I recently posted this photo of a hat my lovely bride bought me at the Zilker Garden Festival here in Austin. As expected, a few people commented on the menacing nature of my scowl. But then one of my former students from Satellite Academy commented on it, saying “Sunscreen, Dan.”

(I guess she thought my skin looked kind of red, which I suppose it does, now that I look at it. I’ve got a minor case of rosacea, and have for some time now.)

This brought me back to Satellite, when my students used to love to comment on my skin tone. “Yo, Dan, whattsup? Why you so RED??”

“Because that’s my skin tone,” was my standard answer. Sometimes I’d use it as a “teachable moment” and talk about the rosacea.

“Yeah, but you MAD RED, Dan!” Of course all the attention would then make me turn even redder.

I learned early on not to take these moments personally. And what am I going to say, really? “Stop looking at me.”? These poor children had to look at me six hours out of their day.

I can remember some teachers getting really upset by the direct nature of the way our students addressed our appearances. One of the talk shows that were wildly popular with our students at that time — Springer, maybe — had a recurring spot that allowed kids to bring in their teachers for a makeover. My students were wild about the notion of a makeover.

When they asked me whether I’d be willing to go on the show, if they could convince the show to have me, I said, “Sure, why not?”

I never heard anything about it, so I assume they never got the call to bring their teacher in. I know, I know, it would have made a better story had I been on the show. The way I prefer to think of it is that they sent in a photo and the producers decided I was too pretty to be a “before” picture. (The photo below, notwithstanding. My wife STILL gives me hell about that shirt…)

Anyway, I’d like to officially thank Liz for her concern about my skin, and I’d also like to thank all my former students about never being too shy to speak their minds. I love and miss them all. (Well, almost all…) ; o )

Baseball in March is not the same as it is in October. There’s more tanning going on out there than anything else, really. Split-squad games with home run balls that drop over the fence into sunny patches of grass, where children run and grab for them.

I suppose the big, serious fans (no not those big, serious fans) get really into watching spring ball, but to me it’s even more like watching paint dry than it sometimes can be during the regular season. Oh, come on, don’t get like that now. You know the games I’m talking about — the ones that hit the three-hour mark in the middle of the seventh inning. And then the pitcher has the nerve to step off the rubber and go for the rosin bag, just before the batter steps out of the box, right before he’s finally ready to pitch the damn ball.

Anyway, let’s just say I doubt these pre-season baseball games get the highest ratings around.

That being said, I will cop to one thing: I love the sound of baseball. I love the din of the crowd when something happens, as well as the continuous murmuring of it when nothing happens. I love the crack of the bat, and the chatter of the broadcasters.

It all brings me back to the summers of my childhood. This was the soundtrack. My brother and father were big fans. I watched the Mets and liked them, but not to the same extent. But it was a constant, and now I associate the sounds of a baseball broadcast with home.

I don’t watch much baseball any more, although I did get excited about the Rangers last year. I don’t forsee watching many games on television this season, but they will be on once in a while, and that sound will carry through the house like a breeze. And I will feel at home.

by Ilsa Chudfen, Staff Reporter Austin, Texas The newly formed watchdog group No More Acronyms (NMA) officially condemned Education Service Center (ESC) Region XIII for going over their newly-established 50% limit in terms of acronyms. “We counted them up,” said NMA’s Director of Online Record Keeping, Alec Dunfish. “In their events list for the morning of Wednesday, March 23, 2011, they used acronyms in 7 of the 8 items posted. That’s like WAY over 50 percent.” NMA’s official condemnation is a symbolic gesture, and, as APD Police Chief Art Acevedo pointed out, “This means absolutely nothing, from a law enforcement and/or legal standpoint.” Dunfish was outraged by Acevedo’s comment, demanding an apology, “ASAP.” A spokesman for Acevedo and the APD said that Dunfish was walking a fine line by issuing invented condemnations. “Dunfish needs to mind his P’s and Q’s,” the spokesman said. In an email to the press, Chief Acevedo responded directly to Dunfish’s demand for an apology, noting “OMG, I am LMAO and ROTFL.” As for ESC XIII, Executive Director Terry Smith could not be reached for comment, but ESC XIII’s ATTAP (All Things to All People) Janet Basey rolled her eyes and was quoted as saying “TTFN” before slamming the door on this reporter’s face.

I was absolutely blown away recently, upon viewing an episode of “Master Class” on HBO. It’s a documentary series in which they have a “master” in some field or another sit down and work with a group of high school-age students who have been identified as particularly gifted in that arena.

This one featured the Swedish actress and director Liv Ullmann, who is around 70 now. She was brought in to work with five actors from around the U.S. — three boys and two girls.

They were working on a scene from Streetcar Named Desire, and I loved the way she directed them. So much love in her direction. She wasn’t “easy” on them by any means; in fact she was often openly critical of their choices, but in such a warm, supportive fashion. Her passion for theatre was evident and you could see the kids soaking it up.

Obviously, it brought back great memories for me of what it’s like to be a young actor, bonding with a teacher, and with a group of fellow actors. As Ms. Ullmann says when she first meets her students, “I’m just so happy for you. You are in the best possible work there is. No matter what happens — whether you ‘make it’ or not, this is the absolute best job you could ever have. You are together, working as a team.”

The show was jammed with amazing pearls of wisdom, but the thing that really got me was when she said goodbye to these five kids with whom she’d just spent two intensive days.

“I want to tell you a story,” she said. “I had my daughter with a man who was much older. On his 60th birthday, we had a party for Ingmar Bergman. At one point he and our 9-year-old daughter walked down to the seashore. He asked her, ‘Tell me, what do you think your 60th birthday party will be like?’

“‘I’ll have lots of friends over, and Mommy will be here, and she’ll be very old by then.’

“‘What about me?’ her father asked. ‘Where will I be?’

“‘I’ll come down to the beach, and you’ll be here, dancing in the waves. And we will dance together.’

“As you all move along in theatre, and in life, I may not be able to be with you,” Ms. Ullmann said, “but I’ll be there, dancing with you in the waves.”

I like this image. I think I like it better than the more traditional, cottony-cloud heaven we all have in our collective psyche. The next time I go to the beach, I’ll stand by the shore and imagine both my parents, dancing together, then noticing me there, smiling and opening their arms wide and welcoming me once more into their embrace.

Here is the hilarious wikipedia “explanation” of the Spanish band “Locomia”:

Locomía (also known as Loco Mia) was a Spanish pop group popular in the 1980s and 1990s. They combined elements of tropical with British music of the New Wave and New Romantics. Their first hit was the eponymous “Locomia”.

The original members were Xavier Font, Manuel Arjona, Gard Paschieer, and Luis Font. In 1987, the latter two were replaced by Juan Antonio Fuentes and Carlos Armas, followed by Francesc Picas. The band was probably as famous for its costumes as for the music. They often appeared in extravagant outfits that combined Spanish matador pants with frilly jackets done in eighteenth-century style. Fan-twirling was an important part of both their stage performance and their music videos.*

By way of an explanation, I should let you know, if you didn’t already, that the members of the (reconstituted, apparently) band lived next door to us on the top floor of 8 Cava de San Miguel, right in the middle of the ancient part of Madrid. I lived there in the late 1980’s upon my brief return to Madrid, after my mother’s death. They were pleasant enough when I would occasionally pass one of them on the stairwell or coming out of the door to their apartment. Nothing particularly unusual went on there, except for a lot of rehearsal time, with loud playback in the background. When they weren’t dressed in their garish costumes, they actually looked quite, well, normal. Kind of preppy, really.

The main annoyance that came with living next door to pop stars was that young girls would often ring our buzzer (5th floor, Right-hand side apartment) thinking it was Locomia’s (5th floor, left). There was just so much high-pitched tween screaming one could take, particularly when it came late at night. I can see how that might have gotten pretty old pretty fast.

Sadly, I left that apartment, and Spain, before getting to know any of those lads very well. I will say this for them: It was evident that they were serious dancers, who worked hard at what they did. True, their “music” (ahem) may not have stood the test of time, but don’t rule out a Locomia reunion. Couldn’t you see them opening for Lady Gaga?

I could.

* Speaking of their videos, here’s one. And oh, by the way… you’re welcome! And you have to admit it — the fan twirling is kind of cool.

I woke up this morning thinking about a line in one of my mother’s letters in which she describes the writing of one of her favorites, John Gardner. She was reflecting on him the day after his death in a motorcycle accident. “You must read at least one of his books, just to find out what beautiful writing is. When I read something by him — whether paragraphs, pages, or chapters, it’s like a person who knows and loves music listening to beautiful music. Heavenly!”

I don’t remember how this line made me feel when I received that letter back in September of 1982; I’d imagine it gave me a mixture of encouragement and fear. At age 19, I was expert in the writing of cliches. My mother must have read my stuff the way a piano teacher listens to a child starting lessons, or a monkey banging on the keys.

My writing began to improve when I worked with Tobias Wolff at Syracuse. Not coincidentally, this was around the same time that I was introduced to Sherwood Anderson, James Joyce, Chekhov, Cheever, Tolstoy and Raymond Carver — all masters of fiction and the short story — not to mention my teacher himself.

At that time Toby had not yet reached the level of fame he now enjoys. He was well known in literary circles, having published a celebrated short story collection called In the Garden of the North American Martyrs, his first. I believe his second book, a novella called The Barracks Thief had just been published around the time I first worked with Toby in 1981 or ’82.

I don’t mean to disparage or diminish the work of my high school English teachers, because I had some good ones — Bob Button, my journalism teacher at Grosse Pointe South High, who taught me to write concisely and was the first to publish my work in the award-winning school newspaper, The Tower, Mary O’Donnell, Ugo Toppo, and Renee Landau at Harrison High, who all pushed me to do better. But Toby’s insistence on making my characters believable and my writing original is what ultimately made me want to be a writer.

My mother’s letter reminds me, of course, that she was my first, and arguably most significant, writing teacher. Being a voracious reader, she instilled in me, early on, the importance of reading. Her letters have brought back into stark focus that writing is something I both love and strive to do well.

I know I’ve told myself over these last few months not to write about writing, but I feel the need to express my intention of creating a work of fiction that is symphonic. I’d like it to be a piece that is worthy of my mother as a reader with an ear for the music of great writing.

I’m not sure if maybe it’s because my week off is coming to a close, or because we had a late night last night, but today felt long and trying. To be honest, the idea of going with the whole family to the quinceanera (Sweet 15 Party) of the daughter of a colleague of my wife’s was not at the top of the list. I didn’t complain about it, however. I went at Jeanette’s pace, and we got there an hour late, which is not bad for us.

I relaxed into the place — Fiesta Gardens, in East Austin, overlooking Lady Bird Lake — enjoying the mariachi band, and the barbecue sausage. I had a dance with my wife, which is always enjoyable for me, and by that time, the beauty of the night was in full force. We were out on the patio, and the full moon was shining down on us through ratty palm trees, blowing in a gentle breeze. Jeanette and I agreed that it felt strangely like Santo Domingo.

But my favorite moment of the evening came when I looked up and saw that my wife was now dancing with another man — my five-year-old son, Jackson. I had the presence of mind to run over there and get this shot, and even though it’s blurry, I love it.

We’ve taken Diego and Jackson to many parties like this one, with loud music blasting, and people dancing and having a good time. They usually just run around in circles on the dance floor (I’m sure many of you have these kids at your parties) until they’re exhausted. Don’t get me wrong; there was a lot of that tonight, too. This was the first time, though, that one of our boys really took the time to make a serious stab at dancing with Mami.

I’m not sure whether Diego will ever be able to shake his shyness enough to dance publicly with his mom (though he was doing a mean solo robot tonight, when he thought no one was looking), maybe he will. Jackson, on the other hand, is raring to be out there in the mix, and I have a strong suspicion we’ll be seeing him cutting the rug and shaking a tail feather at many parties in the years to come.