A Tribute to Mr. J. L. Spain

"Mmmmmmm !!!!!!!!!" he grumbled with his shiny head and jet black hair from behind the wooden podium. "To-DAY," he began, jutting out his jaw like Thurston Howell III, "we will be discussing plant re-pro-duction." His voice, although gravely, had a thick southern accent. He wore an old-fashioned dark suit and tie, and had a bulky 12 inch Motorola walkie talkie attached to his hip which connected him directly to the school office. If you caught him before or after school, he sometimes sported a fedora, made popular later by Indiana Jones.

He walked about the class, thumping the back of his head with a black rubber stopper attached to a 2 1/2 foot long wooden dowel. The teacher was Mr. Spain, one of the wonderfully eccentric, colorful, and patiently talented teachers who served at Ridgeview High School.

"MMMMmmmm !!!!" he grumbled again as a penny rolled forward towards the front of the classroom. "PENNY!" he grinned with satisfaction as he pinned it to the floor with the stopper end of his pointing stick, scooping it up. They were just pennies to us, a reason to distract the class, but to him, they held value. He had grown up in a time when a dozen pennies could buy a loaf of bread or a hamburger. He supposedly kept a count of the pennies he had acquired in class- over a thousand at one point. No one knew if he was just making up the number up or if he really did keep count.

Mr. Spain continued his lesson only to be interrupted by a young girl who was babbling with her friend. "BETH MINOR! That will be a .... Note-A-Shun...." he corrected, jutting out his chin pronouncing the word as he began to get out his book of class offenses.

"Oh, PLEASE, Mr. Spain! Don't give me a Notation. I did not know class had started. Really! I deserve a second chance."

"A second chance eh? Allright. I'll give you a second chance.... I-DEN-TIF-Y... Oogonium." (he would throw out some impossibly difficult vocab word that only the most astute would remember.)

"OOoooonnneee..." he drew the word out, as Beth, in this case, stuttered and stumbled making up some kind of purely nonsensical baloney. It was hilarious.

"Twooooo..."

"Oh, it's um, it's this thing, this plant thing, yeah, and it's got this planty kind of stuff...."

"THREE! THREE STRIKES AND YOU'RE OUT!" He would grumble to himself some more as he made the notation in his book. "Mmmmmmm...."

At one point a student began a comic strip there at the school called "The Adventures of Bubblehead," which was quite popular as I recall. It featured the Mr. Spain (Bubblehead) with the muscular body of Superman zooming into the sky to write notations, capture pennies, and destroy the Japs.

When we got bored, we would ask him to tell us stories about World War Two (also to use up class time.) I'm certain he knew our motivations, but many times he relented and regaled us with tales of his exploits. "Mr. Spain, tell us about the war!" someone would raise their hand, asking eagerly.

"I remember when I was in Burma..." his voice would grate through the silent class. "The time was twenty three hundred and forty five hours..." (military time, which made little sense to us high schoolers- HEY! The clock only goes up to TWELVE!!! But no one interrupted him, even hearing the story for the second or third time.)

"There were two girls there... MIMI and FIFI (he did not go into specifics, only telling us their names) We were in our tents that night, but the JAPS had us surrounded...." Then he would go into this speil about the fighting that occurred that night.

Such wonderful times. We did not really understand it, but we were in the presence of a war hero.

Before tests, he would have what was called the "Maaaad Minute," where anyone could ask him anything that might be covered on the test. Usually, it was filled with wise guys asking completely inane questions that had nothing to do with the class! Afterwards, he would line up our tests on his podium and grade them in just a few minutes with a thick red marker after we had taken them. This was in a time before scantrons were used.

At the end of the school year when asked to sign our yearbooks instead of writing a personalized message, he would get out a big stamp that had his signature engraved in rubber, which he would then stamp underneath his picture! How odd but truly endearing.

In retrospect, I am still very thankful to have been in his class. Yes, I have since then forgotten much of the high school biology he taught us, but he was a wonderful teacher and a wonderful person. Sadly, he has now passed on as many of our WWII vets have, but Mr. Spain, wherever you are, thank you. And here is a penny for you =).

G.Houtchens
armchair coach
amateur historian

For American Idol Fans Only

For American Idol Fans only:

Recently I have observed how many, many people follow dancing and singing reality shows on TV. This includes many of my friends and colleagues on Facebook. I made a comment stating how American Idol (which in a manner of speaking, is sacrilegious,) should be permanently pre-empted by the show the $1.98 Beauty Contest. This gave me the idea for this article, which illustrates what happens when we clutter our minds with tripe.

To make my point even more pointed, here for you now is a clip from that same show. Now, THIS is how television should be done! WARNING: I take no responsibility whatsoever for those who choose to watch this video. You will most probably go deaf, dumb and blind. This is fitting if you do watch American Idol, as you are most probably deaf, dumb and blind already. Should you not be doing something more scholarly and intellectual with your time, say, maybe, playing WWF Wrestling on your XBox 360?

Rip Taylor.... This makes me embarrassed I am from the 70's. Don't say I did not warn you.

Carnac the Magnificent

Carnac: The answer is.... (holding a closed envelope to his head, and "reading" what is inside)...

Michael J. Fox as a vampire hunter.

Ed McMahon: Michael J. Fox as a vampire hunter....

Carnac: [annoyed look] Do you hear an echo?

Ed McMahon: Haw! Haw! Haw!

Carnac the Magnificent opens the envelope tearing it along one side, and blows into it, removing the piece of paper. The drums roll....

Carnac: The question is... What is Stake N Shake?

Audience: BOOOO !

Carnac: May a thousand fleas build a condominium in your armpits.

I know, I know... My apologies.

G.Houtchens
armchair coach
amateur historian

PS For my students who have never seen Johnny Carson, here is a little treat:

A Touching Story of Nature

I take no credit whatsoever for the following story. It bears repeating because it is so full of win, it simply begs to be told, especially for those who have not heard it.

It is a warm and emotionally heart wrenching tale, of an elephant and a man, who find love for each other in a way that will make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, especially if you are liberal. Enjoy.

In 1986, Mkele Mbembe was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from Northwestern University. On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air. The elephant seemed distressed, so Mbembe approached it very carefully.

He got down on one knee and inspected the elephant’s foot and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it. As carefully and as gently as he could, Mbembe worked the wood out with his hunting knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot. The elephant turned to face the man, and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments.

Mbembe stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away. Mbembe never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.

Twenty years later, Mbembe was walking through the Chicago Zoo with his teenaged son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Mbembe and his son Tapu were standing. The large bull elephant stared at Mbembe, lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down. The elephant did that several times then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man.

Remembering the encounter in 1986, Mbembe couldn’t help wondering if this was the same elephant. Mbembe summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder.

The elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of Mbembe’s legs and slammed him against the railing, killing him instantly.

Probably wasn’t the same elephant.

Wow, Prezbo Makes the Right Choice!

I am amazed. I will be writing more on this later today. For now, I am glad he made the right choice and our fellow citizen is safe. See below for an excerpt from my article yesterday:

Just imagine with me for a moment: What do you think would happen if 20-30 Daisy Cutter bombs were dropped on the port from which the pirates freely operate? Do you think this piracy would cease? The world would condemn such an action, citing the poor innocents in port, who freely associate with and assist said pirates, but does the world equally condemn the absconding of millions of tons of ships and their cargo, and the taking of innocent hostages? Nope.

I am not holding my breath for the US to do the right thing. Like Clinton in the Blackhawk Down saga, (see my article on this event) our politicians would rather bend the knee to expedience than take a bold stand for what is right.

Yesterday I basically blasted Obama for being the second coming of Jimmy Carter. Now, there are still many issues I disagree with his administration on, both in foreign and domestic policies. However, I was pleasantly surprised that he could make the right call in this situation. He even got a kudo from Boortz in this instance.

At this point I am more open to see what decisions he will make. I am not optimistic, but am cautiously less disparaged about whether our president can indeed make the right calls.

G.Houtchens
armchair coach
amateur historian

Hoppin' Mad!

I'm MAD! And ya know what mad means?? Thanks for asking, I'll tell ya!

Just a few articles ago, it seems like just yesterday, I gave the Houtchens seal of approval, yes, my own approval to a show that I felt was heads up and above all the rest. It was an article called "On the Supernatural," I did back in November of 2008. Remember that one faithful readers? The one where I did extensive research and compared the various supernatural reality shows?

Yes, I gave the show Paranormal State, with its founder, Ryan Buell, a thumbs up because I felt it did a better job of investigation than the other ones. NO MORE, DEAR FRIENDS! Yes, I put my intellectual reputation on the line and got BURNED. Why?

I just watched an episode where Mr. Buell and company got to research an idiot/victim who used a Ouija board to summon up all kinds of crap that was now manifesting itself in the house. Now, one might think that enough damage has been done. But OH NO.

How do they attempt to solve the problem? By using the darned board itself, and attempting to contact spirits that way. DUMB. They also videotaped the phenomenon for the viewing audience because evidently they did not have enough ghostly footage to air in the half hour episode.

It serves me RIGHT to actually endorse a tv show and then get proven wrong by Hollywood producers who insist that titillation and ratings trump intelligence.

Folks, for the record: Do NOT mess with Ouija boards, or hang out with people who do. You are asking for TROUBLE which you do not understand. Fools walk in where angels fear to tread.

After thinking it through some more, I can't really stay mad at Ryan as he is a Christian brother. However, I am upset with what occurred on that particular taping. In retrospect, I guess I am mad because I observe these folks apparently breaking one of their own rules and worry that others might try it. Unwise!

cc: Paranormal Research Society

G.Houtchens
armchair coach
amateur historian

Semper Paratus

Above, on the day of my graduation from boot camp. I cut quite the image.

The words Semper Paratus mean "Always Ready" in Latin and much like the Marine Corps' Semper Fidelis, or Always Faithful, these are the words attached to a military force of the United States, the Coast Guard. I was a Coast Guardsman, something I am still proud of to this day.

I was a junior in college at Liberty University. Coming home over the summers to work at my father's business at Charter Catalogs was beginning to get a little old for me. When you work with members of the family, it can strain relationships. I was still a bit like Maynard G. Krebs of Dobie Gillis fame, and still had not an idea of what I wanted to do with my life, professionally after college. All the adult men- coaches and professors I knew- recommended military service. "It will make a man out of you," they said. Little did I know just how true that would be.

I was attracted to the Coast Guard because I did not really care to be blowing people up, crawling through the dirt and shoveling foxholes. The Coast Guard, on the other hand, had a more attractive mission, it seemed to me. To save lives (in search and rescue,) to be involved in drug enforcement (on our seashores,) and to monitor ports and ships for safety. That sounded like something I could go for.

I filled out all the applications and got my background check done with the police. As the Coast Guard is a small service, they really can't afford screw-ups, so they were and still are fairly picky about whom they accept. On my day of induction, I went to the recruiting station, raised my right hand, and said the pledge to defend the Constitution with my life. Then, off in a whirlwind of activity. We piled onto buses to the airport, and whisked off to the beautiful, sunny, tourist-centered town of Cape May, New Jersey. Not that I noticed any of it while I was there. A warm, congenial and friendly face greeted us on our arrival, clambering on the bus, sneering.

ALL RIGHT YOU MAGGOT HIPPIES!!! OFF THE BUS! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!

We piled over each other to get out the doors and stood at what we considered to be attention while the instructors got into our faces and screamed. Fortunately, I was a little older than some of the kids that had just come straight from high school. A few of them were not used to being yelled at, and started to tear up.

The instructors quickly singled these poor souls out, smiling in glee. WHAT'S THE MATTER, MAGGOT? MISS YOUR MOMMY? WELL, GUESS WHAT? I AM YOUR MOMMY NOW, BOY! GO AHEAD AND CRY! CRY LIKE THE LITTLE BABY RECRUIT YOU ARE! HOW ABOUT AS YOU ARE CRYING YOU GET DOWN AND GIVE ME 50 PUSH UPS, MAGGOTS! ALL OF YOU!

So we are now grunting and trying to do push ups while still at attention on the ground. WHAT A PATHETIC GROUP OF FREAKIN' LOSERS! the drill instructors continued to shout, but with more choice words. WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS? CAMP SNOOPY?

One of the recruits on the ground near me decided to answer. "No, sir." It was a bad decision, as well as a poor choice of words.

DO YOU SEE ANY GOLD ON MY BLANKETY BLANK COVER? The guy then decided to compound the mistake by actually looking at the instructor addressing him. WHO TOLD YOU TO LOOK AT ME, YOU IDIOT?

Down we went for more push ups. I was beginning to understand that the smallest foul up by anyone in our unit would get the whole unit in trouble. We quickly wised up and shut up. Then we were piled into a line and marched off to receive our gear.

In lines, we were quickly evaluated for our uniforms, both dress and work. We were issued shoes, boots, belts and covers (hats;) given a raincoat and a sea bag (which is like a really large cylindrical backpack;) and marched over to the squad bay by which time it was about 3:30 am. We were not allowed to sleep until we had made our bunks, which were called racks, the military way. Finally, we collapsed on the government issue mattresses.

Only to be woken 15 minutes later by our loving and kind drill instructor. GET UP, RECRUITS! he screamed, throwing a trashcan down the center aisle. The white, glaring, buzzing lights went on and we scrambled in our skivvies to stand at attention in front of our racks. And, as you might have guessed, there was one guy who was not phased by the lights, the screaming or the clanging metal trashcans being hurled around. He had slept right through it and was still tucked into his blankets, snoring. The drill instructor closed in on him like any caring mother would.

GEEEEEETTT UUUUUUUUPPPPPPP !!!!!!!!!!!!!! he screamed right in this guys face, his veins popping out of his head and his face turning three shades of purple. The guy woke up, screaming from fright, and scampered to stand in line at attention with the rest of us. We tried to keep a straight face.

Off we went to do morning PT. Running, jumping jacks, sit ups, push ups, you name it. Then it was off to stand in line at the barber shop, and to get our new identity as well: "Recruit." The actual title is Seaman Recruit, E-1 in the scale of ranks. The lowest of the low. We were gutter-crawling, toothbrush-polishing, watch-standing, grunt-working slime. Some of the other graduated recruits who were still on base (E-2's, the Seaman Apprentices) and a few of the folks who had taken ROTC (E-3's, Seamen) had a smidgen more respect from the instructors than the rest of us did. They were held to a higher standard, however.

Then into another line we went to get our shots and dental check up. They love shots in the military, by the way. "Don't scratch this inoculation or you will go blind. That's an order," the doctor told us. And boy, did it scratch over the next few days. That's because the little bacteria in there were multiplying, but at the same time, our bodies were building up immunities to the little buggers.

Once the entrance week was done, we were handed over to our Company Commanders. They would polish us and make us into Coast Guardsmen, or attempt to make us wash out. Lives depended on us being able to do our jobs and follow orders to the letter. Over the weeks, we became more accustomed to our routine. We began to show a pride in our appearance and our training as a unit, Tango-118. We marched with military precision, ate with military precision, slept, showered, shaved, spoke and replied with military precision.

"RECRUIT HOUTCHENS!" I squared off the corner in the hallway pivoting 90 degrees on one foot and stood at attention just inside First Class Boatswain's Mate Metts' door. The Company Commander evaluated my belt buckle, my ironed uniform, my polished shoes, my stance at attention, and my military bearing. My eyes stared straight forward at attention, my ears waited for any orders. "What is the knot of the day, Recruit?"

"Sheep shank," I replied.

"The Petty Officer of the day?"

"Petty Officer First Class Stott."

"What is general order number eleven?"

"To be especially watchful at night, and, during the time for challenging, to challenge all persons on or near my post and to allow no one to pass without proper authority."

"Mmm," he grunted. "Dismissed."

I smartly did an about face and exited the office, once again squaring off the corner with my foot.

I still remember many of the times I spent there like they were yesterday. The classes, the people, the places. Sundays were special as we were allowed to go to chapel. How deep, emotional and meaningful those services were. I was elected protestant representative to the chaplaincy from my company, and at times, spoke to my fellow recruits just before lights out concerning spiritual matters.

I left boot camp in Cape May that summer as a mature (well, more mature,) responsible, highly motivated, tightly organized and physically adept young man. If you are young and lack direction or focus, may I recommend a tour in the US Coast Guard. It will make a man out of you.

G.Houtchens
armchair coach
amateur historian