Monday I found out that my favorite kid, the one who farts, is going to start staying home after school. I spent a quarter of an hour or so talking to her mom about it, and managed to remain professional and keep a good face. On the way home I got quite sad, and stopped off to buy groceries. I discovered afterwards that the check I’d deposited earlier in the day hadn’t gone through yet and that my groceries had overdrawn my account, but I didn’t care. You can only feel down about so many things at once.
While walking toward my apartment building with two plastic bags and a case of beer I was approached by a young man asking for spare change. I felt for a couple quarters, but there weren’t any. On an impulse I offered him a beer instead.
“Yeah,” he said happily, “That’ll work!”
So I opened my twelve pack of Sam Adams and pulled one out.
“I’m sorry it’s not twist off,” I said. “Do you know how to open it on the curb?”
“No,” he said awkwardly. We stared at one another. It was becoming a hassle, but I couldn’t take back what I’d offered.
“Stay put,” I said, and ran upstairs for a bottle opener.
When I got back we opened it and he took a swig.
“Thank you,” he said, “and Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas,” I answered back, but whatever feeling of warmth I’d been hoping for didn’t come. Lonely, I went upstairs, killed a few roaches, and started making dinner.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
What I'm Thankful For
Another teacher at work did a project today where she had kids write poems about what they were thankful for. Cats and dogs across the metropolitan area were celebrated, as were moms and dads, the occaisional younger sibling, and Pop-Tarts. Of course I wrote one. Of course I am posting it.
drive without end to grandma's for bland and soggy veg
tears- coffee that kept me awake now swells my bladder.
the exit signs pass as i approach home too slowly, a crawl, like
molasses running a marathon backwards through the rainforest.
expectation comes with the gravel of the driveway
a silent engine
sprinting
relief
Thanksgiving
drive without end to grandma's for bland and soggy veg
tears- coffee that kept me awake now swells my bladder.
the exit signs pass as i approach home too slowly, a crawl, like
molasses running a marathon backwards through the rainforest.
expectation comes with the gravel of the driveway
a silent engine
sprinting
relief
Thanksgiving
Saturday, November 10, 2007
A Passage to Excitement!
I took a small vacation this week, and, since the concert I had planned to see in North Carolina was canceled, spent the time reading A Passage to India. It’s a good book, and I like E.M. Forster very much, but just now as I was coming to its end something alarming happened. For reasons I can’t explain I began to imagine that every sentence ended in an exclamation point. Accordingly, the voice in my mind’s ear that pronounced the words, a voice that had been decent, wise and insightful until this point, suddenly turned into that of an anchor on Entertainment Tonight.
A slim, tall eight-sided building stood at the top of the slope, among some bushes! This was the Shrine of the Head! It had not been roofed, and was indeed merely a screen! Inside it crouched a humble dome, and inside that, visible through a grille, was a truncated gravestone, swathed in calico!
This is too good a book to be marred by such insanity, and I am going to take a walk, perhaps gas up my car (if my bank account will permit) and come back later when, hopefully, I can resume reading with the punctuation that Mr. Forster intended.
A slim, tall eight-sided building stood at the top of the slope, among some bushes! This was the Shrine of the Head! It had not been roofed, and was indeed merely a screen! Inside it crouched a humble dome, and inside that, visible through a grille, was a truncated gravestone, swathed in calico!
This is too good a book to be marred by such insanity, and I am going to take a walk, perhaps gas up my car (if my bank account will permit) and come back later when, hopefully, I can resume reading with the punctuation that Mr. Forster intended.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Highs, Lows, and a Sense of Self-Worth Affected by a Videogame In Which I Pretend to Play Guitar
Every week at work we have a staff meeting, and most staff meetings begin with something called “Highs and Lows.” We go around the room and everyone says what their high point and low point for the week were. This can be anything: professional or personal, big or small, a death or a TV cancellation, a birth or a successful casserole. Many people don’t put much thought into it, and since staff meetings are always on a Friday many people choose to say week after week that their high is "that it's Friday." Those people frustrate me somewhat, but I understand- sharing feelings isn’t for everyone. I don’t have much of a problem with it though.
“This week my low was last night. I was playing Guitar Hero III, which as you all know I just bought at the beginning of this week and expected to beat within a day or two. This seemed to be going to plan, until I reached the eighth and final mini-set, which some of you weird born-again-Christians in the room might be alarmed to hear is played in Hell. Yeah, there’s a lot of creepy imagery, but appropriate for this week, right? Am I right? HA. Oh Halloween. What a joy. Anyway, I got to this final set, and it was really hard. I mean, I’m pretty fucking awesome at Guitar Hero, but these songs make "Beast and the Harlot" look like "Smoke on the Water," if you catch my drift. I kept failing song after song, until I reached the moment of crisis that is this week’s low. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, and I thought ‘What am I good at? Why am I here? I underachieved in school, and then after I graduated I underachieved in the jobs that I went after, and I underachieved in my free time which is what led me to be playing this ridiculous game in the frst place, but at least I thought I was really good at it. And now if I can’t even beat "Cliffs of Dover" by Eric fucking Johnson then what good am I? Aren’t I just a big failure, period?’ I tell you, it was a low if ever there was one.
"Well, I took a long walk, which isn’t entirely safe in the fan, but I was feeling reckless, and I resolved to keep trying. And maybe I just needed a break, because I got back to the apartment, opened a new beer and damn if I didn’t beat "Cliffs of Dover," "Number of the Beast," and "One" in less than an hour! And that was my high! Now I only need to beat "Raining Blood," and I’ll unlock the final boss battle, and nobody will ever call me a loser again!”
“Ok,” said my boss who had been checking her watch, “Lauren, how about you?”
Sure enough, the next day I finally beat "Raining Blood," and felt very good about it.
“Hey, I beat Raining Blood!” I told my friend Jon when I went over to watch football.
“Hey, great,” he said, unenthused.
“Hey Amy!” I said to Amy when she came in half an hour later, “I beat Raining Blood!”
“I’m very happy for you,” she said, and smiled as one might smile at a retarded boy who just drew a picture of you.
Later my friends Cara and Allison came over, and I told Cara my good news.
“You know Andrew,” she said, “I feel like our interests are diverging. You’re into all these fake things. You play fake guitar. You have a fake football team. You’re even sort of a fake teacher. Soon we’re not going to have anything in common.”
It was my low for the weekend.
“This week my low was last night. I was playing Guitar Hero III, which as you all know I just bought at the beginning of this week and expected to beat within a day or two. This seemed to be going to plan, until I reached the eighth and final mini-set, which some of you weird born-again-Christians in the room might be alarmed to hear is played in Hell. Yeah, there’s a lot of creepy imagery, but appropriate for this week, right? Am I right? HA. Oh Halloween. What a joy. Anyway, I got to this final set, and it was really hard. I mean, I’m pretty fucking awesome at Guitar Hero, but these songs make "Beast and the Harlot" look like "Smoke on the Water," if you catch my drift. I kept failing song after song, until I reached the moment of crisis that is this week’s low. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, and I thought ‘What am I good at? Why am I here? I underachieved in school, and then after I graduated I underachieved in the jobs that I went after, and I underachieved in my free time which is what led me to be playing this ridiculous game in the frst place, but at least I thought I was really good at it. And now if I can’t even beat "Cliffs of Dover" by Eric fucking Johnson then what good am I? Aren’t I just a big failure, period?’ I tell you, it was a low if ever there was one.
"Well, I took a long walk, which isn’t entirely safe in the fan, but I was feeling reckless, and I resolved to keep trying. And maybe I just needed a break, because I got back to the apartment, opened a new beer and damn if I didn’t beat "Cliffs of Dover," "Number of the Beast," and "One" in less than an hour! And that was my high! Now I only need to beat "Raining Blood," and I’ll unlock the final boss battle, and nobody will ever call me a loser again!”
“Ok,” said my boss who had been checking her watch, “Lauren, how about you?”
Sure enough, the next day I finally beat "Raining Blood," and felt very good about it.
“Hey, I beat Raining Blood!” I told my friend Jon when I went over to watch football.
“Hey, great,” he said, unenthused.
“Hey Amy!” I said to Amy when she came in half an hour later, “I beat Raining Blood!”
“I’m very happy for you,” she said, and smiled as one might smile at a retarded boy who just drew a picture of you.
Later my friends Cara and Allison came over, and I told Cara my good news.
“You know Andrew,” she said, “I feel like our interests are diverging. You’re into all these fake things. You play fake guitar. You have a fake football team. You’re even sort of a fake teacher. Soon we’re not going to have anything in common.”
It was my low for the weekend.
An Afternoon Wrapped in Bacon
Sunday I watched football with friend and loyal reader Jon Biscoe, as well as his girlfriend, the Amy. We are all members of the same fantasy football league, and as we watched we discussed our chances in our week 7 match-ups.
“Steven Jackson is still out this week,” I said. Jon and the Amy nodded sagely.
“Defense wins championships,” said the Amy. She knows a lot about football for a vegan.
Later, as we munched on a tasty Indian tofu/rice dish that the Amy had made, we checked our scores.
“Frank is winning,,” said Jon.
“That disappoints me,” I said, “because I hate Frank.” Jon and the Amy nodded, sagely.
Hall-of-Fame-Quarterback-turned-FOX-Analyst Troy Aikman made an odd remark about a linebacker rushing the passer.
“Troy Aikman just said he was ‘coming on his backside,’” said Jon. “Do you believe Troy Aikman to be homosexual?”
“Perhaps,” said the Amy. I nodded sagely.
Jon and I read comic books.
A football player who had performed particularly successfully made the claim that he had done nothing-- that his performance should be attributed to God.
“If God is still available in our fantasy league I will draft him,” I said.
“You are stupid,” said Jon.
“You are fat,” I said.
“You are both fat and stupid,” said the Amy. “It’s because you drink too much beer.”
Jon and I nodded. Sagely.
“Steven Jackson is still out this week,” I said. Jon and the Amy nodded sagely.
“Defense wins championships,” said the Amy. She knows a lot about football for a vegan.
Later, as we munched on a tasty Indian tofu/rice dish that the Amy had made, we checked our scores.
“Frank is winning,,” said Jon.
“That disappoints me,” I said, “because I hate Frank.” Jon and the Amy nodded, sagely.
Hall-of-Fame-Quarterback-turned-FOX-Analyst Troy Aikman made an odd remark about a linebacker rushing the passer.
“Troy Aikman just said he was ‘coming on his backside,’” said Jon. “Do you believe Troy Aikman to be homosexual?”
“Perhaps,” said the Amy. I nodded sagely.
Jon and I read comic books.
A football player who had performed particularly successfully made the claim that he had done nothing-- that his performance should be attributed to God.
“If God is still available in our fantasy league I will draft him,” I said.
“You are stupid,” said Jon.
“You are fat,” I said.
“You are both fat and stupid,” said the Amy. “It’s because you drink too much beer.”
Jon and I nodded. Sagely.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Jesus Would Tell You To Shut the Fuck Up
Right now I am parked outside of a clinic that performs abortions watching some crazy people exploit their children. They are dressed like they came from church, they're singing hymns, and the children are holding up signs that say things like "Roe is saved!" and "Every life is a gift!"
Boy, do I hate these people. I have decided to protest them. I'm going to make some signs that say things like, "That Kid Should Be in School Learning About Evolution," "Stop Raising Self-Righteous Assholes," and "God Does Make Trash, and It's Standing Over There," and I'm going to come down here and sing hymns and act like I'm praying for these peoples' souls.
I say "act"," because I don't believe in God. That said- I do like to think that if there were a God he'd hate these people as much as I do.
Boy, do I hate these people. I have decided to protest them. I'm going to make some signs that say things like, "That Kid Should Be in School Learning About Evolution," "Stop Raising Self-Righteous Assholes," and "God Does Make Trash, and It's Standing Over There," and I'm going to come down here and sing hymns and act like I'm praying for these peoples' souls.
I say "act"," because I don't believe in God. That said- I do like to think that if there were a God he'd hate these people as much as I do.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Back in the TV Saddle
Recently I borrowed an antennae from my father so that I could watch TV. For the last two years I have used my TV exclusively to watch movies and play video games-- I couldn't afford cable and I didn't think network TV was worth the effort. The football season changed my mind about the antennae, but once I let the networks into my home I foudn it difficult to limit my viewing to Sundays.
Last night I watched a program on PBS about the human heart. I saw a man have all the blood drained out of his body and replaced with ice water. I saw a young man with a defibrillator implanted in his chest- programmed to restart his heart if it began to fail.
“Wow,” I thought, “this stuff is amazing! Why didn’t I get an antennae for this TV sooner?”
I changed the channel to CBS, and saw the tail end of a police procedural where a young man was explaining that he and his girlfriend had entered into a suicide pact because of their outstanding credit card debt.
“Oh,” I thought, “now I remember why.”
Last night I watched a program on PBS about the human heart. I saw a man have all the blood drained out of his body and replaced with ice water. I saw a young man with a defibrillator implanted in his chest- programmed to restart his heart if it began to fail.
“Wow,” I thought, “this stuff is amazing! Why didn’t I get an antennae for this TV sooner?”
I changed the channel to CBS, and saw the tail end of a police procedural where a young man was explaining that he and his girlfriend had entered into a suicide pact because of their outstanding credit card debt.
“Oh,” I thought, “now I remember why.”
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Peace can be Unsatisfying
At about 9:30 on a Wednesday night I was already in bed, watching The Larry Sanders Show on DVD. The children had taken my energy from me and used it to tear apart the art room, pieces of string hanging from the ceiling, the caps taken off of alll the markers and used to make some sort of elaborate marker-top-castle where Lilly the Puffball Queen (a purple cottonball with glued on googly eyes) lived with Prince George the Popsicle Stick on a carpet of shredded construction paper and needlessly straightened paper clips. Beer and Garry Shandling were helping me to forget when my phone rang and a new acquaintence from the day before invited me to go swimming at Brown's Island. And I thought, "Why let the children turn me into an old man before I am thirty?" So I went.
I knew one person there pretty well, but everyone else I had just met. I had also (don't mock me) never been to Brown's Island, and there was a feeling of new life, as though by doing something outside my routine I was defeating the children, taking my energy back from them and putting them in their place. It was like I had caught all 150 of them running and made them collectively go back and walk.
As we approached the river we heard hooting. A voice with a bit of a drawl yelled out "YEAH JUMP MOTHERFUCKER! WOO WOO!"
When we got closer we saw a group of half a dozen rednecks were there ahead of us, and that they were drunk. We could tell they were drunk because they were yelling things like, "WOO! I AM SO FUCKING DRUNK YOU NIGGER FAGGOT! HOOOOOWWEEEEE." They were something.
We decided to put off swimming in hopes that this group would leave soon. They did not, so we sat on the beach and made conversation and drank our own beer.
After fifteen minutes or so another group arrived wearing full-length black trenchcoats. One of them had a really long beard, and another was carrying a walking stick that I mistook for a sword. As they positioned themselves in a row by the water smoking cigarettes one of my new acquaintences pointed out that they looked like the back cover of an album by a death metal band. And then the rednecks, which was to our left, started yelling to the death metal band, which was to our right. For a moment, I thought we would be caught in a crossfire between them, but the Death Metal band failed to rise to the bait. They started to leave. As they did so a redneck yelled out "Silly faggot, dicks are for chicks!" Apparently because they had long hair. Everyone knows gay people grow their hair out because they want to look like girls. It's common knowledge.
Now I consider myself a peaceful person, and have in the past have been irritatingly smug and self-satisfied about it. I have looked at other people, people much mor reasonable than these rednecks, and thought, "They have no understanding of current events. They are narrow and cruelly self-interested. And blood thirsty. They think they can solve all their problems by bombing people. I'm so glad I am better than that." How strange then to find myself feeling disappointed to find out the sword was a walking stick, that there would be no blood shed. I was actually let down that the rednecks were just full of a lot of beer and epithets but basically harmless, let down that the young men in trenchcoats, while dressed unusually for a hot July evening, were sensible enough to avoid a conflict with someone who equates long hair with buggery. For a brief moment I had a great story to tell- "Yeah, it was insane, the redneck was swinging this broken beer bottle and this dude with a beard like Gandalf sliced him open with a samurai sword (no really, a SAMURAI SWORD) and we all had to run for it! I still don't know what heppened to that guy Kevin- I hope he made it out okay."- and then it evaporated in a cloud of reason and maturity. Life was once more boring. The children were running again, and my calls to them went unheeded.
I knew one person there pretty well, but everyone else I had just met. I had also (don't mock me) never been to Brown's Island, and there was a feeling of new life, as though by doing something outside my routine I was defeating the children, taking my energy back from them and putting them in their place. It was like I had caught all 150 of them running and made them collectively go back and walk.
As we approached the river we heard hooting. A voice with a bit of a drawl yelled out "YEAH JUMP MOTHERFUCKER! WOO WOO!"
When we got closer we saw a group of half a dozen rednecks were there ahead of us, and that they were drunk. We could tell they were drunk because they were yelling things like, "WOO! I AM SO FUCKING DRUNK YOU NIGGER FAGGOT! HOOOOOWWEEEEE." They were something.
We decided to put off swimming in hopes that this group would leave soon. They did not, so we sat on the beach and made conversation and drank our own beer.
After fifteen minutes or so another group arrived wearing full-length black trenchcoats. One of them had a really long beard, and another was carrying a walking stick that I mistook for a sword. As they positioned themselves in a row by the water smoking cigarettes one of my new acquaintences pointed out that they looked like the back cover of an album by a death metal band. And then the rednecks, which was to our left, started yelling to the death metal band, which was to our right. For a moment, I thought we would be caught in a crossfire between them, but the Death Metal band failed to rise to the bait. They started to leave. As they did so a redneck yelled out "Silly faggot, dicks are for chicks!" Apparently because they had long hair. Everyone knows gay people grow their hair out because they want to look like girls. It's common knowledge.
Now I consider myself a peaceful person, and have in the past have been irritatingly smug and self-satisfied about it. I have looked at other people, people much mor reasonable than these rednecks, and thought, "They have no understanding of current events. They are narrow and cruelly self-interested. And blood thirsty. They think they can solve all their problems by bombing people. I'm so glad I am better than that." How strange then to find myself feeling disappointed to find out the sword was a walking stick, that there would be no blood shed. I was actually let down that the rednecks were just full of a lot of beer and epithets but basically harmless, let down that the young men in trenchcoats, while dressed unusually for a hot July evening, were sensible enough to avoid a conflict with someone who equates long hair with buggery. For a brief moment I had a great story to tell- "Yeah, it was insane, the redneck was swinging this broken beer bottle and this dude with a beard like Gandalf sliced him open with a samurai sword (no really, a SAMURAI SWORD) and we all had to run for it! I still don't know what heppened to that guy Kevin- I hope he made it out okay."- and then it evaporated in a cloud of reason and maturity. Life was once more boring. The children were running again, and my calls to them went unheeded.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Work is Hard
When I wrote this it was July tenth and I was having a bad day at work. I didn't finish it, but I just looked at it again and it so summed up the last few weeks of work that I thought I would post it as a fragment. Muster your courage before you look at it.
It's a bad day at work.
The children couldn't go outside earlier because of the heat, and their pent-up energy is coming out of them in screams and shouts and crazy running running running through the bathrooms and hallways, toilet paper clinging to their shoes and always screaming running screaming
It's a bad day at work.
The children couldn't go outside earlier because of the heat, and their pent-up energy is coming out of them in screams and shouts and crazy running running running through the bathrooms and hallways, toilet paper clinging to their shoes and always screaming running screaming
Monday, July 09, 2007
Mixed emotions
Slate recently had a competition to see which of its readers could come up with the best action-movie style one-liner, something in the mold of "Do you feel lucky, punk?" and "Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker." The winner was "Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, pissant." I know for a fact I have said those words (back me up here Nick), and I am left feeling both unhappy with my lack of originality and pleased that someone else in the world is operating on my wavelength. I'm not special, but I'm also not alone. Life is confusing.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Greetings Friends!
The other day I received three seperate requests that I update my blog. "Wow," I thought, "And these people don't even know each other! I'm awesome!"
Recently I have had difficulties updating the blog. This is mainly because I no longer have internet access except at work and at my Dad's house. I also have become dissatisfied with the quality of my work. My thoughts are unorganized and there are lots of typos and frequently I don't really have anything to say.
But damnit, I am going to try to doo better. If that means proofreading my work and writing rough drafts and making special trips to coffee bars where I pay for internet and overpriced espresso drinks, well then so be it!
If in three days there are no new posts following this one you can probably assume that I have forgotten all about this again.
Recently I have had difficulties updating the blog. This is mainly because I no longer have internet access except at work and at my Dad's house. I also have become dissatisfied with the quality of my work. My thoughts are unorganized and there are lots of typos and frequently I don't really have anything to say.
But damnit, I am going to try to doo better. If that means proofreading my work and writing rough drafts and making special trips to coffee bars where I pay for internet and overpriced espresso drinks, well then so be it!
If in three days there are no new posts following this one you can probably assume that I have forgotten all about this again.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Forgive us our trespasses, and forgive those who trespass against us.
The other day at work I was in a bad mood. I was sleepy, my head hurt, and the children were being much louder than I was wanted. A co-worker noticed me snap at a child, and asked me what was wrong.
I told her I didn't get enough sleep, and that I felt bad for being less patient with the children than I ought to be. She said that this happened to her sometimes, but that this week she was focusing on trying to keep a postive outlook, and that it was working for her so far. I spoke derisively of the power of postivie thinking. She said that she also turned to God for strength to help her when she was unhappy, but that she knew that this wasn't my thing. I told her I was no more comforted by God than I was by the Tooth Fairy. She made a face, and I asked if I had offended her. She told me that no, I hadn't, but that I might have offended God. I told her I hoped that both God and the Tooth Fairy would forgive me in time for my harsh words. We bowed our heads in silent prayer to our respective deities, and later when I got to have Chipotle for dinner, I knew that the Tooth Fairy had listened, and that I had found favor in her sight.
Praise the Tooth Fairy, for she is great, and with her anything is possible.
I told her I didn't get enough sleep, and that I felt bad for being less patient with the children than I ought to be. She said that this happened to her sometimes, but that this week she was focusing on trying to keep a postive outlook, and that it was working for her so far. I spoke derisively of the power of postivie thinking. She said that she also turned to God for strength to help her when she was unhappy, but that she knew that this wasn't my thing. I told her I was no more comforted by God than I was by the Tooth Fairy. She made a face, and I asked if I had offended her. She told me that no, I hadn't, but that I might have offended God. I told her I hoped that both God and the Tooth Fairy would forgive me in time for my harsh words. We bowed our heads in silent prayer to our respective deities, and later when I got to have Chipotle for dinner, I knew that the Tooth Fairy had listened, and that I had found favor in her sight.
Praise the Tooth Fairy, for she is great, and with her anything is possible.
The lows to which we have collectively sunk.
"Where is the Subway?" a woman asks.
"Prime Rib is the uber-meat," chirps a scruffy overweight young man.
"It's got a lot of meat, and that's what real women need!" giggles a young woman.
I will never eat in a Quizno's again.
"Prime Rib is the uber-meat," chirps a scruffy overweight young man.
"It's got a lot of meat, and that's what real women need!" giggles a young woman.
I will never eat in a Quizno's again.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
The Nicest Person I Know
I am on the playground, talking to a seven year old girl with a severe speech impediment. It is difficult to describe her speech problem because it is so complicated. That she pronounces her K's as T's, as in the Buckwheat-ian "Otay" is but one small component of the problem. Another is her horrible grammar, stuff like "Him are eating gum." It has taken me a long time to be able to talk with this girl, and am now able to only because she is making such good progress in her speech therapy. We are talking about bugs, specifically a new group of them that have infiltrated the sandbox, keeping this girl from her favorite part of the playground. She is not angry though. She is almost never angry, and then usually for short periods of time. She wishes she could be in the sandbox, but she doesn't blame the bugs. Neither does she blame me for making her stay away from the bugs. She has moved on. For someone with so many difficulties she is surprisingly mature.
"Prudence stepped on a bug," she tells me.
"That was mean. Why did she?"
"I don't know. She didn't like him I guess. She shouldn't have done it."
"When did she do that?"
"Before snack, on the sidewalk. I told her not to, but she doesn't listen."
"No, Prudence doesn't listen much. Nor, for that matter, do you."
"I know."
"Why is that?" I ask her, "Why is it that right now we can have a nice talk, but then when I make announcements to the group later you won't listen? You lie on your back and kick your feet in the air. Why do you do that?"
She doesn't have to think for more than a second.
"Because I don't care."
"About what I'm saying?"
"About games, or going first."
"Do you think you could pretend to care? You don't have to really care, just pretend so I won't get my feelings hurt?"
"Okay."
And she hugs me and runs away. Later as I announce what rooms are open I see her in the back of the room sitting quietly with her hands in her lap. She cares more about hurting my feelings than going first.
"Prudence stepped on a bug," she tells me.
"That was mean. Why did she?"
"I don't know. She didn't like him I guess. She shouldn't have done it."
"When did she do that?"
"Before snack, on the sidewalk. I told her not to, but she doesn't listen."
"No, Prudence doesn't listen much. Nor, for that matter, do you."
"I know."
"Why is that?" I ask her, "Why is it that right now we can have a nice talk, but then when I make announcements to the group later you won't listen? You lie on your back and kick your feet in the air. Why do you do that?"
She doesn't have to think for more than a second.
"Because I don't care."
"About what I'm saying?"
"About games, or going first."
"Do you think you could pretend to care? You don't have to really care, just pretend so I won't get my feelings hurt?"
"Okay."
And she hugs me and runs away. Later as I announce what rooms are open I see her in the back of the room sitting quietly with her hands in her lap. She cares more about hurting my feelings than going first.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Spring Break
It is Spring Break, and the children run every where, screaming, giddy, snot-bedecked. Somewhere a little girl is crying.
"What is wrong, Little Girl?"
"Becky won't let me be the pony. She said I had to be the pony's mother, and I want to be the pony."
"No child, you are not the pony's mother. You are her friend, the much better looking, more popular pony who makes the first pony secretly jealous and ashamed. You are a show pony. Becky, as soon as she is old enough, will be hitched to a plow and spend the rest of her life tilling the fertile soil so that her master may earn a meager living from the sweat of her brow."
"What is fertile soil?"
"Dirt with poop in it."
"Oh."
As the little girl runs to tell Becky about the new rules they will play by I look over the rest of the playground, the sun setting tranquilly behind the swings. "It's good for children to cry," I think. "Crying builds character."
"What is wrong, Little Girl?"
"Becky won't let me be the pony. She said I had to be the pony's mother, and I want to be the pony."
"No child, you are not the pony's mother. You are her friend, the much better looking, more popular pony who makes the first pony secretly jealous and ashamed. You are a show pony. Becky, as soon as she is old enough, will be hitched to a plow and spend the rest of her life tilling the fertile soil so that her master may earn a meager living from the sweat of her brow."
"What is fertile soil?"
"Dirt with poop in it."
"Oh."
As the little girl runs to tell Becky about the new rules they will play by I look over the rest of the playground, the sun setting tranquilly behind the swings. "It's good for children to cry," I think. "Crying builds character."
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Hail to the Chief
Dear Mr. President,
How are things? It's been too long. It seems like yesterday I was asking you to buy me a case of Miller High Life, and you were all, "Boys will be boys, I'd rather I know about it so I can make sure you're safe, that's what yer Daddy'd want, just make sure the girl's drunk enough she won't remember it later and charge you with assault, blah blah blah." I miss those days.
Anyway, I was just wondering where you stood on this year's Super Bowl; will you be supporting the Colts or the Bears? My thought was that you'd be for the Colts, they being the more rural of the two teams. Sure, Chicago is in the midwest too, but it's decidedly more metropolitan I'm sure you'll agree, and you were always a Red State, tobacco chewing, brush clearing sort of a guy. The game's this weekend, as I'm sure you know, so please get back to me soon. I'd hate to cheer against my President's team.
Tell Hungry-like-the-Wolfowitz I said what's up.
Andrew
How are things? It's been too long. It seems like yesterday I was asking you to buy me a case of Miller High Life, and you were all, "Boys will be boys, I'd rather I know about it so I can make sure you're safe, that's what yer Daddy'd want, just make sure the girl's drunk enough she won't remember it later and charge you with assault, blah blah blah." I miss those days.
Anyway, I was just wondering where you stood on this year's Super Bowl; will you be supporting the Colts or the Bears? My thought was that you'd be for the Colts, they being the more rural of the two teams. Sure, Chicago is in the midwest too, but it's decidedly more metropolitan I'm sure you'll agree, and you were always a Red State, tobacco chewing, brush clearing sort of a guy. The game's this weekend, as I'm sure you know, so please get back to me soon. I'd hate to cheer against my President's team.
Tell Hungry-like-the-Wolfowitz I said what's up.
Andrew
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
The start of a short-story?
It was noon, and Harold was four hours late for work. Wading through the murky bogs of the Florida Everglades he mused about where things had gone wrong. Had it been his failure to change the bedding of his pregnant rabbit, Floyd? The ammonia fumes from the accumulated urine had killed her and her unborn bunnies, her stiff leporine corpse discovered the next day by his three-year-old nephew Hyundai. The little boy had gone into fits, screaming and spitting, and in his terror at the first grim confrontation with mortality had knocked over the television that had been playing the Lakers/Suns game, and an angry room of Laker fans in Kobe Bryant jerseys set upon the boy, giving him a darn good spanking.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
You don't even have to cook it!
Since June I've been stealing my wireless internet from the girl down the hall. Recently she changed up and protected her wireless internet with a password, leaving me feeling cut off from the world.
Today I write from my father's dining room. Earlier I made a steak sandwich and watched Giada de Laurentis on Food Network, a woman who describes nearly everything she cooks as tender and grins at her cutting board like a jack-o-lantern while she works. Today she took five minutes of her show to show us a vibrant appetizer of beautiful sun-dried tomatos (she likes sun-dried tomatos because of their beautiful color, because they're tender, and because they burst with a vibrant sort of flavor) tender fresh basil leaves and some beautifully white and sweaty fresh mozzerella (pronounced MUTT-zer-EL-la), all of it put on skewers. "You don't even have to cook it!" she cried.
Giada made these tender and vibrant kabobs for a small gathering she was hosting. Some "friends" were coming over to watch "the big game." At the end of the show her friends came into the kitchen, laughing and slapping each other on the back.
"Okay everybody," cried Giada, "Take two kabobs!"
And her friends took two kabobs.
"Now take a sandwich! Everybody take a sandwich!"
And they took sandwichs. Carl took two, that scamp.
"Now go to the living room! Everybody, living room! Go! Now!"
And they did. It was surreal watching a person act this way on camera with no apparent shame. One can only assume that she saw nothing wrong with ordering her friends around the kitchen, barking to them what they are allowed to eat. It was bizarre, but refreshingly sincere. I felt I had caught glimpse of Ms. de Laurentis's everyday life.
"Maybe after the big game I'll have some help cleaning up!" she winked to the camera. I have a feeling Carl paid through the nose for his extra sandwich.
Today I write from my father's dining room. Earlier I made a steak sandwich and watched Giada de Laurentis on Food Network, a woman who describes nearly everything she cooks as tender and grins at her cutting board like a jack-o-lantern while she works. Today she took five minutes of her show to show us a vibrant appetizer of beautiful sun-dried tomatos (she likes sun-dried tomatos because of their beautiful color, because they're tender, and because they burst with a vibrant sort of flavor) tender fresh basil leaves and some beautifully white and sweaty fresh mozzerella (pronounced MUTT-zer-EL-la), all of it put on skewers. "You don't even have to cook it!" she cried.
Giada made these tender and vibrant kabobs for a small gathering she was hosting. Some "friends" were coming over to watch "the big game." At the end of the show her friends came into the kitchen, laughing and slapping each other on the back.
"Okay everybody," cried Giada, "Take two kabobs!"
And her friends took two kabobs.
"Now take a sandwich! Everybody take a sandwich!"
And they took sandwichs. Carl took two, that scamp.
"Now go to the living room! Everybody, living room! Go! Now!"
And they did. It was surreal watching a person act this way on camera with no apparent shame. One can only assume that she saw nothing wrong with ordering her friends around the kitchen, barking to them what they are allowed to eat. It was bizarre, but refreshingly sincere. I felt I had caught glimpse of Ms. de Laurentis's everyday life.
"Maybe after the big game I'll have some help cleaning up!" she winked to the camera. I have a feeling Carl paid through the nose for his extra sandwich.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Pink Eye III
The doors opened, sparing me my ambivalence, and another overly-friendly person, this a nurse in her mid-twenties, cheerfully called us all "hon" and "sweetie" as we came in to the waiting room. Moments later I was giving insurance information to a woman something like a cross between Kelly Rippa and Ruth's hippie sister on Six Feet Under. When she asked me what was wrong with me she did it in a pre-school teacher sort of voice, as though I were a toddler who fell while learning to walk, and she stuck out her lower lip in a pouty sort of a cartoon frown. I told Her I had pink eye.
"Yef, I cun see yo eye iss pwetty eewa-tated,"
I felt mocked.
Back with overly-friendly nurse 1 (Patient First's customer service maybe cloyingly sweet and insincere but they do get points for speed), I stepped onto a scale and shocked her with my weight.
"Yef, I cun see yo eye iss pwetty eewa-tated,"
I felt mocked.
Back with overly-friendly nurse 1 (Patient First's customer service maybe cloyingly sweet and insincere but they do get points for speed), I stepped onto a scale and shocked her with my weight.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Pink Eye II
If you want to avoid a wait at Patient First you've got to get there early. Not 4 am early, but well before 8 when they actually open. I showed up at five 'til, and was fifth in line at the front door with four strangers in front of me pretending that they and I did not exist. A thirty-ish woman in front of me noticed me smiling at the awkwardness of it and frowned, perceiving my smile to be I-know-not-what.
The silence was broken by stranger number six whose eye was, like my own, swollen and red, only more so. He was feeling down but friendly nevertheless.
"I got cast-iron in my eye," he told me.
"Jesus man, is it still in there?" I asked, instantly won over by the Youellian air of casual intimacy.
"Something's in there. Can you see it?" and he turned so I could get a good look.
He then told me about his long history of eye ailments, beginning when he was in elementary school and was stuck in the eye with a wire hanger (a la Michael Myers), and culminating in a horrific soldering accident two years back. He was laying on his back, soldering, and a piece of solder (that is to say, molten metal alloy used to join other solid metals) fell into his eye. I wondered that he could still see at all.
"Eye's the most resilient organ in the human body," he told me. "My wife had vlasic and she was able to see fine in less than two weeks."
"Holy shit," I said, half wishing to become friends, half worried that this was going to end like Enduring Love.
"Yeah, I guess at some point you'd think I'd learn. Ha."
"Yeah, you'd think." He grimaced when I said that, and I wished I said something more tactful, like, "Oh no, I too frequently injure myself in stupid ways! Oh goodness me!"
I let him in front of me, and we didn't really talk after that. I hope he's ok.
The silence was broken by stranger number six whose eye was, like my own, swollen and red, only more so. He was feeling down but friendly nevertheless.
"I got cast-iron in my eye," he told me.
"Jesus man, is it still in there?" I asked, instantly won over by the Youellian air of casual intimacy.
"Something's in there. Can you see it?" and he turned so I could get a good look.
He then told me about his long history of eye ailments, beginning when he was in elementary school and was stuck in the eye with a wire hanger (a la Michael Myers), and culminating in a horrific soldering accident two years back. He was laying on his back, soldering, and a piece of solder (that is to say, molten metal alloy used to join other solid metals) fell into his eye. I wondered that he could still see at all.
"Eye's the most resilient organ in the human body," he told me. "My wife had vlasic and she was able to see fine in less than two weeks."
"Holy shit," I said, half wishing to become friends, half worried that this was going to end like Enduring Love.
"Yeah, I guess at some point you'd think I'd learn. Ha."
"Yeah, you'd think." He grimaced when I said that, and I wished I said something more tactful, like, "Oh no, I too frequently injure myself in stupid ways! Oh goodness me!"
I let him in front of me, and we didn't really talk after that. I hope he's ok.
Pink Eye
I woke up early this morning with strep throat and conjunctivitis. The strep throat I knew about, I've been putting off going to the doctor all week, but the conjunctivitis was a surprise.
"Might as well go get it taken care of now," was my thought, so I put on some shoes and a hoodie and, not being familiar with their business hours, headed over to Patient First where I figured the wait would be brief and I could get my two prescriptions and move on to the 24 hour Walgreens across the street. It turns out Patient First isn't open at 4 am. I thought it was a 24 hour sort of operation, like an emergency room but cheaper. Apparently I was very wrong.
Up now and unable to fall back asleep I decided to do what I normally do at such times and put on a bad movie (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone) and check the internet for things that might have gotten by me recently. I corresponded with two people I've been out of touch with, read an extended conversation on Slate about the playoffs this weekend, discovered that George Bush was sending more troops to Iraq (embarrassing to be so far behind), and left a comment on someone's myspace that quoted a Times review of a new Justin Timberlake movie. Apparently Alpha Dog provides "the same entertainment value you get from watching monkeys fling scat at one another in a zoo." Chew on that, Hollywood!
"Might as well go get it taken care of now," was my thought, so I put on some shoes and a hoodie and, not being familiar with their business hours, headed over to Patient First where I figured the wait would be brief and I could get my two prescriptions and move on to the 24 hour Walgreens across the street. It turns out Patient First isn't open at 4 am. I thought it was a 24 hour sort of operation, like an emergency room but cheaper. Apparently I was very wrong.
Up now and unable to fall back asleep I decided to do what I normally do at such times and put on a bad movie (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone) and check the internet for things that might have gotten by me recently. I corresponded with two people I've been out of touch with, read an extended conversation on Slate about the playoffs this weekend, discovered that George Bush was sending more troops to Iraq (embarrassing to be so far behind), and left a comment on someone's myspace that quoted a Times review of a new Justin Timberlake movie. Apparently Alpha Dog provides "the same entertainment value you get from watching monkeys fling scat at one another in a zoo." Chew on that, Hollywood!
Friday, January 05, 2007
Resolutions
The new year finds me depressed and sick, playing Guitar Hero alone in my room. My recent loss in my fantasy football league's championship game has hit me hard, and I'm planning on becoming an alcoholic on the order of Faulkner or Fitzgerald only not a good writer.
In the brief moments of 2007 when I shall be sober I plan to run a 10 k and write a novel about a young orphan girl's struggle to raise a blind puppy in the Australian outback. I'm thinking she's going to fail, her puppy will be bitten by one of Australia's many poisonous snakes, and she will turn to a life of intravenous drug use. I'm hoping I could win a Newbery medal.
Happy 2007!
In the brief moments of 2007 when I shall be sober I plan to run a 10 k and write a novel about a young orphan girl's struggle to raise a blind puppy in the Australian outback. I'm thinking she's going to fail, her puppy will be bitten by one of Australia's many poisonous snakes, and she will turn to a life of intravenous drug use. I'm hoping I could win a Newbery medal.
Happy 2007!
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