123 Main Street
Penticton, British Columbia,
V2A 3W1
May 25, 2011
Dear Mr. Kleats:
My name is Juan Rosario de los Santos, and I am the father of Manuel Roasrio de los Santos. My son is a member of your pee-wee soccer team, the Penticton Pounders. I applaud your willingness to spend your time coaching my son alongside the rest of the team. However, I have written to express a handful of personal concerns that have arisen throughout the course of the season. As a concerned father, I would like to work with you in fixing these minor grievances, and suggest ways in which the Pounders organization can be improved for everyone.
Throughout the last several weeks, I have noticed that your record of punctuality has been less than lustrous, in regards to your arrival to practices. I understand your busy schedule, in which you manage to juggle between your roles as father, employee and coach. However, more often than not, you arrive to practice late, forcing the kids to bide time in unproductive ways. In the instances when you show up in a timely manner, the practices have been disorganized, including little to no drills. When I have been present at practices, the only semblance of organization I witnessed was in between scrimmages, when the unhealthy snacks were being distributed. Thank you for keeping my son well-fed. Nevertheless, I would like to gently remind you that when you accepted your position as coach of the Penticton Pounders, you agreed to foster the player's skills of effort, teamwork and responsibility. If you were to show these qualities in your coaching, the children will be much more receptive to what you have to say, both in-game and out.
A few of your game-time decisions have also left me, alongside Manuel, slightly disconcerted. For example, last Saturday I watched our team's game against the Summerland Snipers. I understand the gravity of competing against our fiercest division rivals, however I was taken aback by your heated actions. Whilst gripped in a goalless draw, you mindfully ignored the team's usual substitution policy, opting instead on keeping our more gifted players playing for the majority of the game. This left Manuel off of the field for the remainder of the afternoon. Furthermore, I overheard your elevated voice at half-time, stressing above all else the importance of winning that exhibition match. I applaud your passionate coaching style, but in U-10 level soccer, the extra emphasis placed on winning can be considered crass.
After airing these grievances, I would be delighted to make suggestions for the betterment of the team as a whole. At the moment, your spotty attendance record implies that coaching the Penticton Pounders alone has become too time-consuming for your lifestyle. As a stay-at-home dad (although I prefer the term Domestic Engineer), I would be able to lend my afternoons and perhaps adopt the role as assistant coach for the Pounders. With a two coach system, your role as chief decision maker is diminished in no way. I would organize practices, run some new drills and encourage the players at half-time. With us at the helm of the Pounders organization, I foresee the remainder of the season being fun, rewarding and ultimately, a great learning experience. Thank you for taking the time to read my concerns and solutions. I look forward to a response.
Sincerely,
Juan Rosario de los Santos
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Potato Sack Debasers
Rummaging through my eighteen, wisdom-soaked years of urban living, I have resigned humanity to a bedazzled truth: we are reactionary creatures. Like flesh-toned and lumpy magpies, humans are drawn to glimmering knick-knacks, and this inherentqualitity has affected the way we present ourselves. Outward appearances discern who fits in and who doesn't. This is an undeniable fact of life, so one could imagine my horror after a particular incident within the confines of my local high school.
It is another day at prim Princess Madonna Secondary, the Material School, and I am wasting away my break in the common area. Donning that Armani shirt that plays so elegantly off of my tight-legged corduroy pants, I bide time with the rest of my svelte-looking friends. Seemingly out nowhere, a classmate sits down beside me, but something isn't right. Then, I notice what's troubling the atmosphere: this girl had the temerity to show up in the common area wearing unbranded clothing. Not one article of clothing she sported was Abercrombie, Zara, or anything in between. Did she even listen to the advice of her Polly Pockets as a child? It's as if she's trying to be unique or something.
Her egregious display of non-conformity is troubling, to say the least. Ever since we were trendy little youngings, our posessions dictated our popularity within school. Tamagotchis, Pokemon cards and Beyblades were the fuels that powered the school acceptance engine, and now they have been replaced by Hollister, Nike and Coach. The very prospect of people wearing Wal-Mart, Winners or, heaven forbid, self-made clothing to school is enough to make the school common area collectively swoon. Besides, if a short-sleeved shirt isn't $70.00 retail price, is it really worth wearing?
As a stalwart defender of spiffy-looking high-schoolers, I propose a movement that will surely quash the plight of these potato sack debasers. If schools were to simply impose a daily inspection of student clothing before first block and check that their shirts, pants and shoes are of an accepted name brand, Princess Madonna would have a student body that's truly stunning. Purge the potato sacks! Sear the self-made scarves! I have a dream that we will one day live in a world where we will not be judged by the color of our skin, but by the contents of our Gucci wallets.
It is another day at prim Princess Madonna Secondary, the Material School, and I am wasting away my break in the common area. Donning that Armani shirt that plays so elegantly off of my tight-legged corduroy pants, I bide time with the rest of my svelte-looking friends. Seemingly out nowhere, a classmate sits down beside me, but something isn't right. Then, I notice what's troubling the atmosphere: this girl had the temerity to show up in the common area wearing unbranded clothing. Not one article of clothing she sported was Abercrombie, Zara, or anything in between. Did she even listen to the advice of her Polly Pockets as a child? It's as if she's trying to be unique or something.
Her egregious display of non-conformity is troubling, to say the least. Ever since we were trendy little youngings, our posessions dictated our popularity within school. Tamagotchis, Pokemon cards and Beyblades were the fuels that powered the school acceptance engine, and now they have been replaced by Hollister, Nike and Coach. The very prospect of people wearing Wal-Mart, Winners or, heaven forbid, self-made clothing to school is enough to make the school common area collectively swoon. Besides, if a short-sleeved shirt isn't $70.00 retail price, is it really worth wearing?
As a stalwart defender of spiffy-looking high-schoolers, I propose a movement that will surely quash the plight of these potato sack debasers. If schools were to simply impose a daily inspection of student clothing before first block and check that their shirts, pants and shoes are of an accepted name brand, Princess Madonna would have a student body that's truly stunning. Purge the potato sacks! Sear the self-made scarves! I have a dream that we will one day live in a world where we will not be judged by the color of our skin, but by the contents of our Gucci wallets.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Casimir Pulaski Day- Sufjan Stevens
On the first Monday of every March, Illinois schools and offices alike shut their doors to commemorate the life of Revolutionary War hero Casimir Pulaski, but banjo twanger Sufjan Stevens tells a much different story in his song named after the state holiday. "Casimir Pulaski Day" is an intimate, short-winded narrative about a faithed man in the throes of losing his cancer-stricken friend, trying in vain to grasp the very crux of life. Adhering to the framework of a classic narrative, Stevens' sequential lyrics recount an entire story: from the time he "found out [his friend] had cancer of the bone, "almost touched [her] blouse, to the crushing instant where Stevens "thought [he] saw [her] breathing". Moreover, the song's title is poetically misleading, as "Casimir Pulaski Day" is in no way an ode to the Polish-born hero at the Battle of Brandywine. Sufjan instead mentions the Illinois-wide sabbatical metonymically to refer more specifically to his late winter loss, which took place "on the first of march, on the holiday". Sufjan sneakily slips symbolism into a song driven by plot when the climax's "cardinal hits the window", representing his beloved's death: the unexpected end to an life by an unseen yet ever-present force. And it is this force of fate that Sufjan questions at "Casimir Pulaski Day"'s conclusion, upon losing someone whom he loved deeply. "The complications when [he] sees His face" alludes to his Christian faith he toils with, as the effortlessly existential Stevens evokes a piercing sense of pathos. His feelings of frustration and angst can be felt by anyone whose lives have been beset by tragedy, regardless of status or religion. In Sufjan's case, he is pitting his Bible Belt upbringing against the ineffable pain and confusion of an unfair existence. "He takes, and He takes, and He takes" Sufjan bemoans with blue-collared sincerity, in a poem that blurs the lines between heartbreaking and beautiful.
If need be, skip work, and mull this song over. And if your boss asks where you were the next day, it's okay. Just tell him it was Casimir Pulaski Day.
Goldenrod and the 4-H stone
The things I brought you when I found out
You had cancer of the bone
Your father cried on the telephone
And he drove his car into the navy yard
Just to prove that he was sorry
In the morning, through the window shade
When the light pressed up against your shoulderblade
I could see what you were reading
All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications you could do without
When I kissed you on the mouth
Tuesday night at the Bible study
We lift our hands and pray over your body
But nothing ever happens
I remember at Michael's house
In the living room when you kissed my neck
And I almost touched your blouse
In the morning at the top of the stairs
When your father found out what we did that night
And you told me you were scared
All the glory when you ran outside
With your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied
And you told me not to follow you
Sunday night when I cleaned the house
I found the card where you wrote it out
With the pictures of your mother
On the floor at the great divide
With my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied
I am crying in the bathroom
In the morning when you finally go
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low
And the cardinal hits the window
In the morning, in the winter shade
On the first of March, on the holiday
I thought I saw you breathing
Oh the glory, that the Lord has made
And the complications when I see His face
In the morning, in the window
All the glory when He took out place
But He took my shoulders and He shook my face
And He takes and He takes and He takes
If need be, skip work, and mull this song over. And if your boss asks where you were the next day, it's okay. Just tell him it was Casimir Pulaski Day.
Goldenrod and the 4-H stone
The things I brought you when I found out
You had cancer of the bone
Your father cried on the telephone
And he drove his car into the navy yard
Just to prove that he was sorry
In the morning, through the window shade
When the light pressed up against your shoulderblade
I could see what you were reading
All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications you could do without
When I kissed you on the mouth
Tuesday night at the Bible study
We lift our hands and pray over your body
But nothing ever happens
I remember at Michael's house
In the living room when you kissed my neck
And I almost touched your blouse
In the morning at the top of the stairs
When your father found out what we did that night
And you told me you were scared
All the glory when you ran outside
With your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied
And you told me not to follow you
Sunday night when I cleaned the house
I found the card where you wrote it out
With the pictures of your mother
On the floor at the great divide
With my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied
I am crying in the bathroom
In the morning when you finally go
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low
And the cardinal hits the window
In the morning, in the winter shade
On the first of March, on the holiday
I thought I saw you breathing
Oh the glory, that the Lord has made
And the complications when I see His face
In the morning, in the window
All the glory when He took out place
But He took my shoulders and He shook my face
And He takes and He takes and He takes
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Rob and Suze
Blanketed in silence, Suze labored to regain a dreg of composure. The built-up frustration from the day's fruitlessness had manifested itself in her bedroom, minutes before bedtime. She gazed listlessly at the muted television, laying beside a total stranger.
"You still don't remember anything?"she blurted out. The timbre of Suze's crestfallen question coaxed Robert to lay down his newsprinted shield. She repeated, "Anything?"
"No," he stated flatly, "You've been asking me all day, and the answer is still-"
"I took you to Ray's BBQ! Christine, your favorite waitress, served you your favorite meal. I had to sit through the Godfather for the thousandth time and it didn't spark anything?"
Robert chewed on the question, along with the rest of the day's events. On the muted television, a commercial for perfume featured two jovial lovers, bounding across a moonlit cityscape. After mulling it over, Robert silently shook his head. "The doctors said it wouldn't be this easy. It could take months, years. Susan, It might not even-"
Suze spat, "I know what they said. I know what happened to you," Then her tone lowered into a delicate drawl, "But we were married for fourteen years. We were Rob and Suze In Two's! You even introduced us to your business partners with that stupid nickname."
"Really?" Robert quietly mused to himself. He feigned an expression of recollection, but it soon faded into deadpan, "Why on earth would I do that, Susan?"
"Stop calling me Susan. For as long as we've been married you've called me Suze." Her face was rouged with frustration. She bemoaned, "You are my husband. No, you were my husband."
Robert sequestered himself in his newspaper once again. Susan, defeated, wiped her soupy tears on the comforter and rolled over to the fringe of the queen-sized bed. The muted television still splashed novas of color into the room, but neither of them paid any attention to it.
The loud rustling of low-grade paper snuck into Suze's earshot, and she sat up. Robert's hold on the newspaper was no longer steady, as he shook and tussled with the World News section. He was misty-eyed.
"I'm reading this article about Japan," he whimpered. "Hundreds of people are dead, and thousands are homeless. There are huge pictures of toppled buildings, refugees and flooded cities. But no matter how big the headlines are, or how many times it's explained to me, I will never know what it's truly like to be in their place. To me, it's just black and white." Using his index finger, Robert carved intricate valleys and mountains into the plushness of the comforter. "No matter how hard I try, Suze," he lamented.
Sharing nothing but their bewilderment for each other, their thoughts ebbed from their cramped quarters, and silence flooded the room.
"You still don't remember anything?"she blurted out. The timbre of Suze's crestfallen question coaxed Robert to lay down his newsprinted shield. She repeated, "Anything?"
"No," he stated flatly, "You've been asking me all day, and the answer is still-"
"I took you to Ray's BBQ! Christine, your favorite waitress, served you your favorite meal. I had to sit through the Godfather for the thousandth time and it didn't spark anything?"
Robert chewed on the question, along with the rest of the day's events. On the muted television, a commercial for perfume featured two jovial lovers, bounding across a moonlit cityscape. After mulling it over, Robert silently shook his head. "The doctors said it wouldn't be this easy. It could take months, years. Susan, It might not even-"
Suze spat, "I know what they said. I know what happened to you," Then her tone lowered into a delicate drawl, "But we were married for fourteen years. We were Rob and Suze In Two's! You even introduced us to your business partners with that stupid nickname."
"Really?" Robert quietly mused to himself. He feigned an expression of recollection, but it soon faded into deadpan, "Why on earth would I do that, Susan?"
"Stop calling me Susan. For as long as we've been married you've called me Suze." Her face was rouged with frustration. She bemoaned, "You are my husband. No, you were my husband."
Robert sequestered himself in his newspaper once again. Susan, defeated, wiped her soupy tears on the comforter and rolled over to the fringe of the queen-sized bed. The muted television still splashed novas of color into the room, but neither of them paid any attention to it.
The loud rustling of low-grade paper snuck into Suze's earshot, and she sat up. Robert's hold on the newspaper was no longer steady, as he shook and tussled with the World News section. He was misty-eyed.
"I'm reading this article about Japan," he whimpered. "Hundreds of people are dead, and thousands are homeless. There are huge pictures of toppled buildings, refugees and flooded cities. But no matter how big the headlines are, or how many times it's explained to me, I will never know what it's truly like to be in their place. To me, it's just black and white." Using his index finger, Robert carved intricate valleys and mountains into the plushness of the comforter. "No matter how hard I try, Suze," he lamented.
Sharing nothing but their bewilderment for each other, their thoughts ebbed from their cramped quarters, and silence flooded the room.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Princess Margaret's Regal Calm
If one were to zero in on any streetside newsstand, close their eyes and choose one version of the day's tidings, what would they find? Chances are the front cover would include a bold-printed call to arms, whose headline is so distressing that it goads the reader to disgustedly throw his or her arms in the air, and curse the harrowing conditions of Canadian society. No visceral topic is safe from the hate-mongering newsmakers, whether it be the environment, the government or most recently, the perils deep within the recesses of a typical high school.
Often spearheading this most current anti-bullying movement is an undoubtedly tragic story of a student, whose experience as a high school outcast drove them take fatal measures. Nearly every media outlet pitch in their two-cents on the issue of teen bullying by blowing the original story out of proportion, and unloading the blame onto any facet of the high school experience. Some urge that the teachers aren't doing enough. Others say that the administration's at fault, or that the schools are too cramped. Heck, it won't be long until the schools' color schemes receive some flak. In the midst of the scare tacticians' ploy to inflame the helicopter parent's ire for $3.29 per issue, is there at least one school that triumphantly shakes off the notion that all Canadian high schools are god-forsaken grottoes riddled with heavy-handed grunts?
Meanwhile, in sleepy Penticton, British Columbia, a grey-bricked building of modest size opens its doors for the upcoming day. The Okanagan sun pierces through both panes of the westerly windows, blanketing the quaint common area with an ethereal glow, much akin to the sanguine atmosphere that the school already posesses. Granted, Princess Margaret Secondary School isn't perfect. Its sport teams aren't the best in the area, certain wings of the aging building are certainly due for some sprucing up, and with approximately 750 students, it isn't an institution of high prestige. However, this high school is unique because of its sense of community. Even though Maggie caters to any budding athlete, scholar, thespian or artist, it is largely bereft of social cliques and hostility.
Bullying and school violence is seldom at the forefront of students' minds here. A smaller population allows for a more lax social atmosphere and burgeoning school spirit, both of which make Princess Margaret more inclusive. A supportive counselling center coupled with two dedicated, action-ready pricipals make up the one-two punch against potential rabble-rousers. Even when student discipline becomes an issue,the staff at Princess Margaret refuse to hurl mea culpas at one another, simply because it is inefficient and irresponsible. Frankly, this finely-tuned balance of staff involvement and student leadership seems to be working, as Maggie's community is as tightly-knit as Grandma's woolen socks.
Often spearheading this most current anti-bullying movement is an undoubtedly tragic story of a student, whose experience as a high school outcast drove them take fatal measures. Nearly every media outlet pitch in their two-cents on the issue of teen bullying by blowing the original story out of proportion, and unloading the blame onto any facet of the high school experience. Some urge that the teachers aren't doing enough. Others say that the administration's at fault, or that the schools are too cramped. Heck, it won't be long until the schools' color schemes receive some flak. In the midst of the scare tacticians' ploy to inflame the helicopter parent's ire for $3.29 per issue, is there at least one school that triumphantly shakes off the notion that all Canadian high schools are god-forsaken grottoes riddled with heavy-handed grunts?
Meanwhile, in sleepy Penticton, British Columbia, a grey-bricked building of modest size opens its doors for the upcoming day. The Okanagan sun pierces through both panes of the westerly windows, blanketing the quaint common area with an ethereal glow, much akin to the sanguine atmosphere that the school already posesses. Granted, Princess Margaret Secondary School isn't perfect. Its sport teams aren't the best in the area, certain wings of the aging building are certainly due for some sprucing up, and with approximately 750 students, it isn't an institution of high prestige. However, this high school is unique because of its sense of community. Even though Maggie caters to any budding athlete, scholar, thespian or artist, it is largely bereft of social cliques and hostility.
Bullying and school violence is seldom at the forefront of students' minds here. A smaller population allows for a more lax social atmosphere and burgeoning school spirit, both of which make Princess Margaret more inclusive. A supportive counselling center coupled with two dedicated, action-ready pricipals make up the one-two punch against potential rabble-rousers. Even when student discipline becomes an issue,the staff at Princess Margaret refuse to hurl mea culpas at one another, simply because it is inefficient and irresponsible. Frankly, this finely-tuned balance of staff involvement and student leadership seems to be working, as Maggie's community is as tightly-knit as Grandma's woolen socks.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Application: Accepted!
I'd like to extend a hearty congratulations to you, University of Van Camp, because after a tedious and painstaking evaluation of every learning instisution this side of Ursa Major, you have been accepted to house the burgeoning polymath that is Matthew R. Gomez. You should be truly honored.
Traditionally, His Faultlessness would deliver the newly-admitted school, using his spit-polished pennyfarthing, a 16-volume historical odyssey that details the past accolades of yours truly. However, in lieu of reading the greatest epic this side of 0 A.D. , I can instead give you a crash-course lesson on past accomlishments, and what you can expect from me whilst studying at UVC. Time is scarce until my forthcoming arrival, so succinct I must be!
Well, long story short, I single-handedly proved that the alchemy movement was not in vain, and stumbled across cold fusion shortly afterwards. Long story short, King Arthur stole my junior high metalwork project, Excalibur. Long story short, bullying Genghis Khan in elementary school was a bad idea. Long story short, the Neanderthal's wheel was modeled after my belly button. I created funk. I am a prolific speaker of Gobbledygook. And greatest of all, phrem saskto qazaqa mon wez wez!
I look forward to hearing back from the University of Van Camp. After your fee has been securely wired into my account, it'd be my pleasure to attend this fall. In preparation of my residence, the following must be taken into account: All of my professors must be of royal blood (Norwegian monarchy, of course). I'm not the fondest of creamed corn, but I don't mind it either. I require a wadrobe composed entirely of the Mahatma's finest robes, and I like my eggs faberge'd. That is all, and once again, congratulations!
"Pursue lunacy, think whimsically, go hard."
Matthew R. Gomez
Traditionally, His Faultlessness would deliver the newly-admitted school, using his spit-polished pennyfarthing, a 16-volume historical odyssey that details the past accolades of yours truly. However, in lieu of reading the greatest epic this side of 0 A.D. , I can instead give you a crash-course lesson on past accomlishments, and what you can expect from me whilst studying at UVC. Time is scarce until my forthcoming arrival, so succinct I must be!
Well, long story short, I single-handedly proved that the alchemy movement was not in vain, and stumbled across cold fusion shortly afterwards. Long story short, King Arthur stole my junior high metalwork project, Excalibur. Long story short, bullying Genghis Khan in elementary school was a bad idea. Long story short, the Neanderthal's wheel was modeled after my belly button. I created funk. I am a prolific speaker of Gobbledygook. And greatest of all, phrem saskto qazaqa mon wez wez!
I look forward to hearing back from the University of Van Camp. After your fee has been securely wired into my account, it'd be my pleasure to attend this fall. In preparation of my residence, the following must be taken into account: All of my professors must be of royal blood (Norwegian monarchy, of course). I'm not the fondest of creamed corn, but I don't mind it either. I require a wadrobe composed entirely of the Mahatma's finest robes, and I like my eggs faberge'd. That is all, and once again, congratulations!
"Pursue lunacy, think whimsically, go hard."
Matthew R. Gomez
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Hallway Culture
After spending 88 serene minutes ensconced in my dearest schoolwork, the bell rings and for the next eleven minutes, I am engrossed in the experience I call hallway culture. While I try to meekly abscond to my next lesson, I'm met with the many different members of the corridors' hierarchy, almost all of whom contribute to the hallway's chaotic ambience. A seemingly short walk is lengthened many-fold by circle-groups, "walk-and text"ers, and conversing pairs. Their ostensible social prowess somehow warrants them the right to impede anguished souls such as myself. Nevertheless, my most unpleasant, re-occuring hallway ritual is the "one-on-one shimmy showdown". An almost daily occurence for me, this stand-off takes place as I make my way down an empty hall, except for one other oncoming person. As I try to avoid the head-on collision, I step to one side, only to find out that my counterpart has done the same. Presumably a defensive linebacker in another life, my opposite blocks my path once again, when I try the other direction. For a few excruciating seconds, we repeat the routine, wobbling side-to-side like two awkward dancers caught in suspended animation. The cycle can only be broken when I admit defeat and stand motionless, allowing my now-rival to scowl at my indecisiveness as he storms by me. Like a misprinted shampoo bottle, my survival in hallway culture can be attributed to three simple steps: waver, wince and repeat.
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