Meat Mattress

There are drawbacks to having the world's most comfortable oversized bed. As I type this, Shea and Jessica are going at it next to me on my mattress. By going at it, I mean engaging in an intense debate about vegetarianism. It's the kind of conversation I love: a healthy, hearty argument with informed opinions and passionate viewpoints. Alas, I'm too tired to appreciate it like I should; my bed - oh, it looks as appetizing as a juicy steak. Mmm, mattress. Unfortunately, my bed is like the pizza of hangouts: everybody wants a slice. Don't get me wrong, I like sharing, but I might have to start covering my bed with pepperoni if I want to get some sleep.


Handjob Fair

I went to a job fair to see if I could secure a teaching position for the fall. Rushing out at the last minute, as it is best to be prepared for things like these, I grabbed a notebook to take notes on that some previous tenant of my house left lying in the living room. As it turned out, I never opened the notebook throughout my afternoon of interviews, which turned out to be a good thing. Upon returning home, I opened the notebook to see what I had written (temporarily forgetting I had written nothing) and discover that on the first page, someone scrawled the following message in large text with a black permanent marker: "Your love envelops me in spine tingling sensations that I want to feel forever." And to think I thought I showed up without any letters of recommendation!


Museum of Childish Actions

This past weekend, I went into LA for a night on the town. We snuck into the MOCA's weekend gala; much credit goes to the crafty Daniel and Katie for sneaking us past security. I figured it would be especially difficult blending in with the fashionably upscale museum patrons considering I was wearing my finest U.S. Census t-shirt, but never underestimate the ability of Pitzer graduates to finagle something for free. Of course, the only thing classier than going to an art museum is sneaking into an art museum, so I felt especially swanky in spite of my attire. The Lorna Simpson exhibit lives up to every crazy stereotype that modern art is: identical photographs with non-corresponding text, a video installation piece featuring sixteen sets of lips of people of different racial backgrounds humming, and a huge black wall with nothing but a tiny clipping from a newspaper article on it. We'll just call it "interesting" and move on. On the other side, I very much enjoyed the bizarre hodgepodges of pop artist Robert Rauschenberg. The pieces were gigantic aesthetically-pleasing collages of random crap glued together. Now that? Is art.

After enjoying the main show, we went outside to listen to a crappy techno DJ. No one was dancing, not that it seemed particularly encouraged in this setting, so we decided to shake our booties. In no time, we became the main show. Stuffy, older people blatantly turned their chairs and encircled us, gawking at us as if we were also an exhibit. I got such a kick out of noticing hundreds of people point at and discuss us. Undoubtedly, these people came for some kind of cultural experience and we provided a glimpse into the confounding behaviors of youth culture.

Forget paying for the MOCA - the MOCA should be paying us.


It Happened Again

Two weeks ago, my teaching class collectively snickered at a something my professor drew on the board resembling a penis. Since then, I've been a bit worried that my immaturity would catch up to me in my own classroom. Now that I'm leading my own summer school course, I was put to the test as I led a plot structure lesson. Scribbling on the overhead projector, I wrote, "The bird comes" before pausing to gather my thought. During that thought, I heard assorted giggling and whispering. Realizing that the introduction of the word "come" was the source, I nonchalantly erased it and wrote "lands" instead, all without cracking a smile or acknowledging the double entendre. I passed my first major maturity test!

After my class ended, I reported to my graduate school class. It's a new class with new professors. Half of the students are from my previous class, while the others completed the first course during the spring semester. Collectively, we are taking notes on a powerpoint presentation when a slide manifests.

Teaching Methods:
* Let's do it together!
* You do it while I watch

It's the second one in particular that forced me to bury my face in my palm. As I did my best to immediately regain my composure, there was blatant laughter occurring around me. Because laughter is contagious and the moment is entirely inappropriate, we fuel each other for the worse and it takes several full minutes before we actually settle down again, despite admonishment from our professors, though they cannot tell what the disruption is about. It's not many graduate classes where instruction is interrupted for an extended period simply because of the phrase "you do it while I watch," just the one housing California's future educators.


My New Bed

After sleeping on a futon for the past few weeks, I decided it was time for a real bed. Jessica is a member of the local free-cycle community, wherein people put up high-ticket items for free to fellow reduce-reuse-recyclers. She promised to scan the listings for a bed, then found the mother-load: a California king-sized mattress and springboard. It sounds positively excessive, and after doing some measurements, we learned it would take up a third of the space in my room. Since it would be absolutely absurd for me to take it, I decide that I must do so.

As the first replier, I am the proud new owner of a California king-sized bed. After expecting to borrow Shea's truck to pick it up, we had our plans ruined when it turned out the bed of Shea's truck was filled with glass and aluminum redeemables collected from local restaurants. Ah! The benefit of living amongst reduce-reuse-recyclers has come back to bite me in the Birkenstocks. So now we had to take Michael Michael's station wagon and hope we could tie it to the top with a single rope.

Arriving at the home to pick it up, I almost had second thoughts while looking at how huge it was. After some struggle to lift it atop the card, Jessica did a great job of taking the lead and strapping it to the roof. When it came time to get in the car, however, we realized we had tied ourselves out and had to climb through the windows. Fortunately, we made it back to the house without incident. As soon as it was in my room, four of us got on it and enjoyed its magnificence; we could all fit comfortably (with an emphasis on comfort) without even having to touch each other. I slept like a baby that night - and I mean peacefully, not one of those found in a crib with SIDS.

That's right, I just ruined a perfectly good post by referencing SIDS. Forgive me, it's but one letter away from AIDS.


Hippies Bug Me

I live in a hippie house. We have not one, but two compost piles, my housemate runs his truck on vegetable oil, and if there's any product that comes in an environmentally-friendly form, we own it. Eco soap is the worst: it doesn't even clean the dishes. It has this hippie mentality in which it thinks all dirt has the right to coexist on the plates and lets it stay where it is if it wants to. Personally, I admire my housemates commitment to preserving the environment, especially having lived in places that don't even champion recycling. However, I draw the line at the bugs. The live and let live attitude is not restricted to grime, but to the insects that take up residence in our house. Until they start chipping in their portion of the rent, I'm not willing to share their laissez faire approach to the flies, moths, and roaches. I'm the evil guy who kills the bugs on sight, as opposed to their method of catching and releasing (and invariably waltzing back into our house again.)

In some ways, the bug invasion is good. I've gotten over my mild fear of spiders. Now when I see one in my room, I ignore it rather than panicking, understanding it to be yet another house guest. A couple days ago, I went into the side shed to fetch a box of mine at night, and walked through a gigantic spider web encompassing the doorway. Previously, I would have freaked out, but I thought nothing of it, grabbing my belongings and acting as though nothing happened.

Today, I heard Jessica screaming outside. I ran out to find out what was happening. (Actually, if we're being completely honest, I was pooping when I heard her scream, so it was a couple minutes before I was able to see what was the matter.) Jessica had also gone to the shed, and discovered a huge black widow spider hanging on its web in the doorway. Though the spider retreated to a corner out of sight, Jessica's hippie attitude had disappeared, and she was insistent on killing the thing immediately. Apparently, they really are quite deadly. It made me feel great to know I unwittingly pushed through a black widow web unaware of how close to danger I was.

For half an hour, we waited there in our underwear with sticks prepared to beat the spider should it reappear. It never did, but we discover several pouches with hundreds of spider eggs in them. Jessica jumped into action and smashed the eggs into useless heaps, much like you would expect from an abortion-loving head of the Women's Center.

Kevin: Don't spiders die after they lay their eggs?
Jessica: I don't think so.
Kevin: Well, that's how happened in Charlotte's Web.
Jessica: Yeah, but that's just a cartoon movie.
Kevin: Actually, it was a book first... idiot.

Admittedly, that's not the way to treat someone who protected me from an invasion of hundreds of black widow spiders. Jessica is not an idiot, she is a warrior who knows when to turn off her hippie powers. I applaud that. In the meantime, I'm not too cool with spiders again - Charlotte being no exception.


A Zombie in Homeroom

I met my first real-life zombie.

Stacy introduced me to her old friend Aliya. Apparently, at the end of elementary school, Aliya's family moved to another state with little warning. To explain her sudden absence, one girl told everyone that Aliya had died in a car crash, a rumor that spread and was accepted as truth. No one would have ever been the wiser, except that a couple years later, Aliya's family moved back to town. Imagine everyone's surprise when Aliya, a known fatality to the school community, showed up for the first day of high school - back from the dead! Talk about a reputation.



I finally went to A&Ws and KFC with Alex as we have been meaning to do for a long time. In one tiny building, both restaurant establishments pool their resources to provide us with the best of both worlds. At first I couldn't decide which menu to order off of, until I decided that I might as well get something from each place. This, I reason with myself, is what is known as a multicultural experience. I will diversify my life by having both chicken and root beer and my spirit will be rewarded. The cashier hands me a receipt, and tells me, "Your total comes to six six six." Each six is pronounced with a hiss, "sssssix sssssix sssssix." I look at the receipt. Indeed, the total is $6.66. Why not pronounce it "six dollars and sixty-six cents" or even just "six-sixty-six?"

At any rate, I've learned my lesson: multiculturalism is evil.


Way to Gogh, Kevin

A few weeks ago, we had a presentation on incorporating the fine arts into our classrooms. An elementary school teacher demonstrated how ey got eir fourth grade students excited about paintings by doing a presentation on Van Gogh. Ey distributed samples of Van Gogh's paintings; the one handed to me was on a postcard. While no one was looking, I took the liberty of leading myself in a creative writing project instead, as any English teacher would. On the backside of the postcard, I wrote:

Dear Vincent,

I'm sorry to hear find out about your ear. I hope you feel better and start using bright colors again.


I was proud. Later, while I was bored, I wrote "poop is brown" in the margin. That was also in the name of creative writing. Or something. Then, with little warning, the teacher came around and collected my Van Gogh postcard from me. Apparently, we didn't get to keep them. Oops. My apologies to the fourth grader who is handed that postcard next.


A Public Shaming

About a year ago, I was introduced to a blog called Always Tardy. It made me laugh and, unlike any other blog I've been to, want to come back repeatedly. A few months later, I was so jealous and inspired, I created my own blog, Kevin Babbles. (Go ahead, click the link, but it'll only take you to the exact place that you already are at.) The only reason you are at this site is because I shamelessly copied from Always Tardy's contributors, Kim and Natalie. Speaking of shamelessly copying, here's one of my favorite posts, entitled A Snake with Titties:

My friend sent me an e-mail this morning with the subject line, "You'll like this story".
The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Yesterday my friend takes me to this unique rock/gem store. I end
up buying some stuff, and it just so happens my Mom's birthday is soon (same
days as yours actually), so I got her 2 necklace charms. One is sort-of
abstract. I couldn't really tell what it was, but it had amber in it and it
seemed really beautiful.

I get back to work and show A and she says, "nice boobs." Turns out my
eyesight is bad and it was a sterling silver snake with tits and a mermaid
tail holding a ball of amber.

No return policy. Isn't that great?! I got my Mom a snake with titties for
her birthday. And I got myself an appointment at LensCrafters.

PS- C giggled when she saw it, and said, "hey, Natalie might
like that."

You know, I did like the story. It made me laugh. More than the story, I like the fact that these are my friends and this is the shit that happens to us. Sometimes I behave like a retarded clown but its okay as long as we can laugh about it. I'm pretty much expecting to get a snake with titties for my birthday and I'm cool with it.

Even now, randomly, I will think of that story and burst into laughter.

Anyway, the reason that I shamelessly copied is because I intend to publicly shame the fine folks at Always Tardy into posting something again. They've been a bit too tardy lately, to the point where I demand new content. Look, I understand that it gets difficult: I've been fairly delinquent with my own blog duties lately, but Always Tardy should be more current. If I have to keep blogging, they have to, too! Harumph.


The Joy of Liberries

I love liberries. Firstly, it has free stuff. Being cheap, free is the price I love best. Plus, you get to return the things when you're finished with them. Because I already own plenty of crap, much of which is useless junk I literally just pick up off the ground, I do not need to be in the habit of keeping additional things at this point in my life.

Evidently, there are also some haters who despise the liberry. They think that liberries provide undesirable, perverted information to vulnerable citizens. (Indeed, my local liberry was the place I obtained the book on homosexual animals.) These are people who think learning should be restricted to areas that do not defy the status quo. They are also probably the same people who say "liberry" without realizing they are saying it incorrectly.

Such haters exist in Idaho, where citizens are calling for the removal of certain books, according to this article, copied here:

Several books considered controversial by some will remain part of the collection at the Nampa Public Library, but they might not be accessible to library patrons.

Monday afternoon, the Nampa Library Board decided to keep “The Joy of Sex" and "The Joy of Gay Sex" books as part of its collection.  However, the books will now be housed on the highest shelf in the library, and library workers will be asked to make more rounds to pick up books left on tables.

Randy Jackson complained to the board about the books, which he feels are pornographic in nature, and too easily accessible by children and teens, “I believe that the library board did not have the best interests of the community in mind when they made their decision today.”

Those who want the books to stay, like Lorrie Breshears, say it's censorship, “Parents should be watching their children and supervising what they are reading.  So I prefer it stay where it was so that people wanting that information don't have to ask for it.”

Jackson checked out a copy of the book "The Joy of Gay Sex", and he says he has no plans to return it.

That last sentence is my favorite part. After putting up a large stink, Jackson decides to just borrow the book himself and keep it indefinitely. We all owe Jackson a thank you for so selflessly accepting responsibility of keeping vigilant watch of the book. He has protected his community, and we wish him well in his certain upcoming masturbatory endeavors.


Teacher T-Shirt

I think I might have just made up a new tongue twister. Say the title of this post five times quickly. "Teacher t-shirt, teacher t-cher, t-sur..." Not so easy, is it? Now are you starting to see why being a teacher is hard?

Apparently, I need a new wardrobe to be a teacher. Evidently, even without ink stains, my clothes aren't sufficient. So I went out shopping, but had difficulty deciding what teachers wear. I already have plenty of white and blue collared shirts, but I can't just wear those every day, can I? (I know that I technically can wear them every day, as I did just that for three consecutive summer internships, but it started getting embarrassing. At first I'd alternate between blue and white until I realized that dressing in a pattern was even more pathetic than having only two outfit options, so I began wearing blue two days in a row sometimes, despite the fear that people might think I was wearing the same shirt two days in a row, which, truthfully, was often the case.)

I tried going to a department store, but I had trouble remembering what teachers wore. I thought about going to a school to observe a classroom just to look at the fashion. I have forms that would allow me to do something like that, but I'd have to pretend to be studying teaching styles, not clothing styles, and stay for at least an hour. I called Bianca to get her opinion on the matter. At that point I was considering, more seriously than I should probably admit, going to a school and peeking in some windows to see what teachers wore. Bianca's smart and pointed out that that might get me arrested. "Officer, I swear, I was just looking at the teacher's clothes." That might ruin my chance at being credentialed. But then, at least I wouldn't have to worry about purchasing a new wardrobe. When I still didn't entirely abandon the idea, Bianca brought up the fact that schools weren't in session because it's summer and, if that weren't enough, a Saturday. All facts that conveniently slipped my mind. Well if that Bianca's so smart, why couldn't she just tell me what a teacher wears?

I ended up going to a few thrift stores. Previously unexplored by me, the same places that sell me gems like this one also sell nicer clothing. And by nice, I mean clothing my grandparents would wear, which if you think about it makes sense because when older people die, their clothing gets donated. I just hope I don't stir up any emotional outbursts from my students when I show up to school wearing their deceased grandparents' outfits. About $24 later, I have about seven new shirts (with buttons) and three pairs of pants. By new I of course mean used, but they're new to me. I'm still not sure if they're teacher appropriate, but they're all things I'd be happy to wear while teaching, or barring that, gifting to my grandparents next Christmas.

Oh, and if anyone can tell me what teachers wear in the comments section, I'd appreciate it.


Ink Is the New Pink

Right now, my dirty laundry is separated into two piles. No, not whites and colors, that's for more civilized people. My clothing fits into two categories: ink-stained and not ink-stained. I have had several unfortunate run-ins with exploding pens recently. In Boston, I got caught in the rain with a pen in my pocket and it went all over my pants. Later at Six Flags, the water ride soaked me and, in turn, a pen, also ruining my shorts. Then I made the mistake of doing a load of laundry with a pen in it, and it not only destroyed some shorts, but marked several shirts with stray ink blots as well. So yeah, a lot of my clothes are ruined, including my Women of Virtue Conference 2001 t-shirt.

Before my family starts rejoicing, I must admit that I am not going to be getting rid of this stained attire. Remember when torn jeans were trendy? At some point, somebody accidentally ripped eir jeans and rather than declaring them ruined, decided to call it a fashion statement. Soon after, people were, nonsensically, intentionally putting holes in their pants. I'm going to lead a similar trend, but with ink spots. It's going to be cool to have black and blue blots bleeding in random positions around the pockets, crotch, and rear. People will be rubbing leaking pens all over their clothes for that authentic ink-stained look. Sure, shake your head now, but when Shakira is featured on the cover of Rolling Stone with a large round ebony blotch resting prominently on the backside of her tight pants, you're going to wish that you stained your wardrobe sooner.

As you'll recall on Saved by the Bell, the only television show that mattered to my generation, the nerds wore pocket protectors. Need I remind you, nerds are super uncool. If it's uncool to protect your pocket, then it must be cool to have pen stains. Of course, if you're intellectual enough to follow that logic, you're probably already on board with my new style. That's because you already realize that everyone would be a walking Rorschach Inkblot Test. Finally, a fashion craze that really says something about you.


Fertilizer Stick

My teaching teacher loves extended metaphors. Two days ago, my class heard a spiel on how teaching children is like making a peanut butter sandwich. Today, we discovered that lesson plans are like a tree, complete with a corresponding drawing. Generally, the longer and more elaborate these metaphors get, the more ridiculous they are. At the mention of students being the fertilizer stick (what the heck is a fertilizer stick, anyway?), she illustrates her point. As it turns out, at least according to the crude drawing, a fertilizer stick looks like a penis. Immediately, I flashback to sophomore world history class where Randie's chalk rendition of Africa also looked particularly phallic.

Of course, I can't laugh. I'm going to be a teacher, I can't allow myself to giggle each time I see something that resembles a penis. Covering my mouth to conceal a smile, I glance around expecting to see a more mature crowd around me. Instead, I notice the majority of my peers, many of whom are significantly older than me - married and pregnant - are doing a worse job of containing themselves. That's right, a room full of people who will be in charge of their own classrooms in just two months are chuckling and whispering to friends about the cock-and-balls shape scrawled on the board.

This proved to be a reassuring experience for me. Others might take another perspective.


Ha-pee B-Day

The following was communicated to me by a relative via Instant Message. Because of the sensitive information contained within, I will leave this individual anonymous except to say that it might be my favoritest sibling.

i had a dream that i kept drinking tons and tons of water
ad kept going to teh bathroom in my dream
and on my 4th time in my dream i went a littl enad hten i couldn't go but i still had to
so me, in real life, tried to pee, and did,
so i basically wet my bed yesterday morning
haha ooopssss
it was your birthday present
i forgot to tell you

Happy Birthday to me.


I'm a Lyricist and I Didn't Even Knowicist

listening to a whiny alternative song on the radio
J: Those lyrics are horrible! Who writes that?!
K: I'm pretty forgiving of dumb lyrics. Everything profound has already been said.
J: Wow. That's profound.


Six Flagged

In dire need of a mental health day, Jessica and I went to Six Flags to cut loose. We got on the Tatsu, the new roller coaster where you're strapped in lying down. We rode in the front row, providing us with the most terrifying and beautiful view and simulating the feeling of flight. It was amazing. Less than amazing was our decision to get on the wild water raft ride five minutes before the park closed. The ride itself was great: we were seated with eight Japanese tourists and the one who was clearly the most afraid of getting wet was splashed the most. Afterwards, drenched and cold, we had to drive home in our underwear.

Saving that ride for last, however, is not my biggest regret. My biggest regret is not carpooling with this lovely individual I discovered on Craig's List:

I am a 35 Male, deaf person from Phoenix. Am looking for female who would be interested to be my trip partner to Six Flags Magic Mountain. Leaving Friday June 9 overnight to avoid the traffic and the heat.

I'll cover gas, motel and Six Flags ticket for you. You should be openminded because I have a twisted sense of humor that might bother some people.

Would prefer to trade pix so that you are not a fatty, minor, or stinky homeless.

Email me if interested.

Imagine the disappointment of the many stinky homeless people surfing the internet looking for rides to Six Flags only to find they are being discriminated against.


I'm Positive About This One

I've been very sick: Out of nowhere, I've started incessantly sneezing and coughing and feeling miserable in general. Jessica suggests that it might be allergies, but I know better: I have AIDS.

Don't try to reason with me, I know my body, and I know I have AIDS. Runny nose, sore throat... the signs are all there. Jessica tells me that it's not funny to say that, but she does so while laughing. It's okay, though, I'm used to people hating on my health. I even have a term for people like her: HIV Negative. You react poorly to when I tell you I have AIDS? Why, then you're HIV Negative. Don't think AIDS is funny? Way to be HIV Negative, you hater.

I, for one, am positive. I've chosen to remain optimistic about my AIDS, and am looking to surround myself exclusively with HIV Positivity.