Laps in Judgment

In addition to my regular classroom duties, my administration has mandated that I supplement my pre-existing joy for my profession by "volunteering" at student athletic events every so often. Today, I "volunteered" to work at the cross-country running meet because I figured that with a long distance activity, I wouldn't be expected to pay attention the whole time, unless they wanted me to literally chase behind them, which wouldn't be fair, because I didn't sign up for a heart attack.

Before the race, the coach gave me the lowdown on my duties. I would stand out in the park's parking lot as the kids raced through that portion of the course in order to move cones and "use [my] body" to block the traffic and prevent the students from being hit by vehicles. Essentially, I was a human cone. Frankly, with the teacher shortage in the state, you'd figure they'd be more willing to risk the lives of a couple of the millions of students rather than put the ass of a "highly qualified" professional on the line, but my district is pretty antiquated, so the mentality is probably still "women and children first" or some bullshit.

I asked for an estimation as to how long this would take. The coach told me, "Well, the slowest girl on the other team looks like she could be pretty slow. I haven't seen her run, though." So ey was just assuming, just like ey was assuming when ey pointed to a guy from the other team and said, "I bet he'll be fast, though. I haven't seen him run, but you can tell." Apparently, you can tell because he's the African American on a team of Latinos. I still never got an approximate time, but if the students ran as quickly as their coach made sweeping generalizations, it would be over in no time.

Seeing one of my new students, I said hello and "I didn't know you were on the cross country team." Ey asked, "Who did you come to cheer on?" I found this question cute, and I wish I could say I'm one of those supportive teachers who came to root for my students rather than being forced to do so, so I lied. "I came to see you." Then I remembered that I just said I didn't know ey was on the team, so I had to amend my statement, "... And Minnie*, really." Minnie was one of my favorites last year, until ey advocated killing people for being gay, an issue on which we don't exactly see eye to eye.

My duties were fairly simple, but not without some complications. I quickly discovered I was less of a human cone and more of a pin monkey, frequently assembling, de-assembling, and reassembling the cones as the runners ran by so that I could keep letting traffic in and out when gaps permitted. My second worst student from last year passed by the park in a car and heckled me, so I gave him a fake smile and wave. Within five minutes, he drove around the block again, so he could curse at me further. The darling kid proceeded to do exactly that twice more, clearly having nothing better to do (I'm sure he has homework he should be busy with, not that he'd ever do it), which served as an unnecessary distraction from my daunting task of moving cones.

I initially figured that there wouldn't be that many cars trying to enter and exit a small park, but this assumption proved incorrect. A lot of people were irritated with my presence, and I understand why since I looked like little more than a person who set up cones without a real purpose unless a student was running by at that moment. My first truly awkward encounter came from a person driving an ice cream truck. When I made em wait, the driver screamed out the window at me, "This is my business, get out of my fucking way!" I wouldn't expect someone who sold ice cream shaped like Sponge Bob and whose vehicle emitted the songs "Turkey and the Straw" and "Do Your Ears Hang Low?" to be such an asshole. Later, a stream of runners kept someone driving a Hummer from exiting the park for an extra couple of minutes, and so ey honked their horn as I just stared em down, ready to be that human cone that would undoubtedly be crush under such a massive car. I can't lie, I took pleasure in holding up someone who is such a gas-guzzler, so it didn't phase me when the driver passed by me and said, "This is not a good place for them to be running." I must admit, I would agree with this opinion, but similarly, the earth is not a good place to be driving that pollution machine. If only I had thought of that retort at the time.

As the kids ran by, I did my best to clap and look excited, but I didn't even fool myself. I quickly realized who the aforementioned "slowest girl" must be -- the overweight one. Indeed, she was bringing up the rear. Notably, however, the black student who "looked" fast was also toward the back of the pack. Once the last student rounded my portion during the last lap, I picked up the cones and headed home. I didn't even watch to see who won. If anything, I suppose I was cheering for the fat girl to pull off a come-from-behind victory, even if she was on the other school's team.

In Bed

After inheriting the California king size mattress, I similarly inherited a set of red sheets from a friend. Up until that point, I was merely wrapping myself in a blanket atop the mattress, so the sheets were much appreciated. The sheets' material, however, was undesirable in that it attracted and retained an unnatural amount of dust and hair. At first I thought it occurred because I am particularly dirty, but I learned that some fabrics are wont to have fuzz and the like gather on it more than others.

Periodically, I would wipe the sheets, only to have the dust accumulate again within the day. Having dogs didn't help the matter, as they would shed all over the place. A month ago, I bought a big lint brush and Katy and I spent nearly two hours rubbing the undesirable material off my sheets, resulting in the dust ball pictured above. Within two days, you wouldn't have been able to tell we had ever de-linted the mattress.

Today I finally had enough of sleeping in such a grimy environment and decided to treat myself to brand new sheets. Though sheets aren't particularly expensive, when you buy a set for a California king mattress, they run at about $100 a pop. As I roamed the linen store while mentally preparing myself to spend that amount, I found that certain colors and styles were severely discounted. Ultimately, I located a set of nice sheets at nearly 70% off, most likely because they are a strong solid brown color. I was attracted to them for three significant reasons: they're ugly and thus funny, they're the color of poop (no visible skid marks!), and, duh, the price.

Then I started chickening out. My large concern was that this purchase would be stupid since this brown color wouldn't match anything. It didn't take me long to remember that I've never attempted to match or establish a color scheme in my entire life. Furthermore, there is no decor in my room for me to even worry about matching, aside from Brandon and the Mariachi Sundays sign.

So now I have new, comfortable brown sheets. Come poop on them, if you'd like.

A Bug's Life

Bugs have invaded my life again. My home, the Kremlin, has been overrun with ants. In the past, the hippies that we are, we've learned to coexist peacefully with insects, but once it got to the point where the ants probably owed more in rent than us, we resorted to poisons and traps to annihilate them to varying degrees of success.

At work last week, I discovered that my classroom also has an ant problem, which is all the more aggravating considering I can't seem to catch a break from them. I left out a box of crackers under my desk and within an hour it was infested. The ants aren't the only bugs frequenting my classroom: a large spider made a visit, too. One student screamed about a huge spider; I assumed it was a case of being over-dramatic. I'll be damned, however, if it wasn't the thickest, grossest spider I have ever seen (and that's saying something) in the flesh, or whatever type of hairy outer-layer spiders have, unless that expression refers to the seer, in which case flesh does apply to me - covered in clothing, mind you.

Some students screamed while others teased them, until the teasing students moved closer to inspect and became freaked out in their own right. People told me to "be a man" and step on it, but I was too terrified to do it. This wasn't exactly a daddy-long-leg: If I stepped on it, it would ruin my shoe more than I would ruin it. Knowing class couldn't resume until the situation was under control and that I did not have the guts to do it, I offered five dollars for someone to remove it from the classroom. Suddenly, a student who was screaming about the spider earlier was not interested in earning the money and took care of it fairly quickly, though not without additional screaming.

Later, I thought we were fine, resuming the lesson, only to have a pair of bees fly in through the door and terrorize the students. "It's like A Bug's Life in here" quipped the $5-richer student. I almost mentioned "and you haven't even noticed the ants yet!" but figured that wouldn't win anybody points, so I kept it to myself.

Today, as I taught the same class of students, I periodically sipped from a bottle of water I left at work over the weekend. It tasted a bit stale, and made a mental note to refresh my water supply at the next break. On what was probably my fifth sip, I felt something weird on my tongue and scraped a dead ant off of it. I made a face, then looked at my bottle. I don't know how I could have been so unobservant previously, but that's when I discovered that there were no fewer than two dozen ant corpses floating in my bottle of water. Being so freaked out, I couldn't hide my disgust, and had to confess the situation to my students. They were more grossed out than I was. "You have to do something!" "Rinse your mouth out with Raid!" I told them that it wasn't my fault and that those ants were stupid for going on some sort of suicide mission into my water, but the students then chastised me for drinking "old, nasty water" in the first place.

All day, no matter how much clean, fresh water I've had, I still can't rid the taste of death from my mouth. I know that's something that's more so in my mind than a legitimately lingering taste, but it sure feels real. Fortunately, I'm about to head to Margarita Mondays. That amount of alcohol will certainly kill anything that ails me, or at least help me to forget about it anyway.

The Cask of Amontillado

On Friday night, when I used the word "flambeaux" instead of "torch," Stacy responded, "Somebody's been reading Poe." It's true, and it's one of my favorite times of the year. A year ago, I detailed how I described the weirdest attributes of Edgar Allan Poe in order to stir up student interest. I'm not too proud to admit that I've resorted to such measures again this year.

I didn't read "The Cask of Amontillado" until college, and even then I had to reread it before understanding it, because it's pretty intense. Hence, I find it fairly shocking that 9th graders are expected to grasp the short story in all of its fucked up glory. I let them read it themselves first and fail miserably, then walk through it step-by-step in a way that is not necessary for most reading assignments. Ultimately, the creepiness resonates with the kids who are perplexed by the narrator's motivations (well fancy that -- just as Poe intended!) Inevitably, a student in each of my five classes asks, "So wait, this is a true story?" It's a bit early to expect the students to understand that there's a difference between the author and the narrator, and it probably doesn't help that I previously described him as being twisted enough to do so.

One aspect that always needs addressing is the issue of reverse psychology. They figure Montresor must not really want to kill Fortunato if he keeps encouraging him to turn around. To illustrate reverse psychology, I fabricate a tale of how my parents used to tell me that vegetables were "only for grownups" so that I would want to eat them and do so in secrecy. The kids love this story, but it's not true. I don't care, it's all in the name of education. I do remember that once my mom convinced me to open my mouth and close my eyes in order to fool me into eating a piece of celery, which I have never forgiven her for. I flatter my students by explaining they're much too smart at their age to fall for reverse psychology anymore, which is also a lie. I still use it with them all the time.

I want the students to find the irony in the deceased Fortunato's name. They find the "fortunate" connection, but I'm most in love with one student's observation that "at first he was fortunate, but then he was nat-o." When I try the same with my lowest level class, they seem to think Fortunato's name has something to do with the name Nelly Furtado. Rather than shutting it down, I acknowledge that it does have a similar sound and point out the other, better connection. Except that it's the Nelly Furtado aspect that sticks with them, and as we discuss the story further, they continue to refer to Fortunato's character as Nelly Furtado, not in an attempt to be humorous, but out of genuine confusion. As if the story weren't confusing enough.

Mexichina

Kevin: Ooooh! Tacquitos!
RJ: They're egg rolls.
K: Whatever! Same thing, different country.
R: Yeah, except one is thin and filled with meat and one is thicker and has vegetables.
K: Okay, way to "defend your culture," RJ. You know that China and Mexico are practically the same thing.
R: Uh-huh...
K: If we were to use a Venn Diagram with Mexico and China, that section where the circles intersect would be full of similarities. Full of 'em. And nothing on the outside.
R: Sure, they're exactly the same except for an ocean between them.
K: Right! Those outer portions of the circles are nothing but oceans. Oceans empty with differences... 'cause they're exactly the same.



Truthfully, since these countries are seperated by an ocean -- the same ocean -- it's not really a difference and actually is yet another similarity. Take that, naysayers.

If you'd like to book Kevin for your company's Cultural Sensitivity training, please send three rum and cokes.

Never-Ending Bowl of Pasta

Internet advertising does not typically appeal to me. Last week, however, an ad for a $8.95 never-ending pasta bowl (plus unlimited soup or salad and breadsticks) at the Olive Garden appealed to both my love of noodles and monetary deals. I immediately put out the word to Madison, my former housemate and one of the few people I know who enjoys pasta as much as me, and we made a date of it. I hesitated to invite other people along because it's the Olive Garden and I don't have too many friends who'd be particularly keen on eating at a massive chain. I realize that's how the majority of America eats when they dine out, but I certainly don't hang out with the majority of America. When we eat out, we usually hit smaller, locally owned restaurants with better, cheaper, individually prepared food where our money supports the little people rather than fuels national corporations. It's not as if this decision is ever articulated, but no one ever even suggests going to Chilies for example, though I'm sure if it was, it would be met with confusion. When I went to Applebees with my coworkers last year, I confessed that I had, at least to my recollection, never been to one previously. Everyone was shocked, apparently most of these teachers went to Applebees regularly. One teacher looked at me, completely seriously, and said, "You need to get out more." That might be true, but it's fascinating that Applebees of all places would be some sort of barometer for social activity. Not on my scale, anyway.

At any rate, I was surprised when a few more people tagged along to our Olive Garden excursion. Though I had been once before and Madison went every year for her grandma's birthday (her grandmother enjoys the breadsticks and flirtatious waiter), Jessica, Phoebe, and Kirsten, were all first-timers. On the way there, they exclaimed several times, "I can't believe we're going to the Olive Garden," which was an honest sentiment, but one not many people would understand.

In a way, this trip was a cultural experience. Our first lesson learned was that you can't just show up at an Olive Garden and expect a seat. In fact, it was an hour wait. An hour wait? For the Olive Garden? We used the opportunity to walk to all of the other chain restaurants conveniently located in one area in order to expand our horizons. We peeked into the windows of Applebees and Macaroni Grill like some sort of crazed tourists or anthropologists, observing what we could until it was finally our time to eat at the Olive Garden.

We sat and down and everyone was looking at the menu as if they were going to get something other than the never-ending pasta bowl special, which was fine, as long as Madison and I followed through on our pact. Then Phoebe called the special a meal "for fatties" which, interestingly, offended me more than any comment I've heard in recent history. Once I found out that Phatty Phoebe would be ordering the same thing and wasn't nearly as judgmental as I thought, my offense subsided.

We went into the experience with big eyes and stomaches, talking a big game about how much pasta we could eat. The never-ending pasta bowl offered six different shapes of pasta with seven different sauces that you could switch around for reach round we ordered. I intended to try at least three different combinations before I began. I kept shoveling the pasta in my mouth (clearly this was not a meal for fatties, Phoebe), I watched my friends slow to a halt on their first bowl. What? You can't do that! I got offended again, since this deal was only really a deal if you ate so much pasta that the Olive Garden regretted ever offering this special in the first place. It might as well not have been a never-ending bowl if you didn't even take them up on a refill.

As we continued to eat, at a much slower pace, each person eventually getting a refill, we invented a concept for a reality show wherein people would all sit down for a never-ending bowl of pasta and be eliminated when they could no longer keep up and eat. The show had drama, intrigue, and sex - like when I unbuttoned my shorts in order to continue eating and when Kirsten got marinara sauce down her cleavage. Our server, Valerie, was friendly and funny, the perfect host for such a show. We very much enjoyed (and gorged) ourselves; as it turns out, the Olive Garden isn't half bad.

Everyone claimed to be stuffed, but then they all ordered dessert except for me. Seems like some people didn't give the never-ending bowl their all. Now that we've had this experience, however, we chalked this one up to a practice round. We're going back, and we're going to hit those balls hard. We'll be there when it opens, and we'll still be there when it closes. If anyone else wants to participate in a ridiculous pasta eating challenge, let us know.

As I exited the crowded restaurant, I ran into a bit of trouble when I realized that I hadn't re-buttoned my pants. This oversight proved problematic when my shorts slid past my waist and started down my legs. I was literally losing my pants altogether. I stretched my legs wide to prevent them from dropping lower, hiked them up as best as I could, but couldn't really zip and button them without drawing an excessive amount of attention to myself. As embarrassing as it was, I had to keep moving, pants-be-damned. Phoebe walked immediately behind me to shield the view, which helped a bit. Finally I rushed out the door and zipped/buttoned the shorts, only to realize/remember that there were plenty of people waiting outdoors for a seat who could see it all.

Maybe the real reason I don't go to chain restaurants is that I know I'm bound to be banned from them.

Home Schooled

Since graduating from college, I think of my friend Joan frequently. Fortunately, every other month or so, Joan and I participate in a conversation ritual made possible by cellular telephone.

The thing you need to know about Joan is that she is hilarious. What's more is that even when she's not trying to be hilarious, she can be unintentionally hilarious, hence making her one of the funniest people I know. So much so that a conversation that we shared two summer's ago about her job working at a homeless shelter still comes to mind.

Kevin: Are the people there nice?
Joan: No, not really, they're usually grouchy.
K: Oh, that's gotta suck.
J: It's okay, they're just grumpy because they don't have homes. I'd be grumpy, too, if I didn't have a home.
K: Well, sure, but does it make you grumpy having to be around them?
J: No! Because I have a home!
K: Haha, of course.
J: Whenever they make me feel bad, I just say, "At least I get to go home in two hours!"

The Blue Lagood-golly-this-sucks

While walking through the living room, Phoebe and I catch one of my housemate’s watching naked teenagers on the television screen. Naturally, Phoebe questions my housemate as to what ey is doing, and ey answers that ey is watching The Blue Lagoon, a “classic,” and that it only looks wrong when out of context from the rest of the film. I actually jump in to defend em; though I haven’t seen the movie, I’ve heard about it and figure I can vouch for it as legitimate, not pornographic, cinema with a plot that extends beyond nudity. Phoebe becomes intrigued with the premise, so we vow to watch it later.

Returning from dinner, we prepare to watch The Blue Lagoon. I’ve heard that friends of mine (Angel? Linda? I’m guessing and don’t quite remember) played a drinking game with the movie in the past, so we look up the rules on the Internet, but can’t find them. The best we can find is some former Pitzer student’s Livejournal which references the game with no mention of the rules; evidently, it’s a community tradition rather than a worldwide phenomenon. Hence, we decide instead to make up our own rules based upon the snippet of the film we witnessed earlier. Phoebe excitedly exclaims the first suggestion, “Group swimming!” I’m not sure how to articulate the statement’s full hilarity, other than that it just is. Maybe it’s the way she said it, or perhaps the fact that she called it “group swimming” rather than simply “swimming.” Either way, I do not anticipate this event happening too frequently. Other ideas we brainstorm are sipping any time there is a wild animal, nudity, an expression of sexuality, someone eating, or the characters are ignorant to something they would have known if they didn’t grow up on the island.

As it turns out, The Blue Lagoon, starring an underage and nude Brooke Shields, sucks more than a vacuum. One person in the viewing party claims it’s the worst movie ey’ve ever seen. Now I’m embarrassed that I ever defended it. Having experienced it firsthand, I can confirm that it is little more than child pornography. You know who calls this movie a classic? Pedophiles. It’s not artistic, it’s not deep, it’s just a pair of naked teenagers on an island. Nothing else happens. I’ve been teaching sequence of plot this past week, so perhaps I’m hypersensitive to the issue, but The Blue Lagoon has no plot. Two kids are stranded on an island and show off their nubile genitals until they are finally discovered. Even the conflict isn’t clear. I suppose the obvious answer would be that they’re stuck on an island, but they are so content to be there that they avoid ships passing by in fear of being rescued. In fact, the movie does such a good job of convincing us that these teenagers have an amazing life just fucking and “group swimming” that I don’t see a conflict at all.

What’s missing from The Blue Lagoon is something we in the biz call “rising action”: the events that lead us from the inciting incident to the climax. The only climax I can recall is a sexual one. No exaggerating, most of the film consists of the kids becoming increasingly confused and hormonal. It takes more than half an hour of nothing but sexual tension from the point you realize “oh, they’re going to have sex” to the actual moment when they finally stumble into figuring out what to do. The whole time, I keep screaming “just do it already!” As much as I’m not one to cheer for copulation between underage kids, it’s clear that the movie is going to go nowhere until they finally do it, so I just wanted them to get it over with. I hold out hope that the sub“plot” about the island’s primitive cannibal natives, albeit offensive, will come to fruition. Alas, despite a couple scenes establishing danger, the teens and the natives never run into one another even though they share a small island for about a decade, making its inclusion entirely worthless.

The only thing that keeps me watching is the drinking game aspect. There are plenty of scenes featuring eating, animals, and yes, even group swimming to keep us sipping. And to think I initially laughed under the assumption that group swimming wouldn’t be a frequent occurrence. Plus, I remember that group swimming is good advice, too: Don’t forget to use the buddy system for safety.

Later, I confront my housemate about eir affinity for The Blue Lagoon. Ey attempts to call it an epic, comparing it to Romeo and Juliet. While you can find a couple of parallels, insisting that something lacking a plot and any real significance is quite similar to a Shakespearean work is a blasphemous comment when directed at an English teacher. This same person once claimed that Friends has more intelligent humor than Arrested Development, so I know to take it with a grain of salt. My housemate then promised that Return to Blue Lagoon has a real plot and that I would like it better, as if I’m interested in giving it a try. I’m so glad they saved the “real” plot for the sequel made eleven years later.

I wrote all of the above earlier today, and just now, I’ve passed through the living room, finding the housemate watching The Blue Lagoon again, for the third time in as many days. I can’t help but grill em again. Justifying watching the movie again, ey says, “We’re all responsible adults here. Well, except for Brooke Shields.” Again, ey insists it’s not about the skin, but ey just thinks it’s a “really good movie.” Frankly, I’d sooner admit to being a horn-ball than copping to that.

Excuses

Just when I thought I'd heard it all, today I received two new excuses for missing homework assignments.

"You're not going to believe this, but my dog ate my homework. And while I was waiting for it to pass through, he got hit by a car."

I then felt compelled to tell my students that if their dogs were to ever eat their homework, I wouldn't accept it after its been pooped out anyway. Next period, the stakes were raised.

"I couldn't finish my homework because I was at the hospital all night -- my sister turned inside out."

I promised to excuse the work provided ey brought in a photo of eir sister having turned inside out.

Young at Heart

I aspire to be one of those people who can describe an elderly person as being "eighty-three years young!" without a hint of irony.

Passed Out Patty

Though Margarita Mondays is always a hoot, some are more eventful than others. At a recent MM, we had a swell time, but the real adventure began when our crew hit the parking lot. Earlier in the evening, Patty*, a first time MMer, found herself so overcome by the powerful punch of these margaritas that she decided to excuse herself to take a nap in her car. Though Patty insisted she was fine, I thought I was being responsible by sneakily following her to the car and watching as she reclined the seat and went to sleep rather than drive away. Apparently, my foolproof plan had failed when I returned to wake Patty up and found her firmly passed out in the car; when I went to shake her awake; when I went to shake her awake, I found her car door locked. No problem, I thought, I'll just bang on the window. And bang I did, louder and louder, to no success.

I ran to my friends entering their respective cars to ask for some assistance. Together, we pounded on the car, screamed her name, and still accomplished nothing. Passed Out Patty was indeed passed out. After catching our breaths, we pounded and yelled again. And again. And again. Next, we tried a new strategy, shaking the car. It started with a couple of us, but soon all of us were shaking the car as vigorously as we could. Indeed, Patty swayed along with the vehicle's movement, even striking her head against the door a couple of times, which still failed to wake her. We attempted this action multiple times, leaving the car positively disgusting covered in hand prints. If it weren't for the fact that we could clearly see her breathing, we would have called an ambulance.

About an hour into our unsuccessful operation, MM's manager brought a flashlight which we shone straight at her eyes. It should have been painful, even to a person fast asleep, but she didn't even stir. Then we tried a multifaceted attack: shaking the car, banging, yelling, and shining the light in her face simultaneously, but still: no soap.

Concerned, Spencer went home to fetch a wire hanger in the hopes of using it to break into the vehicle. While we waited, I got antsy and scaled a dumpster so I could peek into the window of the kitchen. MM used to have some health code violations that we conveniently chose to ignore, figuring that the margaritas we drank had such a high alcohol content it would kill any germs. Still, I wanted to see what the kitchen looked like with my own eyes, and I'm pleased to report that I have no complaints. Now in a climbing mood, I proceeded to explore an abandoned school building, walking around inside then climbing a sketchy ladder on to the roof. Some might call it trespassing, but I call it a success. I may not have been able to break into a car, but a dank building was no problem.

It was a long time before Spencer returned, apparently he got caught up in a dance party. These things happen. We bent the hanger and jimmied it through the window; though we couldn't get it to unlock the door, we could use it to poke Patty. For about half an hour, we poked. We poked her arms, poked her boobs, scratched her forehead, shoved it up her nose, stuck it in her ear, fish-hooked her mouth and tugged at her lip, used it to dig into her neck so hard that it left marks, and still, nothing worked. At this point, we all grew immensely concerned. We didn't want to resort to calling Patty's parents, in fact, we tried for more than two hours trying to avoid that, but we exhausted all other options. We called Patty's friend to, in turn, call Patty's parents. They promptly left with another set of keys to free their child.

Wouldn't you know, just a few minutes after her parents were called, Patty started responding to our stimuli. Though still mostly asleep, Patty grabbed the hanger, bending it and rendering it useless. We still tried to prod, and she kept swatting it away, content to sleep. Nevertheless, this movement was a relief, confirming she could reach some state of consciousness. Within ten minutes, she finally consented to opening an eye and unlocking the door, a move met by wild cheers from the rest of us. Patty seemed embarrassed and confused, but was in good spirits, until we told her that her dad was on the way. This news caused Patty to freak out and she screamed repeatedly, "Do not call my Dad!" No matter how many times we told her it was too late, she just kept repeating her mantra until her dad finally arrived. Spotting him, Patty angrily screamed a now classic line: "I can't believe my dad's so drunk I came!" At that point, all of us who had been trying so hard to coax her into being calm but couldn't help but burst into laughter.

In the end, the good news is that Patty got a much-needed ride home, slept it off in a much safer environment, and forgot everything that happened. The even better news is that she is not mad and even promises to return to MM. Hooray!

Blogging Blogs

When I first started blogging, I didn't know anyone else in the real world who did, except for Kim, whose blog, Always Tardy, was an inspiration. Once she went MIA, I felt like a total dork. Recently, though, a lot of friends of mine have taken up blogging, which is awesome, because it makes stalking that much easier. Here's a brief run through of said blogs:

Later this month, RJ heads to NYC to be a teacher (borrrrrrrring - who does that?) At least ey'll be blogging about... well, it's really too soon to tell entirely, but the first two posts are about Pavarotti and burritos, so that's promising, right? The blog is called Modernity Is a Complicated Bitch, inspired from a quote by a quirky Pitzer professor who warrants eir own post one day.

Linda also just moved to NYC to teach (how original) and shares eir crazy city antics at Adventures in NY. As an added bonus, Linda is a preschool teacher, so prepare yourself for tales of soiled pants.

Heather recently moved to NYC as well, and I forgive eir for leaving me just enough to share eir blog, Change in Corporate America: Thoughts and reflections on working for the man. There you can see how Heather has coped in switching from attending a hippie college to gaining employment at a major corporation. For proof of Heather's radical transformation, look no further than the Dilbert comic strip Heather posted.

And in "everyone moves to NYC but me" news, Jamilah also made the jump. Jamilah operates grits & eggs, where Jay and pals consisting of (mostly?) women of color sound off on socially progressive issues. Basically, it's just like The View. Of course, I'm kidding, since it's actually intelligent and relevant; even when I don't entirely agree with the content, it's always thought provoking.

A trend I am more fond of is people who are moving back to California, like Jocelyn. At Moop, Biduo, Jocelyn states, "i blog only because kevin blogs." Hmm, that's a lot of pressure.

Also back from abroad is Bianca. Bianca is hilarious and told anecdotes at Bianca's Krazy Korean Kapers, and I imagine/hope ey'll continue now that ey's back in the states. I can think of at least one good recent Bianca story worth telling...

Currently in Korea, Caitlin of Caitlin's Blog is experiencing the culture and encountering a "teenage boy... wearing the Curves for Women shirt." I wish she was not in Korea, but in California, because she's hilarious. Like when we hung out at the reunion, and she intentionally ruined as many photographs as she could by inserting the middle finger. I didn't even notice at the time, but in retrospect, it's quite funny:





According to eir blog, however, Caitlin doesn't want to go back to California, ey wants to go back to Ecuador.

Speaking of Ecuador, Kat is there now. Two months ago Kat introduced me to eir friend Sasha (who might resent the term "friend" being applied to their volatile relationship), who in turn introduced to Ubu the Shit. Since posting about this abysmal play, I've received no fewer than ten hits off of Google searches for the show's title; since no one except the people involved cares about this play after its run has ended, I'm afraid the director might now know the full extent of how I feel about it, so maybe posting that was a bad idea. At least it's not as bad of an idea as Sasha has at This Was the Worst Fucking Idea. Sasha's recent post about changing doctors had me laughing out loud.


David is also in South America, doing all sorts of cool things, which you can find at Car vs Tree.

Apparently, going abroad is the equivalent to going to NYC, since everyone's doing it, including Dan. Dan's in China, or as ey says, Into the West.

Lexi will be in Georgia, the country, not the state, meaning ey will also be abroad at sharing Tales of Tbilisi. There's actually no content as far as I can tell as of yet, which I suppose makes sense considering the first word I think of when I think of Lexi is "unambitious." In all seriousness, I'm sure as soon as Lexi is in Georgia, you can expect manifestos.

And when you're tired of reading all of these, Preston gets straight to what you want with music and pictures at ForSure.

Back to the Grind

The school year has begun, so I'm back to teaching again. It's off to a pretty good start, too. I'm only teaching 9th graders this time around, so, by law, my class sizes are only half the size of the classes I taught last year. There really is little downside to this situation. Smaller class size offers me less students to manage simultaneously, less grading, less of a chance that a terror of a child will end up in my walls, more individual attention I can provide to each student, and a more personable classroom environment. Plus, as ninth graders, my students aren't too jaded yet. They really take to whatever tone I set for them, as long as I say matter-of-factly that "this is how high school is." My tenth graders last year entered with senses of entitlement. "We didn't have homework last year!" "We didn't have to write essays last year!" etc. Yeah, well, that's why you're pretty damn stupid, I always wanted to retort. It was a battle I was always on the losing end of. Sure I could fail them, and often I did, but it didn't actually help educate them. For the most part, my new crop are stepping up to the challenge.

I felt a bit fucked over by my school. At the end of last year, they told me my course load would be all honors, but a couple days before this new school year began, they shuffled everyone's schedule and I ended up with just one honors, three regular classes, and one for students still learning the English language. This switch was greatly upsetting to me since I spent so much of my time this summer lesson planning so I could be a good teacher this year. If I'm being entirely honest, I was kind of disappointed to lose my honors students. I like the smarties and I can relate best to the smarties. Plus, you can pretty much get them to do anything without having to stress about whether it's engaging enough.

I decided, however, rather than feel duped and be sour about my assignment the entire year, I might as well just embrace it, look at the positives, and make the best of it. So, yeah, I am basically making up what I'm doing as I go again, but it comes from a more experienced perspective, so at least I have that going for me.

My students are cute, funny, and, with some notable exceptions, reasonably well-behaved. My language learning class will undoubtedly be my real challenge. I wish I could have known about this in advance, so I could have prepared for it. Having not worked much with this type of student before, I don't think I have the skill set to provide for these students adequately. I'll do the best I can, but it's hard when the regulations for this class contradict themselves. I'm supposed to spend twice as long teaching the material to ensure understanding, but still cover the same amount of material as a regular class. If you can figure out how that's supposed to work, please let me know.

My 10th graders from last year, now 11th graders, swarm my classroom every day to visit me. Even, nay, especially the ones I had major issues with, they drop by like we've always been buddies and want to hang out. It's kind of funny how that works out. I've actually made it a goal to befriend some of my former low-achieving students this year, to see if I can offer them more as a friendly mentor figure rather than a teacher/disciplinarian. We'll have to see if that approach has any value.

Most of these kids are surprised to see me. Apparently some rumor went around during the summer that I got a job at the local last-chance school, where they dump students expelled from my school. I find this hearsay ridiculous for two reasons: first, if I can barely handle the kids, why would I sign up to tackle a classroom full of the worst of the worst?; and second, why are the kids discussing me in the summer? Surely that piece of news was not even juicy, so why would someone make that up, let alone spread it around? I had one student rush in today to say, "Ohmguh, Mr. [Kevin], you know what happened to me over the summer, right?" She really did expect me to know, too, as though I was part of some sort of social circle that would pass on this type of information. "No," I said dryly. "Everyone must have forgot to call me about that one."

Odder still to me are the students who want to take class with me again. For some of these kids, I had a legitimately shitty class since I offered nothing in the way of discipline and the class was so often disrupted. And here these kids are begging to get into my class (fortunately they can't, they're too old) and according to the counselors, trying to switch into my class anyway. I'm perplexed. It's not necessarily a compliment either, since they probably think they can get away with misbehaving and not doing work. But when they say it in front of my current students, it makes me look like some sort of champ teacher, so I can't complain.

It's only been three days, yet I'm already exhausted.

She Put South Carolina on the Map

I'm not posting the Miss South Carolina video with the thought that I'm offering you a funny new video that you haven't seen yet. If you've even logged on to the Internet in the past couple of weeks, you've undoubtedly already encountered this travesty. It's already one of the most watched videos on the web ever. (Funny how this incident has accidentally given Mario Lopez the most exposure he has received in his entire career.) Certainly, Miss South Carolina is all sorts of dumb. And to think, I had just been trying to overcome my bias toward beauty pageant participants. Still, there's been one main criticism toward this person that I feel it necessary to address: the use of "U.S. Americans."

Far be it from me to defend this contestant, but modifying the term American as “U.S. American” is actually appropriate. In truth, it's not as redundant as it seems. There is a dispute in the international community over what “American” means. Though most people use it to reference the United States specifically, others utilize it to refer to the entire continent or even hemisphere. Much like you might call someone in northern Asia “Asian”, you might say of a North American individual residing in Mexico is “American” as well - the same applying to someone from South America. For example, many people refer to people of Latin America as “Americans,” demonstrating just how relative the term can be.

From the looks of it, however, Miss South Carolina doesn’t even know what the word “map” means, so I’m only offering this perspective up as a possibility rather than a defense. Maybe she would offer up this argument if she were able to articulate a coherent sentence.

Cannibal Style

Many Californians love their In-N-Out, believing the fastfoodery to serve the best hamburger in the world. One of the appeals seems to be the "secret menu." Though it isn't advertised, you can order special items including the flying dutchman and a grilled cheese. It's hardly a well-kept secret, however, because practically everyone is savvy to this information; at this point, it probably remains a secret in name only so that customers can feel special. The most popular option on the secret menu is to order something "animal style," which means that the food comes topped with special sauce, grilled onions, and cheese for no extra charge.

Even East Coast-native Debbie knows about the secret menu. Jessica introduced eir to the wonder of eating a cheeseburger animal style and now Debbie orders one each trip ey makes to California. On one occasion, Debbie went to In-N-Out without Jessica and attempted to order a burger "animal style," except that ey forgot what it was called, instead asking for it "cannibal style." The employee taking the order was understandably confused. "What?" "Cannibal style," Debbie tried again, to no avail. Debbie thought ey was trying to order off the secret menu, but was accidentally asking for a burger made of human meat rather than beef. Naturally, In-N-Out was unable to fulfill eir requests instead giving eir a hamburger the old-fashioned way. Still, I sort of wish that Debbie accidentally stumbled upon the secret secret menu, ultimately receiving a hunk of Larry, who fell on the fryer, between two buns.