shop.
The people were silently stating that James had become “mad as a hatter”. You see, the production of felt was not possible in the 19th century without the use of Mercury. So this term, “mad as a hatter”, was not without weight behind it. Mercury poisoning could result in the depletion of thiamine in the brain, causing amnesia, and confabulation, or invented memories.
James was going to finish no matter what the cost.
On July 3rd, President Zachary Taylor stepped into James F. Rosty’s fine establishment, and was handed the finest piece of headwear he had ever seen. Taylor slid the garment onto his head, took a peek in the mirror, smiled and left without saying a word.
James had done it.
Taylor’s speech was a huge success, and Rosty hats were back on track, or so it seemed. 5 days later, James casually scooped up the evening paper from his hat shop stoop, opened it up, and stopped in his tracks. President Zachary Taylor, Old Rough and Ready, died in office.
Taylor died of acute gastroenteritis just 16 months into his term. There were also rumors that he was poisoned with arsenic, but such claims have gone unproven. These unproven claims were brought down on the shoulders of hat maker James Rosty. James had been vocal about his disapproval of the Whig party that President Taylor represented, and the previously shielded rumors of Rosty’s madness were now spreading across the city.
The people of New York turned on Rosty, “it was the hat!” they proclaimed. James turned to drugs and alcohol to dull the pain, and continued to try and make his hats, unsuccessfully. In October of 1850, James was arrested for assault after a near overdose of a unique combination of absinthe, opium, and a trace amount of mercury. The cocktail made a powerful hallucinogen. He was thrown in a Brooklyn jail, and never heard from again.
Rosty hats were burnt by the hundreds in Central Park the night of James’ arrest. Once the talk of the town, James F. Rosty had become an outcast in the hat world, and in the city of New York.
This brings us to the Frosty you know. The children had built an amazing snowman, this is not under dispute, with a carrot nose and coal eyes, Frosty was almost complete. The young boy ran to the attic of his house, to see if he could find any other props for their seasonal sculpture. In the corner, in a trunk, in a hatbox, sat one original James F Rosty hat. It was well worn, so the only letters you could see were F. Rosty, or Frosty. They both tried the hat on and played with it a bit before setting it a top of Frosty’s noggin.
This is the part of the story where Frosty comes to life, but this is not the true story.
The children’s parents came outside to the sound of hysterical laughter. Both of their offspring were lying in the snow, half naked, giggling and twitching. They took them inside, and eventually to the hospital. When they had come to, they told the story of Frosty coming to life, dancing and singing.
When James F. Rosty was arrested for assault, the opiate combination James had concocted was found concealed in the brim of his hat. This was his hiding place, and it is unknown how many other hats were filled with this powerful hallucinogenic drug cocktail.
Frosty never came to life; the kids were high as kites.
Rudolph the Red Nosed gay commie fucking liar!!!!
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Sunday, December 13, 2009
It starts...
“The tallest tree in all of Wisconsin is no bigger than a turtle”.
“No,” I said, ”this cant be true.”
“It is.” she replied.
I accepted without further question.
I accepted many many statements such as this throughout my early education, you see, I was home schooled. My mother loosely followed the curriculum for the Pennsylvania state board of education, but she would randomly throw in facts, that, as I have aged, I found make no sense.
My father was run over by a heard of oxen when I was 8. The oxen belonged to our neighbor, who had on many occasions attempted to bed my mother. The question of whether it was an accident or not still remains. Mainly because no one is certain how to train an ox. At the funeral, my neighbor brought flowers for the deceased, and flowers for my mom. The funeral was on Valentines day. Valentines day the following year, they were wed. I was 9.
By 20 my mother had officially declared me a high school graduate. I passed the exam, but decided not to continue with my education. I started work on the farm. I didn’t know anyone, and had never set foot outside of Pennsylvania. The township we lived in was Claridge Court, I could only see one other house from our property, but had never known anyone who lived there.
At 22, my mother died. To this day I have no idea how this happened. I came in from the barn, and there sat my step dad eating at the kitchen table, with my deceased mothers body on the floor 3 feet away.
“Your mom’s dead” he told me.
I left.
I didn’t see a point to stay in a house with a man that wasn’t my father and who I couldn’t consider a father figure. I had no other family in Claridge Court, and I never made any friends. So, I walked down the driveway with a bag full of clothes, $67, and a blank check I had stolen from my step dad on the way out.
This is where my story begins.
“No,” I said, ”this cant be true.”
“It is.” she replied.
I accepted without further question.
I accepted many many statements such as this throughout my early education, you see, I was home schooled. My mother loosely followed the curriculum for the Pennsylvania state board of education, but she would randomly throw in facts, that, as I have aged, I found make no sense.
My father was run over by a heard of oxen when I was 8. The oxen belonged to our neighbor, who had on many occasions attempted to bed my mother. The question of whether it was an accident or not still remains. Mainly because no one is certain how to train an ox. At the funeral, my neighbor brought flowers for the deceased, and flowers for my mom. The funeral was on Valentines day. Valentines day the following year, they were wed. I was 9.
By 20 my mother had officially declared me a high school graduate. I passed the exam, but decided not to continue with my education. I started work on the farm. I didn’t know anyone, and had never set foot outside of Pennsylvania. The township we lived in was Claridge Court, I could only see one other house from our property, but had never known anyone who lived there.
At 22, my mother died. To this day I have no idea how this happened. I came in from the barn, and there sat my step dad eating at the kitchen table, with my deceased mothers body on the floor 3 feet away.
“Your mom’s dead” he told me.
I left.
I didn’t see a point to stay in a house with a man that wasn’t my father and who I couldn’t consider a father figure. I had no other family in Claridge Court, and I never made any friends. So, I walked down the driveway with a bag full of clothes, $67, and a blank check I had stolen from my step dad on the way out.
This is where my story begins.
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