It’s holiday time again and that means we’re about to careen smack into the new year with little if any semblance of control.  But before then we’ll have to navigate the perilous tinsel-filled waters of office parties, dysfunctional family gatherings, crowds, traffic and general holiday mayhem.  But fear not! What follows is sage gift giving advice that will hopefully allay the madness and make your holiday shopping all the easier.

Rule # 1: if all else fails give a bottle of bubbly.  Champagne, sparkling wine, Prosecco & Cava are like a quartet of sparkling seasonal elves whose only purpose is to make your gift list shorter.  Prosecco, the DOCG variety and not the mass-produced dreck, is a personal favorite because of the deliciousness-to-value ratio.  Beyond that, for the boss or the target of your future affection a bottle of grower-producer Champagne fits the bill perfectly.  Pierre Peters and Egly-Ouriet are personal favorite producers.   

Rule #2: Give yourself a gift.  Before everyone and everything gets completely out of control remember to buy yourself something.  A great bottle of restorative spirits is just the prescription needed whether it be a top shelf Cognac, Malt Whisky or Rum.  Italian Amaros are my personal favorite and aside from the ever-restorative bottle of Fernet Branca always on my shelf I heartily recommend Braulio.  It originates from the Valtelinna district in Northern Italy and is both overtly herbal and bittersweet.  An ounce or two (or three …) is guaranteed to help guide your nimble fingers over the keyboard as your order away online.  Remember: avoid brick and mortar if at all possible.

Rule #3: Get a book!  A good book is one of the best gifts for to give and receive.  Here’s a dozen I’ve read over the last year.  All are entertaining, informative and highly recommended.

1. “Gulp: Adventures on the Alimentary Canal,” Mary Roach

“Gulp” is the latest effort from the ever-curious and equally hilarious Mary Roach.  Follow Roach as she fearlessly explores the human digestive tract like no other before with painstaking and often bizarre results including putting her hand in a cow’s stomach.  Want to know how Elvis really died?  Read and discover.

 

2. “Wine: A Tasting Course,” Marnie Old

A wine book?  Absolutely! Long-time colleague and Philadelphia-based Marnie Old’s new book, “Wine: A Tasting Course,” makes brilliant use of graphics to convey all the basics a wine newbie needs to know.  It’s become my new go-to book for beginners.  Highly recommended.

 
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3. “An Astronaut’s Guide to Life on Earth,” Colonel Chris Hadfield


Canadian-born Chris Hadfield spent decades training to become an astronaut and ultimately logged over four thousand hours in space.  His “Astronaut’s Guide” chronicles his years of training and space exploration including six months aboard the International Space Station where he was an integral part of scientific experiments not to mention producing and performing a zero-gravity version of David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” which received over ten million views.

5. “One Summer: America, 1927,” Bill Bryson

I’m a huge Bill Bryson fan and his new effort doesn’t disappoint.  In “One Summer” Bryson spins his narrative magic describing in detail the months that made up the summer of 1927, a very short period time crammed with remarkable events and characters including the likes of Lindberg crossing the Atlantic, the Sacco-Vinzetti trial, the secret origins of the Great Depression, Al Capone, Jack Dempsey, Babe Ruth, Charles Ponzi, Herbert Hoover and much, much more. After reading it I’m once again struck at how much there is to learn about American history.  Highly recommended.

 

6. “Letters to a Young Scientist,” Edward O. Wilson

Pulitzer Prize winner Edward O. Wilson is an emeritus professor of biology at Harvard University.  Wilson is considered to be one of the world’s preeminent scientists and has taught and counseled thousands of students over the course of his career.  In his book “Letters” Wilson makes a surprising argument that success in the sciences is not dependent on math skills or a stratospheric I.Q. but rather one’s passion for finding and solving problems.  He also calls for a more broad synthesis of the sciences and humanities in the decades to come so future generations of students will be inspired to solve the major problems that face the human race.  More than anything, reading “Letters” is like having a one-on-one chat with one of the great teachers of our time. Inspiring!

 

7.  The Ocean at the End of the Lane,” Neil Gaiman

Neil Gaiman is one of the great fiction writers living today.  His earlier works include Coraline, Stardust, American Gods and Neverwhere.  In his new novel “Ocean at the End of the Lane” Gaiman weaves a magical tapestry where the lines between reality, fiction and fantasy challenge the reader in delightful ways.  It’s become my favorite Gaiman book and it’s sure to please any fiction-lover on your gift list.



 

8. “Smoke & Mirrors,” Neil Gaiman

Another Gaiman book and the perfect airplane book.  “Smoke & Mirrors is a collection of some of Gaiman’s best short stories and poems; all wildly imaginative and perfectly, completely creepy.  

9. "Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!” Richard P. Feynman

Nobel-winning physicist Richard Feynman was one of the most brilliant scientists of the 20th century.  For better or worse, Feynman was an instrumental part of the Manhattan Project that created the atomic bomb ending World War II and ushering in the Cold War. Aside from his work in physics Feynman was also an outstanding teacher/lecturer at Cal Tech and he penned multiple books on his thoughts on everything from explaining the basics of science to gambling in Las Vegas to working on physics problems while sitting in strip clubs.  “Surely You’re Joking,” is one of Feynman’s best and most entertaining volumes.  

10. "How to Raise a Happy Child,” Heather Criswell & Taryn Voget

A book on raising kids for x-mas?  Am I kidding?  Not in the least.  “How to Raise a Happy Child” is the brainchild of Heather Criswell and Taryn Voget.  Taryn is a corporate trainer/speaker and NLP specialist and Heather has worked with over 20,000 kids during the course of her career in the child care industry.  Together they deconstruct Heather’s strategies for dealing with every possible kid scenario from the most trivial to the most horribly nuclear.  But what is especially impressive is that the book is one of the best manuals on intra-personal communication I’ve ever come across.  The strategies listed in its pages are priceless for dealing with kids of any and all ages from toddlers melting down all the way to your passive-aggressive boss. “How to Raise a Happy Child” is the one book I wished I would have had 25 years ago before my kids were born.  It would have made my life exponentially easier.   

11. "Color: A Natural History of the Palette,” Victoria Finlay

Victoria Finlay’s “Color” is a wonderfully written history of all the colors found in an artist’s palette. From ochre all the way to violet each color has a fascinating, complex and sometimes perilous story.  Finlay chronicles the super-spy -level intrigue needed to smuggle the tiny cochineal beetles out of Central America ultimately resulting in the original scarlet red; how the essences of the color orange originated in India and traveled to Italy through the Middle East only to become part of the secret concoction used varnish the great violins of Guarneri and Stradivarius; or how the exiled Emperor Napoleon died from arsenic poisoning not at the hands of his incarcerators as long thought but from mold growing on the emerald green wallpaper lining his apartment that created toxicity that would eventually be his demise. A great read!

 

12. "Everything’s Coming Up Profits: The Golden Age of Musicals,” Steve Young & Sport Murphy

This book to be filed under the category of strange, wacky and delightful--as in an entire musical genre you’ve probably never heard of.  While the great musicals such as “My Fair Lady,” “Oklahoma,” and “Carousel” are widely known (even if not nearly as popular as they once were), for several decades running the same talents—literally from writers to performers—crafted hundreds of stage musicals for the big corporations of their day, from John Deer Tractors to the Ford Motor Company to the Maiden Form Bra.  That’s right, full-blown staged musicals with casts, plots (sort of), bands and full scores where stars of the stage (and sometimes screen) belted out tunes about the beauties of selling the newest, shiniest tractor, pickup or bra.  Steve Young, long-time writer for the David Letterman show, and industrial musical vet Sport Murphy chronicle the history of the industrial musical through the decades.  “Everything’s Coming Up Profits” is a perfect coffee table book filled with delightful period illustrations and photos.  

“Music has Charms to Soothe a Savage Breast”

                                                                           William Congreve

Music has been called the universal language.  It’s the aspect of our culture that arguably moves us more than anything else--other than sex.  Mankind
cherishes and values music so much that snippets of several of western civilization’s musical highlights including the song “Johnny B. Goode” and the first movement of Beethoven’s 5th symphony were sent into space along with the two Voyager probes in 1977 in the hopes of ultimately reaching extraterrestrial life and demonstrating that we as a race are intelligent. Ahem.   

But what happens when music goes wrong?  Sure there’s plenty of what can generally be considered bad music and much of it from the 1970’s--which by the way was my formative decade.  Catch a mere smidge of any of these truly bad songs and you may be stuck with it for the rest of your day and auditorily maimed, so to speak.  Yes even a mere five second exposure to the likes of “MacArthur Park,” “Take a letter Maria,” “Honey” or “Muskrat Love” is enough to stun the naked mind. I apologize for even bringing up these cursed tunes and hope you will read on.  

But beyond simply bad music like the songs listed above there are other times when musical mismatching of monumental proportions takes place; where the performers, the performance, the music and/or the context is so epically wrong as to defy all logic much less lofty imagination.  These are special musical moments indeed and here are three of my favorites.  Read on, listen and enjoy.

Exhibit A: The Leningrad Cowboys Play “Sweet Home Alabama” with the Russian Army Chorus

It’s doubtful that you’ve heard of the subject of our first sonic implosion.  If by some chance you have then you know that the Leningrad Cowboys were and still are a Finnish band known for their exaggerated hairstyles and costumes.  The Cowboys are further known for performing a wide range of popular '70's and '80’s covers not to mention some very slick polka tunes.  Beyond that the band also has a cult following for their filmed concerts, in particular the “Total Balalaika Show” first released in 1994. The film is of a 1993 performance of the group in Helsinki accompanied by the 160 member Russian Alexandrov ensemble and chorus.  The highlight of said concert even above an inspiring rendition of  “Stairway to Heaven” has to be Lynyrd Skynyrd’s 1974 ode to southern rock, “Sweet Home Alabama.”  Know that the Cowboys are a pretty decent cover band that manage to do justice to anything they play.  But the combination of remarkably outlandish hair/outfits with the minions of straight-laced Russian lads in staid brown uniforms belting out “Sweet Home Alabama” is impossible to describe. It
must be experienced:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKD7g56DNN0

Exhibit B: Lawrence Welk and “One Toke over the Line”

Even in my naïve youth I could sense an incredible rift in TV reality played out weekly on early Saturday evenings on our local Albuquerque ABC affiliate.  Precisely at the 7:00 hour just before the listening audience was about to go face down in their TV dinners due to a combination of starch, fat and various medications, conductor and accordion player extraordinaire Lawrence Welk and his band of renown offered up 60 minutes of what can only be called well-scrubbed sonic dry wall.  Each and every week Larry and the band would offer up bits of perky tunes so removed from musical reality that their source had to be a portal into some bizarre alien universe or the result of a cruel government anti-youth plot.  

Likewise I’m sure that Larry struggled with all the music/noise born in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, when musicians began to plug their instruments into wall sockets and play louder than proverbial hell (This not to mention the long hair, the outlandish clothes and the steaming morass that defined the morality of the times).  But every now and again Welk and his band would bravely foray into the murky waters of rock and roll and always with mixed results at best.  The finest example surely must be their 1971 rendition of Brewer and Shipley's ode to marijuana and excess entitled, “One Toke over the Line.”  It’s a song I remember from high school; a song that’s definitely forgettable unless of course you tried to embody the spirit of its lyrics in which case remembering anything other than your name became major sport not to mention the power-eating of junk food. 

But did Lawrence and company realize what the song was about especially with Welk himself calling it a “modern spiritual”?  And did bashful Dick Dale and perky Gail Farrell really get what being “one toke over the line sweet Jesus” meant?  Probably not but then we are the benefactors, yea the grateful recipients, of this momentous occasion in the history of musical short circuitry.  Watch, listen and enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8tdmaEhMHE

The holidays are upon us and that means the unforeseen and unexpected need for gifts for people who you wouldn’t normally give anything to much less hang out with--as in your boss, a just-paroled relative or your ex.  With that in mind I’d like to make a blanket gift recommendation in the form of a bottle of bubbly.  That’s right, a gift bottle of sparkling wine (or better yet Champagne) says “happy holidays” or “I kind of like you” or even “hasta luego” like no other.  And let’s face it, if the recipient of your generosity doesn’t appreciate a bottle of bubbly they probably have issues and you wouldn’t want to hang out with them anyway.  Ah such a magic time of the year!

Speaking of the holidays, I have a holiday ritual that I’ve maintained for many years (it’s a birthday ritual too).  It’s nothing remotely exotic or strange and in fact it’s really quite simple: I always give myself a Christmas or birthday present.  My thinking is that other people don’t know what you really want for Christmas or your birthday and if you let them know with any lack of subtlety it will only serve to annoy the hell of out them.  So to preserve the peace, maintain sanity and to just make yourself fell all warm and fuzzy inside, buy that little special something for yourself.  For me these delightfully self-inflicted gifts tend to be books because there’s really nothing like diving into a good read.  Here’s a half dozen of my favorites.  All are guaranteed to please.

1. Kitchen Confidential, Antony Bourdain: Long before his exit from the food channel and entry into the lifestyle travel universe Tony Bourdain was an accomplished chef at Les Halles in New York.  Kitchen Confidential is a personal memoir of his ascent from CIA grad to that restaurant with all the stops in between.  Aside from a great read this book should absolutely be required reading for anyone hallucinating opening their own restaurant or considering attending a culinary school.  The term “reality check” doesn’t even begin to do it justice.  The chapters “A Day in the Life” which profiles the insane schedule of a chef on a typical Friday and “The Level of Discourse” which breaks down the complex and monumentally obscene pirate dialect of the kitchen are must reads. 

2. A History of the World in Six Glasses, Tom Standage: I’ve given away over a dozen copies of this book and it should be on every beverage professional’s shelf.  There are only six chapters in the book: beer, wine, spirits, tea, coffee and Coca-Cola.  Standage, a contributor to the Economist, offers a unique perspective of world history and the great civilizations in the context of these six beverages.  Read and enjoy. 

3. The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, Bill Bryson: Many are the times I’ve been on a flight and been shushed or on the business end of ugly glares because of my repeated snorting, laughing and loud guffaws while reading a Bryson book.  The Thunderbolt Kid is my favorite among them all.  It’s a gentle, funny and completely irreverent memoir of the author growing up in Des Moines in the 50’s and ‘60’s.  Delightful.

4.  Coming to My Senses, Alyssa Harad: Harad’s beautifully written book details her love affair with perfume and gives us a glimpse into the unique and complex world of scent.  After reading it I’ve come to believe that the perfume world has much to teach us in the wine world.  Coming to My Senses is a good start.  This my favorite book of 2012--highly recommended. 

5. Cooking with Fernet Branca, James Hamilton Patterson: A completely skewed and wickedly funny novel that defies description.  And yes, it does have recipes calling for Fernet including one called “Alien Pie.” I will say no more. 

6. The James Bond series, Ian Fleming: The recent release of Skyfall with Daniel Craig breathed new life into the now fifty-year-old run of James Bond movies.  But before Sean Connery ever uttered, “Bond, James Bond” to Ursula Andress or some other galactic babe on the big screen there were 14 books detailing the exploits of the world’s most famous MI6 spy. If you’ve just seen the movies, not read the books and always wondered what the big deal was all about you’re definitely missing out.  Fleming created the spy novel genre and owned it until his premature death in 1964 at the age of 56.  All the Bond books clock in at under 250 pages so they make great airline reads and the precision and detail of Fleming’s writing, especially with food and drink, are simply a joy.  From Russia with Love, Goldfinger and Thunderball are my favorites.  Suggestion: go on eBay and pick up a complete set of all the books in the old original Signet paperbacks from the ‘50’s and ‘60’s. It’s surprisingly inexpensive.  And remember, it’s vodka and always shaken and not stirred. 

I transferred to a different school early in the first semester of eighth grade, moving from a small very conservative Catholic school to a much larger public junior high. Rather than be traumatized at the move mid-stream I was elated at having escaped the clutches of a nun who could best be described as “not completely nailed down.”  Aside from having a chance to play trumpet in band again the best part of my new school experience was English class with Ms. Prenkins.

The lovely and brilliant Emily Prenkins was the kind of English teacher every kid dreams about.   She was just a few years out of grad school and young enough to be able to speak meaningfully and empathetically to us students trapped in the pubescent hormonal wilderness and yet old enough to be able to share the wisdom of adulthood without all the baggage.  During that first semester Ms. Prenkins sought to bring out the creative voice in all of us.  She coaxed clumsy poetry out of the lumbering football players who otherwise lorded over the back of the classroom.  She pushed us to write short stories and to ponder the mysteries of Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine.  Going to school may have been drudgery but going to Ms. Prenkins’ English class at fifth period right after lunch was the highlight of any day.

However, there was a cloud on this sunny horizon in the form of Ms. Prenkins’ tummy which gradually began to expand as the fall progressed.  I have to say that if left to us boys to take notice it would have come to our attention just before the birth of the child.  Thankfully the girls were quicker to pick up on it and soon whisperings of Ms. Prenkins “being with child” as they like to say in the good book filled the school halls.  So it was no real surprise when she announced the week before Halloween that she was indeed pregnant.  But what was a surprise—more like a shock--was that she would be going out on maternity leave after Christmas break and would be taking the entire second semester off.  The class took it hard and for days after we, her devoted fifth period acolytes, were stunned.  Ms. Prenkins did her best to console us and ushered us through the rest of her fall curriculum as best she could.  

The holidays came and went with the usual December Albuquerque bitter cold, biting winds and a dusting of snow.  The Monday after New Year’s came too soon and with it the realization that the angelic face of Ms. Prenkins would be absent at fifth period.  We filed into the classroom after lunch that Monday waiting for the substitute and hoping for the best but fearing the worst.  Would the sub be some dotty spinster just this side of retirement or a hatched-faced disciplinarian hell bent on making all of us suffer for 55 minutes five days a week?  We sat in nervous, expectant silence probably not unlike what Mr. Prenkins had gone through in the waiting room just days before (it was a girl). 

But nothing could have prepared us for what, or who to be precise, came strolling through the door several minutes late.  He—not she--was tall and lanky wearing cowboy boots and sporting big glasses. He had a receding hairline that ultimately would arrive at a captain comb-over phase and a large mustache groomed somewhere between a handlebar and Tucumcari.  He breezily said good afternoon to us and then sat down heavily at the front desk, picking up the copy of our textbook and looking at it as if it was the first time.  It probably was.  He spent the next 5-10 minutes perusing its pages snorting and mumbling now and then.  Finally he tossed it on the desk with a loud thud.  “What a load of crap,” he proclaimed with disdain for all and sundry to hear.  “How do they expect you to learn anything from that?”   We stared back with the expression of dazed livestock.  “My name is Mr. Daniels,” he announced.  “I’m your teacher this semester.  Now I’ve heard all about Ms. Prenkins--in fact I know her.   She’s a wonderful teacher.  But my style is different.  I feel it’s my job to teach you English to the best of my ability and that has little to do with what’s in this book.”

All of us shifted uneasily in our desks.  Mr. Daniels suddenly seemed dangerous.  There was no telling what he had planned. Visions of inquisition-like torture and caning filled my inner visage.  But he soon remedied the mystery by announcing that we would all be learning English as a language that semester from the best source in civilized history—William Shakespeare.  The collective groan from the class was immediate, involuntary and more than audible.  Mr. Daniels smiled in response.  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.  “Shakespeare’s a dead guy.  He’s been dead for over 400 years.  What could he possibly have to teach us in the 20th century?  The answer is a lot.”

     Performance at the reconstructed Globe Theatre in London

Imagine 30 young minds suddenly filled with fleeting images of frisky actors leaping across the stage in brightly colored tights and sword fight skirmishes between skinny fancy-ass talking guys. To say that we were worried would be a monumental understatement (the sword fight thing didn’t seem so bad to me). Mr. Daniels then reached into a cardboard box behind his desk and began passing out weathered copies of the complete works of Shakespeare. 

Once the books were in our hands he had us turn to Twelfth Night to Act II, scene V. Then Mr. Daniels stood up tall in front of the class and began to read from the scene with the projected, sonorous voice of an actor who had done plenty of time on stage. His voice had the menacing depth of Darth Vader combined with polished locution of a career politician. In mere seconds we stopped reading along and stared agawk at him as he finished with Malvolio’s famous lines:

"In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em."

A vacuum of silence followed his reading of those lines. “That,” he announced, “is great English. By the end of the semester you’ll know more about the English language that probably most of your parents. You’ll know the ins and outs and the hows and whys we speak the way we do because no one has ever written English better than Shakespeare—and no one ever will. And all that starts today.”

Mr. Daniels then proceeded to take Malvolio’s famed lines apart explaining how they revealed the comedic flaws of his character, how they fit into the overall plot of the play and how they were relavent to life in Shakespeare’s time. He explained it all with the utmost simplicity so it was easy to understand and yet with great intensity and urgency as if to say all of this stuff really mattered and we had better pay attention. We did so in rapt silence. 

Next Mr. Daniels outlined his vision for the semester. If we agreed to his plan we would follow the rules of the “establishment” as required by covering various parts of the text book. We would also have intermittent quizzes on said material. But the bulk of the class time would be spent on learning scenes from Shakespeare and--get this—actually acting them out. That last bit proved the tipping point and suddenly our collective angst, frustration and fear bubbled up and all over the linoleum floor in a messy goo:

“We can’t do that!”

Shakespeare is soooo boring!

“This is STUPID!”

“You can’t make me do that.”

“I’m telling my parents.”

“I can’t memorize anything!”

“I’m afraid of talking in front of other people.”

Through the firestorm of protest Mr. Daniels simply smiled and nodded as if he was truly enjoying our reaction. When the ruckus died down he said, “I know, I know.  I’ve heard it all before. But if we don’t do something different to learn English this class will be just as useless as practically every other class you’ve ever had. And I’m not going to be part of that.”

Mr. Daniels spent the rest of that first day talking about life in London during  Shakespeare’s time; how filthy, downtrodden and incredibly difficult it was with the average life expectancy less than 18 years; how most people lived a desperate existence filled with poverty, hunger and disease. Among this squalor and suffering were the theaters where anyone could take respite from their bleak life for a few moments to be entertained with news of the day, comedy, drama, singing and dancing. He went on to explain some of the conventions of language of the time, the witticisms, and the references to events of the day as well as Greek and Roman mythology--and he did it all in his drawling easy-to-understand way. It was like getting a crash course from your next door neighbor’s dad on the history, politics and sociology of Elizabethan England—in less 30 minutes. And that was just day one.

The next day Mr. Daniels put his plan into action. He divided our class into four “troupes” as he called them with some 8-10 of us in each. He passed out mimeographed sheets (love that smell!) that listed our assignments for the first several weeks in terms of plays and specific scenes. We then headed to the four corners of the room with Mr. Daniels rotating through the groups assigning characters and scene managers. Our troupe’s first assignment was from Twelfth Night, the same play he had read from the day before. I landed the part of Sir Toby Belch, the play’s major-league carouser and disturber of the peace. I do want to mention that the part of Olivia was to be played by the lovely Joanna Garcia on whom I had a huge crush. I was secretly thrilled. 

The group next to us had been assigned Romeo and Juliet and there, towering over everyone even when sitting down, was Glen Turner. Glen was very tall with the physique of a human tongue depressor. He was a shy lad and routinely did everything within his power to be invisible which was impossible given the fact that he was at least six inches taller than the rest of us. But that day Glen was utterly inconsolable. He had just landed the part of Romeo in the balcony scene and the part of Juliet would be played by Grace Ann Warren--one of the most serious babes in the entire school.

The following day the four troupes started to work through their assigned scenes. Mr. Daniels would first help by reading through some of the text to explain the language and then coach us, the “players,” on how to say our lines. From there we would work on the parts, script out the scenes and try to figure out what props we needed to make them work. All the while Mr. Daniels went from group to group watching and coaching, always praising and never criticizing anyone unless they weren’t trying. He was especially attentive to Glen Turner who threatened to implode at any moment. 

In the days and weeks to come Mr. Daniels really got into his element. He pushed, soothed, and threatened; he pleaded, wheedled, and cajoled, forcing any and every one uttering a line in front of the rest of the class to not screw around and to really go for it.  I have to say that when it was my turn to play the part of the ever-mischievous Sir Toby I thought I might soil myself at the prospect of saying my lines in front of the rest of the class. But after some initial faltering and Mr. Daniels’ prompting and encouragement I found my squeaky teen voice and began to get into the part. The other kids did likewise, even the oft-traumatized Glen Turner though he took longer than most. 

Once we were past that initial set of scenes Mr. Daniels had to start telling everyone to tone it down and not be so “danged melodramatic” as he put it.  But despite our best efforts to over-act at every opportunity it was easy to see that he was delighted. At his suggestion we began to fashion our own rough costumes and bring things from home to use as props.  “Be creative!” he urged and one day when a kid in the class showed up with a shopping cart “borrowed” from a local supermarket he was simply giddy. Sword fights were enacted with gusto complete with plastic swords and cardboard lances.  The girls started to get into the costume aspect of it all and a competition of sorts began to see who could design the laciest, frilliest maiden get up of all.

Needless to say, we were hooked. But beyond that we totally got Shakespeare. The plays and the language became as real for us as anything we could possibly watch on TV. We got how a feud like the one between the Montagues and the Capulets could become unthinkably destructive. We learned how an individual in power like Richard III could be utterly evil and destroy everyone around them for their own ends. We also learned how love could be incredibly fickle from the crazy relationship between Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado about Nothing. As time went on there was less and less of the textbook and quizzes, and our memories of the fall semester with Ms. Prenkins also began to fade with sword fights, heroic deeds, and swooning maidens taking their place.

I’d like to say that the semester ended in a triumph like the movie, School of Rock, with our class staging a spirited performance of The Tempest in front of a live audience--but that’s far from true.  Just before spring break the administration caught wind of Mr. Daniel’s “studio.” After the break we came back to fifth period all set to work on new scenes only to find a large aging spinster sitting behind the desk. She waited for us to file in and once all were seated she announced in a withering tone that she was the new substitute teacher and that Mr. Daniels had been “reassigned.” We squawked loudly in protest but Mrs. Cranky Pants, who looked like a former professional wrestler, would have none of it. “Open your textbooks,” she barked. We meekly complied, our youthful thespian spirits quashed.   

Mr. Daniels was never seen or heard from again. Rumors flew back and forth on whether he had been fired or had quit in dramatic fashion. We conjectured that he moved on to “infiltrate” other schools and classes in the much same way as ours but no one could ever confirm that for a fact. Regardless, his spirit lives on. I’m reminded of him from time to time when I teach a class or make a presentation to a group. He taught me to care—desperately—about my students and to do whatever it takes make sure they get what I’m teaching. He showed me how to coach and how to constructively criticize. He was also the first to teach me how to stand up in front of group and deliver the goods when it’s on the line.Most importantly, he gave me a love of Shakespeare that continues to this day.  If I could only take one book to that proverbial desert isle it would be an easy choice—a copy of the complete works. And I would be a happy man.