The aftermath of Challenger

Yesterday marked the 20th anniversary of the space shuttle Challenger disaster. It was a day of national tragedy, but it hit home harder in my area than in most around the country. I grew up in Clear Lake, just a few miles away from the Johnson Space Center. Many in the area were associated with NASA. So many that it was just something you took for granted. You didn't even know who was and who wasn't.

For my school, at least, this became our "where were you when Kennedy was shot" moment. I was returning from an orthodontist appointment just before 11 am, a few minutes after Challenger exploded. Some people were rushing around the halls; only a few, but still, a few more than you expect between classes. One of my best friends spotted me and blurted, "The space shuttle blew up!" I had no better response than, "Wha--?" I hadn't even realized there was a launch that morning; it had become so routine that no one paid attention anymore. I almost didn't believe him, but he was an amazingly honest guy, never one to lie. Still, it didn't sink in. Shuttles don't just explode.

Then teachers started dragging TVs into the halls. For the first time, I saw that infamous shot of two plumes of smoke going skyward where there should only be one. My school spent the rest of the day in the halls, glued to the TVs, stunned. For hours, we held onto hope based on spotty reports that the crew cabin just might have survived intact and maybe, just maybe, had miraculously landed safely in the water. Of course, that was not to be.

While the media focused on the reactions from teacher and shuttle passenger Christa McAuliffe's school, many in my school and others in the area had personal ties to the crew as well. The pilot was Mike Smith. His son, Scott, was one of my classmates; his daughter was in my sister's school. Mission specialist Ellison Onizuka's younger daughter had been one of my sister's best friends a couple years earlier, and his older daughter was a grade or two below me in my high school. The commander, Dick Scobee, lived on my street. However, all of these connections were fairly indirect for me. Scott and I were passing acquaintances at best. I don't think I ever met Mr. Onizuka, though I'm sure my sister did. And we never knew the Scobees; they lived almost 15 houses down on the other end of our street. We only discovered this because all week after the accident, a herd of media vans was parked outside this house that said "The Scobees" on the mailbox.

A few days later, President Reagan's motorcade passed within sight of our house (as well as hundreds of other homes that were four houses away from his route, of course) on its way to the memorial service at the Johnson Space Center. It was a somber time in our community. And it was weird to see a few people I kinda knew or went to school with on national TV, sitting just a few feet away from the president.

Needless to say, the February issue of our school newspaper focused on Challenger. I wrote an editorial talking about how we had to continue the space program for the sake of the Challenger crew. I know, advocating going forward and not quitting the space program, what a controversial stand for me to take. As if NASA were in any danger of closing up shop. I'd thought I had something important to say, but it was nothing anyone with half a brain couldn't see for themselves. I was a stupid, naive kid swept up in the emotion of the moment, okay? Let's just say that that piece, clearly written by a high schooler, didn't make it into my portfolio. However, we did get Scott to come in for an interview for the cover story, and our editors wrote a good example of journalism that hopefully covered up my silly editorial.

National media coverage of our school in the wake of Challenger got us labeled a rich school. Articles talked about the fleet of Mercedes and Beemers and other luxury cars in our student parking lot. Okay, there were maybe three or four nice cars in the parking lot for a school with, say, 1500 students of driving age, but it was pretty damn rare. Everyone I knew kept looking around to find out who these alleged luxury-car drivers were, but we sure as hell didn't know anyone. But, the media decided we were a rich school, so that was that.

Eventually things calmed down, and within a week, some students even started spreading Challenger jokes in school. I thought it was completely tasteless, but I guess that's how some people cope.

The Challenger disaster was a horrifying, numbing event in my school and community. It wasn't a 9/11, but in Clear Lake, it was a lot closer than you might think. At the time, it was huge and unprecedented. And it's certainly an event I will never forget...

Life as a Coconut follow-up

In an earlier post, I related how on a few occasions, I've been taken for Hispanic.

Add one more to that list.

In December, Tom and I went on a day trip into West Texas with Alan, the producer/director behind the six-man football documentary that we're helping out on. We were going to shoot an interview with the daughter of a six-man football coach. Simple enough. But, having blogged just days before about my experiences in small-town Arkansas and Oklahoma back in the '90s, I was keenly aware that we'd be heading through a bunch of small towns. And I couldn't help wondering what my reception in small-town Texas would be like.

So I made a decision that Saturday morning. I hadn't shaved in several days (the length of time between when I shave has lengthened during my unemployment), so I decided not to bother that day either. I thought that might help me pass for Hispanic and I wouldn't feel out of place.

Somewhere in a town near the town of Coleman, we had lunch with our interview subjects at a Tex-Mex restaurant. The waitstaff were all Hispanic. As we ate, I looked around the restaurant. Not once did I feel stared at or uncomfortable. I blended in just fine. No Arkansas or Oklahoma experience here.

Then our waitress came to clear our plates. I had eaten all I could, but my plate wasn't totally clean. So the waitress asked me if I was done with my plate, and if it was okay for her to take it.

At least, that's what I assume she was asking. For she asked me in Spanish. I caught the word "platos," which I was pretty sure is "plate." Only pretty sure because I don't know Spanish. Yes, silly me, during high school in Houston, I took German instead of Spanish. I guess I thought I'd settle down in New Braunfels. So I just kept repeating, in English, that yes, I was done and she could take my plate. She kept asking me in Spanish. I tried indicating with my hands that I was done while repeating that verbally. After a couple of rounds of this, she finally understood and cleared the table.

That also reminds me that about a month earlier, a Hispanic cashier at Best Buy asked me if I spoke Spanish after he and another Hispanic cashier had been joking around in Spanish. He seemed to realize I might have understood them. But I'm not sure if he asked because he thought I might be Hispanic also or simply because in Texas, anyone of any race could know Spanish.

Nevertheless, at least in the case of the Tex-Mex restaurant, add one more notch to the column of Hispanics who thought I was Hispanic. The key seems to be not shaving for a few days...

Tales from a whorehouse

While in Ketchikan, AK during last year's cruise, we decided to tour an old whorehouse. Or more specifically, a whore's house: Dolly's House. There wasn't anything really spectacular to the house-turned-museum, plus I was very distracted by the fact that whatever Cokes I'd had that morning were catching up to me and I needed the bathroom badly. REALLY badly. Fortunately, the whorehouse museum had a bathroom ... the actual bathroom of the house, which was also part of the tour. The woman at the ticket counter advised me to use the lock or I'd become part of the tour.

So after Barbara and Lisa were done examining Dolly's shower curtain, which was decorated with French condoms, and her medicine cabinet (see below), I shooed them out, locked the door, and used the facilities before the next group of tourists came through.

Dolly's bathroom
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But that's not the reason for this story. More interesting than the condom shower curtain were the items in Dolly's bedroom. They had some of her personal effects in a glass display case. Upon seeing the following ancient, um, "neck massager," what was Lisa's reaction?

"Uhh ... NO."

Click photo to enlarge

Another heart-stopping game. Literally.

On Sunday, the underdog Pittsburgh Steelers went into Indianapolis to play the Colts, the odds-on favorites to go to and win the Super Bowl. No one outside of us Steelers fans gave Pittsburgh any chance of beating the mighty Colts, and even I thought they'd have to play a near-flawless game to win. But the Steelers dominated the Colts and were well on their way to winning, even with some horrible officiating going against them (and that's not sour grapes; the NFL even admitted a crucial game-changing call that went for the Colts was wrong). Still, the Steelers were hanging on.

Then, with about 17 seconds on the clock, the Colts lined up for the tying field goal. Pittsburgh, of course, called a timeout to "ice" the kicker. Already angry with how the game had progressed in part because of the bad officiating, I grumbled rhetorically how often icing the kicker really works. In response, Tim quoted the same study I'd heard, which is that it makes no difference. I groused that there was no point doing that here either. Especially with the most accurate kicker in the history of the NFL at home in a dome. Still, the Steelers tried to ice him. I figured, we're going to overtime. Icing the kicker never works.

And then the kick sailed so far right it was an obvious miss from the start. It wasn't even close. The Steelers held on despite the odds.

I guess that's why coaches call that timeout on reflex, even when it almost never works.

Similarly, the Colts' coach had challenged an interception that could have sealed the game a few minutes earlier. All replays clearly showed the Steelers player picking off the ball. But coaches always challenge such plays near the ends of games on reflex, just in case. And in this one case, even though it shouldn't have been, the interception was overturned. The "just in case" strategy worked. Almost gave them the win.

I guess there's some lesson here about doing something even when the odds are against you. To trying, just in case.

Afterwards, fellow Steelers fan Erol emailed me and wrote, "That was almost a last second disaster for Pittsburgh. Oh my god. Are they trying to give their fans heart attacks?"

Turns out, in one case, the answer was yes.

A heart-stopping Rose Bowl

It's 1:30 am, and in the past couple of hours I've vacuumed, mopped, wiped the countertops, and done a load of laundry. Sure, it's good to clean up right away after you've hosted a party, but mostly, I've done all this because I'm only now starting to come down off the adrenaline rush of the incredible finish of the Rose Bowl. The Longhorns came back from 12 down in the final 5 minutes to beat the megahyped USC Trojans. I think there were about 30 heart attacks in my house in those final few minutes. UT actually has a national championship again. Incredible. And what an unbelievable finish.

To you Aggies, Red Raiders, and Sooners out there, I'm not gloating. I'll be happy for you whenever this happens for your schools (certainly, the Sooners have had plenty to sing about in that arena). After all, if the Longhorns can't win it, might as well keep it within the Big 12 family, right?

What was so great about tonight -- besides the Longhorns winning -- was how much that final quarter pulled everyone at the party together. For an instant -- just an instant -- it looked like it might be over for UT. The room was quiet. Some people started to get ready to leave. But before anyone could leave, the comeback began. The room was electric. Suddenly, everyone was glued to the TV. It was a mind-numbing roller coaster. The communal joy at the end was infectious. What a great finish. This pretty much sums it up:

Click photo to enlarge


Click photo to enlarge

A new twist on an old dream

You're in class, it's finals time, and holy shit! You haven't studied! You haven't been going to class all semester! I'd love to see some research into to why this is such a universal recurring dream. Mine usually has the added aspect of my not having dropped a class I meant to, and so not only have I not studied, I'm not even sure where the classroom is, and I sure as hell haven't done that paper that was such a huge part of my grade.

However, I hadn't had this recurring dream for a long time. But sometime this morning, that ol' dream returned -- but in a fairly in a different form. Not necessarily interesting, but different. I was at my desk in class of course. I think it was supposed to be college. The teacher had passed out our tests, but I was distracted, so I didn't hear all of her instructions. But I was able to gather that it was mostly short essay questions. And for some reason, we were allowed to have all of our notes with us. My desk was a mess as a result. I even had papers on the floor by my feet. And the test got mixed up in all that, and I couldn't find it. But after a lot of shuffling, I finally found the test and started writing my essay.

Of course, I had considered dropping this class earlier in the year, so I hadn't studied at all. At first the questions appeared to be about a book we were supposed to read, which, naturally, I hadn't. I wasn't sure if I was gonna be able to bullshit my way around it. However, after a couple of minutes, I realized my answers sounded familiar. As if this was a test from earlier in the semester. I looked at my neighbor's test, and it was totally different. The first page even had a non-essay section. Somehow, in shuffling through my papers, I'd pulled out a previous test instead. So I scrambled and found the current test and started on that. The problem was, the non-essay part were xeroxed badly. It was then I realized that the teacher had acknowledged that and told us to continue with the short essay questions while she ran off better copies.

The weird thing was the non-essay part of the test. It was a table with lots of rows and about 10 columns. The first half of the table was all filled in with words; the rest of the rows only had words in the first few columns, while the rest were blank underlines. The whole thing was some sort of weird conjugation table. The instructions said to look at the patterns in the first half of the table, then use that to figure out how to fill in the rest. There were no column headings; you had to figure out what each column represented.

The first column in each row was a word. The next columns were homonyms of the first word, adjective forms, the originating Latin word, fragments of the word, compound forms of the word, and so on. But the actual pattern, if there was even one, was impossible to figure out. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason as to what went in which column. Add to that the fact that it was hard to read with the bad copy job.

I skipped to the short essay questions and waited for the better copies to arrive. I got through some of the questions, then realized it was about 4:45 pm. Class was supposed to end at 5. I asked the TA, who said we had some extra time because of the mixup, so tests were now due at 5:13 pm.

I looked through my test to see whether I could do that, figured it was possible, and, a little nervous, started into the home stretch. Around this point, I woke up partway. I rolled over with the thought that I needed to hurry up and fall asleep again so I could finish my test. And as I returned to slumber, I returned to the test ... and realized that this table was stupid! What kind of test was this? This isn't important. I don't have to finish it. It's a dream!! HA!! Take that, teacher!

So I didn't even bother completing the test. And my dream morphed into something else instead, or just stopped altogether.

Why I had the "I'm back in school" dream this time, I'm not sure. But I'm much more curious what was up with that complex conjugation table...