February, 2010:

This past weekend, my oldest friend and I got together. He is a dear man whose name comes from Vaudeville. One  Mr. “Nosmo King”   For those that might not get it…Nosmo King = NO SMOKING.

OK, maybe you did get it.

Any way, I had a wonderful weekend with the afore mentioned friend from Junior High.

Nosmo has long been preparing the scrumptious repast called the the tri-tip. Endless hours of trial and error. Success and failure….until at last…the ultimate, the perfect tri-tip. Let me just say…..”yuuuuuuuummmmmmmm”. So….an afternoon of walking the isles of farmer’s markets, dialing in barbecues…filling propane tanks…ended in the most amazing  meal. We doff our caps, and say we all thanks.

And this is just the beginning of the story. For the rest, you have to peel back the pages of my book of life at least a gaborch. I just made that word up. A gaborch is the number of pages it take to go all the way back to 1978. I think we can all agree that is a gaborch.

One gaborch ago….the Kmart incident happened.

A little background….

In high school I was a band geek. So much so, that I was the President of said band my senior year. This meant, of course that the legislative bodies were under my direct oversight and the band exercised it’s power only under my approval. How dizzying. I am still reeling from the power.  But I digress…as I often do.

My senior year, I crossed the line. I went to the dark side, the choral side. Yes. I admit it.  This all culminated in my singing the national anthem at graduation, way back in 1975.  For you historians, the fall of Saigon was:  April 30, 1975 – So yes, I dodged that bullet but just barely. Somehow the fact that I could sing leaked out into the genpop.

Jump forward to K-mart back in the day of the “blue light special” where I was working my way through not going to school,  selling appliances.

It was at this juncture that my life took a particularly weird turn. Enter Cole Roberts. Yes, you know who you are. Are your ears burning? That’s because we are talking about you. Enter Cole Roberts and Scott Champlaine. These two gentelmen were in the process of producing “Godspell” the Broadway musical, way off off off off Broadway. As “off” as you can get actually. In an industrial building – theatre – in Simi Valley CA.  They walked up to me and said: “we understand that you sing” “We want you to audition to be Jesus”. And so, I did. This was the beginning of what would be a long love affair with the theatre.

From Simi Valley, Cole took this production to the CallBoard Theatre in Hollywood. Which was not so much a theatre as a church converted to that purpose. Mary Baker Eddy’s church, or so we were told. It was a little 99 seat non equity house and I became another struggling actor in Hollyweird hoping for a break. Well life went on from there to here, but this is where the title of this blog entry fits in…”Friends”

After 35 years, I spoke with Cole Roberts the other nite on the phone. It was like no time had gone by at all. Like the gaborch of pages that separated my NOW life from my Kmart life were never really there. We talked and laughed and come to find out, Cole has been telling the tale of finding Jesus at Kmart for the past 35 years as well. It is almost like time is just an illusion. And perhaps dear readers, it is just that.

Gaborch.

Peter peter pumpkin eater took a test, and was a cheater. Hi, I am Peter. I am here today with an essay about the CBEST or California Basic Educational Skills Test. First, just let me say….OMG.

Because I have had the great good fortune to have been a teacher for several years, I thought that I might want to return to that honored profession here in California. To that end, I found my way to the offices of the Santa Barbara City Schools – several months back to inquire about credentialing to teach as a substitute. I was told that I would have to have a passing score on the CBEST, and submit to a background test. I said: “No problemo” (The Terminator) and got online to register for what would be an interesting experience – test wise.

For those of you that know me…language is my strong suit. Math…well it is my short suit. Lord Fauntlaroy short. Once again I have to give a shoutout to my brutha Nosmo King who spent an exceptionally long summer with me between 10th and 11th grades re-taking HS algebra. Yes, we were a band of math challenged bruthas. But I digress. On with the story.

I took the CBEST several months ago, and scored (as you might imagine) very well on both the comprehension and composition portions of the test. Then, there was the math portion. I pooched.

So, I got back in line and re-registered to take the test again. Apparently, you can re-test an infinite number of times to retake the test until…by hook or by crook you are able to pass. Ah, here’s the rub. There are folks who take the test 3, 4, 5, 6 times just to pass and qualify to teach in the California Schools. Let us observe a moment of silence after this remark….

Now, I am not one to talk, cause as I have mentioned I totally pooched the math portion of the test. Having said that: I did the honorable thing. I Re-up’d like a marine looking for a second tour of Afghanistan (well, maybe that is a stretch) to take the math portion again. Yesterday, I took the test.

I think I did OK. The test wasn’t really difficult, and this time, I prepared long and hard. I even purchased several sample tests online, and worked diligently for hour after hour on them. I was ready. I had my number 2 pencils, and my fat pink eraser. I had read the directions completely and showed up ahead of the appointed hour.

I had worked late the nite before, and woke bleary eyed to follow my Google directions to Carpenteria High School where the ree doo was to be administered. I arrived there, and sat in my car going over my algebra notes….hoping that I would be able to shift my brain into math-mode. We will see if I succeeded and we’ll report on the results…but that just brings us to the title of this essay: Cheaters, never prosper.

There was an information desk set up at the high school, ostensibly manned by friendly folk who were there to direct you to the classroom where your particular seat was. It was a ruse. They were Nazis. One in particular – I am sure her name must have been Helga, said in a harsh tone – “Sir, you will have to remove your hat to take the test”. This gave me pause. I responded, after a brief pause: “Huh?” She reiterated: “You cant wear your ball cap during the test”.

Again, those of you who know me, can only imagine the look on my face at this remark. Of course I had to query: “Huh?” To which she replied: “You might have written test answers on the inside of the brim of your hat which would allow you an unfair advantage”. I passed a gall stone.

I looked at her, with a broken blood vessel in my eye (which she had caused) and said very simply and succinctly: “Madam, this is a randomized test. I know for a fact that there are no fewer than 10 distinctly different version of the test that are passed out in each classroom to avoid the most remote chance that someone could cheat. Add to this, the fact that I am a myopic 53 year old man who cant even see the inside of the brim of my cap. Add to this the idea that I am a person of great integrity and would never cheat on such an important test.” She looked at me like I was a Martian. Perhaps I am.

And we wonder about the teachers that are responsible for the future of our country and our world.

I invite our legislators to take this test Perhaps even President O; To experience this screening. But, with respect, I suggest you leave your ball caps at home. Pax-Out.