All posts by Matthew Callan

Stories

Santiago, 1997

I will be in Chile. Dad will also be in Chile.

I will be in Chile because the scholarship allowing me to attend NYU carries with it membership to a scholar’s group that takes international trips over the winter break. Said trips involve sightseeing, community service, and a modicum of free time to do whatever it is college students do while abroad. I don’t know what that is, exactly. I can barely relax back home, let alone in a strange country thousands of miles away.

Why will Dad will be in Chile? I’m not sure. He is a “systems analyst” now. That’s what it says on his business cards. He has many different ones, and it seems each one is from a different company—NASDAQ, USAID, and a dozen other obscure outfits—with its own variation on his name. Eugene Callan. Gene Callan. Eugene A. Callan. Gene M. Callan…

Whatever his work is, it takes him across the globe. He spends a good chunk of my high school years in either Russia (right around coup time) or Hong Kong (right before it was given back to China). He’s also done time in many former Soviet republics in central Asia (The Icky-Stans, he calls them), Indonesia, India, Pakistan, and South America. He does not explain to me what he does in these countries, and I don’t ask. It’s not because I am uninterested. It’s because I don’t expect a straight answer.

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Stories

Shop Room, 1992

My shop teacher is Ratman. Not his given name, of course, except in the sense that junior high kids have given that name to him, behind his back, for a small eternity.

Strictly speaking, Ratman doesn’t teach “shop.” In keeping with the educational nomenclature of the times, Shop is now called Tech. But it’s still shop. His classroom is a dank garage, where the temperature drops 10 degrees from the rest of the school, and the walls are lined with aluminum shelves holding old, busted tools covered in a thick layer of sawdust and metal shavings.

Shop class requires repeated use of drill presses and bandsaws and other things that can kill you if used incorrectly. Ratman constantly warns about the danger surrounding his students at the top of his lungs, in a window-rattling howl that suggests he is not so much warning against harm as he is actively attempting to cause it.

He was dubbed Ratman due to a confluence of unfortunate physical characteristics. First, he is tiny. Four feet tall, if that. He is just tall enough to not be a midget. He also has a long, pointy, rodent-like nose, and a pair of beady eyes made even smaller by a pair of coke-bottle glasses. He owns a shrill, piercing voice that can cut through steel. He also has one leg that is shorter than the other. His pace is evened out by a shoe with a block of wood. It hits the ground with vicious CLUNK as he patrols his classroom.

shop classroomA man of such description should have thought twice about choosing teaching as his vocation. He especially should have run screaming from teaching at the junior high school level. That he didn’t is either a reflection of a serious lack of perception or a byproduct of his unique personality. I’m inclined to side with the latter interpretation, because Ratman is a complete bastard. It’s hard to say if he was a bastard to begin with or if he was made a bastard by years of teaching bastard high school kids. The why’s don’t really matter to me, because regardless of the reason, he is a bastard and I must deal with him.

Much like a religious cult’s compound, Ratman’s class possesses an air rife with the constant threat of recrimination. Ratman is fond if descending on you with no warning and shrieking “WHATTA YOU DOIN?” directly into your ear. This seems counterproductive to his stated aim of teaching safe workroom practices, but his philosophy is “Do as I scream, not as I do.”

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The Funny

The Continued Adventures of Open Letters

tonybennettOpen Letter to Miley Cyrus:

What’s with all this twerking jazz, sweetheart? Trust me, you don’t have to work blue to make your mark in show biz. I’ve kept it clean for 60 some odd years and I’ve done okay, if I do say so myself. Just a little tip from Tony to you. And if you’re up for it, I think we could do a killer duet on “Bess You Is My Woman Now” for my next platter. Whaddya say?

—Tony Bennett

* * *

Open Letter to Tony Bennett:

Miley rulz you old mummy lol

—Justin Timberlake

* * *

2ChainzOpen Letter to JT:

How dare you speak to Tony Bennett like that? He is an American treasure. You’d be lucky to accomplish one scintilla of what this man has done. For shame. Also, you’re not funny and you never will be, no matter how many SNL writers put words in your mouth.

— 2 Chainz

* * *

tonybennettOpen Letter to Mr. 2 Chainz:

I have no idea who you are, but I appreciate your words of support. If you wanna duet on my next album, just name the tune. I will literally sing any song with anybody. I just need to get the new LP in the can before my internal organs turn into dust.

— Tony Bennett

* * *

genesimmonsOpen Letter to Mr. Bennett:

I find it deplorable that you would offer to duet with 2 Chainz when you have yet to answer my call to collaborate on a KISS duet album. With your current “great American songbook” schtick, you are severely limiting yourself to the over-70 market. Join Paul on a chorus of “Ladies in Waiting” and I guarantee you will tap into that over-60 market.

— Gene Simmons

* * *

grohlOpen Letter to Everybody:

I don’t know anything about this Miley Cyrus business, but if any of you are collaborating with one another on duets and such, you must use me as your drummer. I’ll refer you to HR 1207, signed into law on September 9, 2006, which states that I am the only drummer in rock. Failure to employ me on your next once-off venture will result in swift legal action.

— Dave Grohl

* * *

skrillexOpen Letter to Mr. Grohl:

BWAAAAH, BUP-BUP-BUP-BWAAAH

G-G-G-G-G-ZHHHHHHH, PEWWWWW, BWAAAAH.

— Skrillex

* * *

gore vidalOpen Letter to Skrillex:

Well done, sir. Your witty rejoinder to Mr. Grohl’s communiqué reminded me of some of the spirited exchanges I once had with a certain Mr. Buckley. I’m so glad to see the epistolary arts revived, and in such a lively fashion.

— Gore Vidal

* * *

William Buckley. Photo Grant Peterson 781025. Scanned from Fairfax Archive.Open Letter to Mr. Vidal:

With all due respect to your considerable powers of perception, this puerile feud is nothing like the ripostes we exchanged in days of yore. Also, you are deceased and cannot write letters, open or otherwise.

— William F. Buckley

* * *

gore vidalOpen Letter to William F. Buckley:

You’re dead too, you know.

— Gore

* * *

William Buckley. Photo Grant Peterson 781025. Scanned from Fairfax Archive.Open Letter to Gore Vidal:

* decomposes *

— William F. Buckley