Damn it, it's August.

Time to start gearing up. Time to start dusting off lesson plans (ha ha), polishing up on essay assignments (ho ho) and ironing out the wrinkles in the shirt and tie in the back of my closet (ah ha ha ha!).

Still, the summer isn't over yet. My aunt and uncle were in town the weekend before last--see there? They made the "name list." Kudos. Even though I was coming off of a hellacious cold/flu, I made it out to my dad's two or three times, and we all went to dinner at the Millrose once. So you could say it was a weekend of sickness well spent.

After that, things died down considerably, though--I went into overdrive trying to find an apartment, found one, decided to take it, then decided to wait a while. I talked to my landlord about this damned neighbor of mine, and we agreed I could go on a month-to-month lease this year. That way, if I can't stand it anymore, and if all attempts to contact him amicably have failed, I can hit the high road. I was looking at a place in Schaumburg, a high rise of sorts, and it sounded good, but something in me, my Spider-Sense perhaps, warned me against making a move right out of the blue like that.

Perhaps it was the fact that I've got Kim's parents' dog. Perhaps it was the fact that I don't want to spend my last free week of summer packing and moving. Perhaps it was just laziness. I don't know. But it's good to have options. Always.

Tonight: Styx, the concert. Need I say more?

From the New York Times: Fewer Americans Reading. Big shocker, right? But the article points out that, in an era where the population has risen to 40 million, a seven to ten percentage difference in the reading public from 1992 is more than a little eyebrow-raising. I don't know why this riles me so much, but apparently religious book sales are up, while classic and contemporary literature are in the toilet. More of the "I'm right and those unlike me are wrong" philosophy, I suspect. If Michael Moore preaches to the choir, the likes of the "Left Behind" series fucking shout to it.

My Two Cents

A book review that really isn't a book review but is a long, jangling piece of writing I cooked up in order to get all twelve of my steady readers reading again and don't you just hate long subtitles like this? well tough, it's my forum

Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections is one of those novels I've been meaning to read for years (ever since the book came out, in fact) but was always reluctant to set aside the time for. You've got a 568-page novel sitting on your shelf, perhaps a novel you spent $26.50 for, and it quickly beomes a venial sin not to pick it up and get to work. However, given the day-to-day of an English teacher, if you want to keep up with your paperload, the best you can hope for is a couple hours at a stretch, two or three times a week. It takes me about a month to finish a novel at that pace, and from what I'd heard about Franzen's other two books, it would be a tough month at that. As one of Franzen's characters says, regarding a nursing home he's been put into, "Better not to leave at all than to have to come back."

That kind of mindset is appalling yet agreeable logic for an invalid, but it sucks ass for someone independent, financially stable, and with free time that, even though he can't always enjoy it, still has it, dammit. And yet I waited.

Then last week, while waiting for new glasses at the local mall, Kim shows me the discount shelves at Waldenbooks (you remember them, don't you? they used to be the conglomerate Satan of booksellers before Barnes and Noble and Borders took over that title), where The Corrections was going for a mere $7.50 (including tax). Seven dollars and fifty fucking cents! That's the price of my movie ticket to go see The Chronicles of Riddick, a true piece of shit, or a pint and a half of Guiness (always worth it, but still, you know?). You can't argue with such logic. I bought it immediately.

Of course, it was a couple of days before I got to it--I was finishing Lew Wallace's Ben-Hur, enjoying the story yet getting incredibly tired of Wallace's fondness for descriptive detail (I'm betraying my professors here, I'm sure, but "The grass was fresh and clean...The trees did not crowd each other; and they were of every kind native to the East, blended well with strangers adopted from far quarters; here grouped in exclusive companionship palm trees plumed like queens; there sycamores, overtopping blah blah blah" when you could just write "There was a grove of trees" occurred to me more than once) and religious idolatry. It probably took me, all told, ten or fifteen hours of my life to read that book, and while it was time well spent, I decided to be more picky about the next amount of time I would dedicate. On my shelf, as yet unread, are several books I know would be well worth it: Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov (which I always start, always love, and always have to put away), Lewis' The Middle East, and Friedman's Free to Choose (the New Yorker commented that even Governor Schwarzenegger knew of Friedman's book, though he'd taken the time to watch the television series). And yet, Franzen was sitting right there. And so I picked it up last Wednesday night, and just put it down after an afternoon of doing laundry at the laundromat, R. Kelley blaring through the loudspeakers and little kids playing tag/bumper cars with the laundry baskets.

The first thought out of my head at that point was: "I wonder if there's a story in this laundromat."

That's the kind of effect Franzen had on me. He wants me to go out and do it.

"Okay, fine. What's the damned book about, anyway?
The Corrections is almost a "sprawling" novel but not quite. It covers the travails of the Lambert family, based in the midwest: There's Alfred and Enid, Al a retired railroad worker in the throes of Parkinsons and dementia, Enid a homemaker, and their three children: Gary (in Pittsburgh with a wife and three kids), Chip (a recently fired professor) and Denise (a famous chef). The book skips around chronologically, but in a completely coherent fashion, and Franzen's social critiques are in plain sight for even the most casual of readers to ferret out, even as he couches them in a deeper philosophical meaning.

Whatever that means.

Basically, Enid is trying to put together "one last Christmas" at the old homestead where everyone grew up, in St. Jude, Ohio (St. Jude, by the way, is the patron saint of hopeless causes. I learned that in The Atlantic Monthly writeup on the book). Before embarking on a "pleasure cruise" which Enid is determined to enjoy, come hell or high water, she and Alfred stop to visit Chip in New York, where he's been writing a screenplay. Chip, unfortunately, has to run out the door to rescue his screenplay from the agency because of flaws he's aware of only too late. Denise shows up and winds up cooking lunch for everyone, but unbeknownst to her family, she's preoccupied with a sexual/romantic trist of a complexity even the Victorians couldn't have cooked up. Enid suspects she's involved with a married man. Gary, meanwhile, is back in Pittsburgh, fighting a losing battle with depression and another losing battle with his family over a) whether or not they can return to St. Jude (a place his wife Caroline and 2/3 kids rank slightly below the Seventh Circle of Hell) and b) whether or not he (Gary) is chronically depressed.

"Okay, fine. Why the hell should I read this damned book?"
I'm not exactly a professional book reviewer, and even if I were, this is hardly the place to write up what I got out of the text in the way of symbolism, thematism and historicisim (there's a ton there, though--the book would have been composed during the dot-com explosion of 2000, despite the eight year interval between its publication and Franzen's last novel). I will say, though, that while it definitely qualifies as a "deep read," it's still a relaxed read. They're characters you can know and understand. They're settings you know, even if you've never set foot in New York, Lithuania, or the Midwest in your life. They're issues that, while you may not have gone through them yourself literally, you still know. And the novel has a conclusion that is not without ambiguity, which is something I absolutely love about fiction. It causes you to think. It may cause you to debate. And you can form your own opinion (something Michael Moore critics, for example, seem to think the American public has forgotten how to do--hint hint? I'm talking to you, Tso) about the merits of that ending.

In short, it qualifies as literary fiction with a broad market appeal. Probably just what Franzen had in mind (see his essay "Mr. Difficult" in How to be alone for clarification).

Go read the book. You won't be disappointed. And your TV and stereo will never be quieter while you do.

From today's Tribune:

Ulysses is... and Bloomsday festival in Dublin. James Joyce's Ulysses is that book that probably every English teacher should read. I taught Portrait of the Artist last semester, and it was brutal, but the story of Bloom, Molly and an older Stephen Daedelus is something I just never found time for. Maybe this summer. That novel and probably Moby Dick are the guilty confessionals of my profession. I have read Moby, and I stand by its literary merit, even though I had some snot nosed classmates who voiced off about it: "I wanted to read it, but life's too short." "Oh, it's overrated...I guess. I haven't read it either."

You gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk. Get your culture, dammit.

Now please excuse me. Real Sex IV is on.

The Passion of the Christ. There's been a lot of hoop-de-doo about it: Is it too violent? Is the violence justified? Is it an accurate portrayal of Christ's crucifixion?

Or is it overkill, just more fuel for anti-Semitism and good old Christian guilt?

To me, it's really neither. Mel Gibson earned accolades for Braveheart in 1995, and rightfully so. But anyone using that film to rest their knowledge of Scottish history and independence would do well to look to Norman Davies' The Isles and any other halfway decent scholarly text on William Wallace's history, rise and fall, and not to a Hollywoodized version of the facts. Moreover, the book upon which the film is based (Braveheart, by Randall Wallace, who has since made a career for hismelf whoring out scripting talents on such classics as Pearl Harbor and "Dark Angel") touts itself as a dramatization, nothing more.

Ditto for The Passion. Gibson based the film off the Apostles' in the Bible, and even a cursory flipping through the pages (which I did last night, not having the benefit of Sunday school) finds all the film's key lines. But if you want to split hairs about historical accuracy--and I sure can't blame anyone, being somewhat anal in this department myself--don't look to the Bible in the first place. Nothing in there about how the Romans crucified people. Nothing in there about where they used nails on Christ's hands. Nothing in there about how much of the cross Christ hauled through the streets towards Golgotha. If you want details like that, look to the basics (A History of the Roman Empire) or even J.M. Roberts.

The Passion is all about artistic depiction, couched in religious meaning. Whatever the hell that means.

Is the film violent? Absolutely. The scourging is probably the worst of the lot (arguably)--once Jesus is nailed to the cross and hoisted into the air with a bad joke above his head, I was sufficiently desensitized to the entire ordeal. I mean, I've seen the statues in churches and museums. I never saw chunks of flesh being ripped out of anyone's side before, in real life or in a movie. In case the trailers don't drop the hint, here it is: This is not a popcorn and soda movie.

Is the film too violent? Depends. I hear plenty of devout Christians are up on their soapboxes, both in church and on the net, arguing that that violence is essential for understanding the depth of their devotion and the extent of Christ's sacrifice. Makes sense to me, although still, it is movie violence. There's lots of blood flying all over the place, but my knowledge that it was makeup and special effects (despite the extraordinary efforts of James Cavaziel during filming, being struck by lightning, whipped and all) protected me from any such instruction.

Is the film anti-Semitic? Only to the typical horse's ass that labels the actions of the whole by those of the few. The Jewish priests are suitably slimy and despicable, but then, so are the Romans, and so are the apostles who betray their Messiah. And the fact that Satan lurks in the midst of a crowd of Jews during several key scenes doesn't say much to me, except that maybe he would have been more noticeable behind Pontius Pilate. Duh.

Is the film a masterpiece? Unquestionably. I have to separate my agnosticism from appreciating Cavaziel's performance, in addition to Monica Belluci's as Mary Magdalene, Maia Morgenstern's as Mother Mary, and Hristo Shopov's as Pontius Pilate. There are special effects, true, but they take an almost unprecedented back seat to human pathos and deliverance. Besides that, there are some genuinely creepy segments (one involving a tormented Judas Iscariot--Luca Lionello--being chased by demon children; another towards the end, with Satan--Rosalinda Salentano--raging in Hell because Christ didn't deny his God) that play out well, computer effects or not.

On a personal note, having little to no formal religious schooling, the whole ordeal got cinematically (cinematically, mind you) exhausting. Christ hauls the cross; he falls down; he gets whipped; he gets back up. Down he goes; he gets whipped; he picks himself back up, his allies crying, the Romans and Jews throwing stones and curses all the while. That had to be a good forty minutes of the end sequence, and it does get repetitive (okay, so I'm going to Hell now if I wasn't before). Still, to give credit where credit is due, Gibson handles these scenes masterfully. They're anything but boring.

That's my one-and-a-half cents on the film, for what it's worth, Which is about half a cent less than I shot for. Any religious film that makes such waves has got to be good, but again, if it's used as gospel, that's when I start to get a little miffed. Why not check out Kundun then? Go read the Torah. Go read about Muhammad.

"Truth" is a slippery word. All bullshit aside, this film is art, not history. Watch it accordingly.

Journal of the Week in the Life of a Teacher in the South Bronx. I should get down on my knees and thank Whoever that I'm teaching where I don't have to worry about fights and threats. I really should.

My Triumphant PT Conference

Another round of parent teacher conferences tonight. Those are always a hoot. This year, the powers that be gave us a half day, and absolutely nothing to do until the 4:30 meetings began. I took distinct advantage of my time by slinking off to my apartment, downing two pints of Guiness and a ham and cheese sandwich and sacking out on the couch for fifty minutes or so, after which I got up, scrubbed the alcohol off, put on a badly-knotted tie, and slunk back to the office, a big shiteating grin for the parents bared in almost desperate fanaticism.

Usually, the high-achievers are the ones to show up, and all I can really say is, "Yeah, your kid is great, just great, tell them to keep staying awake and using Sparknotes." This time, a few deadbeat kids' parents showed up, and I got to set the record straight: "Yeah, your kid isn't doing so well, tell them to open the fucking book now and again and start using Sparknotes. It's all Sparknotes, you know."

By seven p.m. I was starving, not having had any dinner, and I'd already rescued a colleague from a bulling parent who wanted to know why kids had to take a class in government instead of just taking the stupid Constitution test. I kid you not. Her exact words.

But one of my high-achievers' parents showed up, and I found myself in a position to actually do some good for once in my sterling six-year career.

The parent is Russian, sixty years old, heavy accent, nice as can be. I've met her once before, but I never did learn how to pronounce her name correctly. Since you only meet with these people for ten minutes tops, it never becomes much of an issue, but with a woman as nice as her, it pays to be considerate.

Her kid is doing well in my, and all classes, except he gets himself tied in knots fairly easily. I showed Mom the grade and she asked me if I saw any weaknesses. "Well, actually," I said, phrasing my words as carefully as I could, "he seems to take himself to task way too much. If we could find a way for him to push himself without giving himself stomach ulcers along the way, that would be very much to his benefit."

(I can sound so damned classy when I want, yeah? It would have helped if I could have punctuated this with her name, though.)

She was nodding in agreement. "He wants to be a doctor," she said (although, to capture the spirit, with her accent, it sounded like, "He vant too be a dochtur"). "I'm sure he will be. He can be whatever he wants to be. I'm just worried I won't be able to see it." ("Vunt be apple too see." Oh my bleeding piles.)

"Now what do you think you're saying?" I asked in mock belligerence. "You'll see it. Don't give me that."

She chuckled. "It's fifteen years later he'll be a doctor. I am not a young woman any more, Mr. L."

"You'll see it. You have to." I paused, feeling myself on very thin ice. I mean, it's not often I discuss women's ages, least of all the mother of a student. But what the hell. Maybe this will get me into heaven some day. "You know the story of Schezerdade?"

She shook her head, and I could see (at least, I think I saw) the wheels turn: This man is a teacher and he's going to teach me something and I respect teachers but I'm not that interested but I should be because he's a teacher and...

"A woman is captured by a king, or an emperor. Or something--I forget which. Anyway, she's sentenced to death if she can't tell a good story. So she spins out a yarn, but leaves it at a cliffhanger right before her time is up. The king or emperor is beside himself--he wants to hear more. So he keeps her alive another day to hear the story. The next day she tells more of the story, but leaves it at another cliffhanger, and saves her life for another day. And so on. And so on. The king is so interested, he can't bear to not have the story completed.

She immediately started cracking up, probably sensing the next part of the "lesson."

"That's what your son is doing. He's your Schezerdade."

It was a full minute before she stopped laughing. Other teachers were looking over in my direction, probably wondering what the hell I was doing, chatting her up or something? "I love a good sense of humor," she told me.

I only smiled and shrugged, not sure whether I'd been telling a joke or not.

She thanked me for my time, got up to go, and then embraced me in the first, last and only bear hug a parent has ever given me in my life. Then she released me, stepped back and bowed. "Thank you."

I only smiled and nodded idiotically. It's a mark of my times that I immediately wondered if I had a potential sexual harassment suit on my hands, but after a while the caution wore off and I thought the whole thing was incredibly cool. I'll probably never see the old woman again--her son is acing my class and he'll graduate in June--and that's a shame.

I really would have liked to learn how to pronounce her name.

I never thought the day would come, but I've had loyal readers e-mailing me and asking if I've been out to sea or something, what with no posts in about three weeks. Scarce occurrence, to be sure. If I didn't know better, I'd swear I'd gone out and found a life when the truth is far more depressing. I sat in front of this damned computer at 7:00, and it's already pushing 8 p.m. Just realized some of my doc. application materials were either MIA or never A in the first place (I know, I know, the acronym humor only goes so far), so I'm trying to cobble all that together right now. If I weren't such a cheap bastard, I would have paid for my new printer toner a year ago, printed out all the on-line stuff, signed it, sealed it, and would be ready to drop it in the mail on my way east tomorrow.

But I am a cheap bastard. So some of this will probably be done on the school's dime.

Went on a reading spree last night and finished Treasure Island. It's all I can do these days to stay awake past eight o'clock. I'm turning into an old fart. I was planning with a colleague today, and she remarked that Sydney Carton of Tale of Two Cities was the first romantic hero. "Not Jarvis Lorry?" I asked in mock surprise (you know, playing my straightfaced dumbass routine--it never fails to drive them crazy).

"Hell no," she responded smartly. "That's who you're going to turn into when you're middleaged. That's who you are now."

For those of you unfamiliar with the novel (you sad sacks of illiterate shit, you), this might help out:

"Pooh!" rejoined Miss Pross; "you were a bachelor in your cradle."

"Well!" observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, "that seems probable, too."

"And you were cut out for a bachelor," pursued Miss Pross, "before you were put in your cradle."

It is a rare joy when a brief acquaintance makes such a shrewd observation. (Not that I wear wigs or anything.)

See? See? Now it's past eight, all because I had to go look that damned quote up. I can't wait until I have time to kill once again.

Finally--a story that doesn't involve work

I was meeting Tso at the diner last night. It was late, I was tired, and I wanted to drink. In the midst of all this, one of the waitresses walks over (a mid-twenties hefty-looking girl) and asked me what my name was. I'm very blase about giving my name to women, so I told her...and slapped myself on the forehead about ten seconds later. Turns out this broad is Hacker's daughter.

Hacker was a guy (and still is, come to think of it) who lived above me in my old building. I call him Hacker because every morning, he'd go out on to the balcony to clear the snuff and crap from his lungs. The guy probably has ten months to live or something. I asked him once to give my house key to whoever was watching the cat for me that weekend, and he even managed to fuck that up. He's a retired air conditioner repairman. I guess you can figure what sort of pension these guys have if he's living his retirement large in good ole Hangover Park.

I remember he used to bitch and moan about his daughter shacking up with some loser. Well, this daughter spent about ten minutes telling me the joys of dumping the loser and moving back home with Daddy. Then she asked me how old I thought she was.

Then Tso arrived. I immediately made out like I was grateful to see him (a tough job, under any circumstances), and she eventually left. Later on, she came by and told us she remembered us always hanging out there. "Time to find a new restaurant," I muttered to him.

Five minutes after that (I was on my third beer of the evening by then, and it was probably pushing ten o'clock), our waitress comes over (our real waitress, that is, the one who was actually serving us food) and told us Hacker's daughter wanted to know if we were gay "because she thinks you're cute." Oh dear God, I think, immediately reaching for my wallet to pay the bill and get the fuck out of there. No need to worry, as it turned out--she'd already left for the evening. Probably to go back to Hacker's apartment and regale him with tales of the gay guy she had a crush on at the diner. I'm not worried about Hacker remembering who I am. I doubt the guy even knows enough to pull his pants up after taking a crap.

(Tso told me not to blog about that. Tough.)

Then, this afternoon, I managed to get out the door at 3:15. My original plan was to have a few more beers (what better way to wake yourself up?) when I noticed I was sitting on a flat tire. I spent a good thirty minutes cursing the tire, my car, the suburbs in general and anyone and everyone I could think of. Windows started to open. Babies started to cry. So I calmed myself down and set about getting the spare tire from my trunk, only to find that it was buried underneath a year and a half of old clothes, magazines, books, boxes and other assorted crap. Once I cleared all that away, I found that the tire's central nut (or whatever the hell you call it) had rusted enough to weld it to the trunk floor. I cursed some more, got my Motor Club card and got them to send over this neo-hippie looking guy over to tow me to the nearest Good Year.

It's about three miles from school to this place, and this guy managed to make the trip last thirty minutes. First he yakked on his cell phone. Then his boss called to ask him where the hell he was. Then he went back to the cell phone. All the while, he was giving me a look of contempt I am only too accustomed to from anyone remotely qualified to tinker with an automobile. Dumb bastard can't even get a spare tire on, he was probably thinking. No wonder he works in an office. I myself felt no particular urge to defend my behavior--hell, it's all too true. If Dad were to see the shape that car is in, he'd remind me of all the neglected advice he's given me over the years: Get a haircut. Get up earlier. Be responsible. Don't eat lead paint. And always make sure you've got a spare tire, a jack, and road flares. Because once you need them, you won't have time to check.

My response? "Yeah, sure, I'll do it tomorrow."

Dad, one; me, nothing.

After mile one and a half had passed, however, Tow Truck Guy clued me in on how lucky I really am:

Guy: So how long you been teaching?
Me: About six years, I guess. Hold the applause.
Guy: You ever get a high school girl to sit on your face?
Me: You must be fucking joking...(guy just looks expectantly at me) I mean, uh, sure lots of times. I just, you know, had to make sure you weren't wearing a wire.
Guy: They drug test teachers?
Me: Only when we come to pick up our paycheck.
Guy: Just curious. I never did like school much.
Me: I never could have told. (I hide my copy of NEA Today) So what's your story?
Guy: I'm living with a bitchy-ass girlfriend. I can't stand it any more and I'm getting the fuck out of there.
Me: How long you been living with her? (Note my clever vernacular form of the verb "to be")
Guy: About three years.
Me: You must have some clever plan in mind. You must be biding your time.
Guy: No, we have a ten-month-old daughter.
Me: Oh.
Guy: I got her pregnant, and we moved in together. Whaddya gonna do?
Me: Obviously move in with her, become a tow truck operator, and work on a three-year plan to move away and ditch your daughter.

I know, I know. I shouldn't be poking fun. As a matter of fact, all the times I do poke fun, I really shouldn't. If those idiots ever drop that bomb, they sure as hell won't be needing any English teachers to jump start society. They'll need guys like this guy, who can fix things, work with things, and still have enough energy to drink all night.

Still, I look at a life like that, and I have to wonder...exactly how lucky have I had it all these years, while being too stupid to even notice it?

Okay, great pep talk. Now I have to grade sonnet analyses. My first one is a deft piece of analysis that begins: "The sonnet I'm writing about was written by a poet."

Beer. I need beer.

Harold Bloom bashes Stephen King, from Neil Gaiman's website. Fodder for thought. (You have to register to read it, but it's free)

One night at layout...

Student: Mr. L, you sound just like my dad.
Me: How's that?
Student: He and I were looking at college application materials, and I was trying to be cute, telling him he really didn't want me to leave the house and everything. And he said he wanted to be proud of me, only he'd be proud of me more if I were in another state.
Me: Ah. A sage, witty man.
Student: You do that too. You say the meanest things with a completely straight face. Like "Oh, Lisa is such a good student, as long as she's not in the room yakking on her cell phone to her stupid boyfriend and using the word "like" all the time, like the idiot she really is.
Me: Hey, I never said you were a good student.

(I was told to blog about that comment. Just following orders.)

Did you know the Lake Street Cafe sometimes runs out of beer and doesn't bother to stock it again? Neither did I. Fucking hell.

I suppose I should be flattered, but I had three parents tonight mention how young I looked. I'd like to believe it was because they feel I'm aging gracefully, but somehow, the subtle frown and dubious glance at my badly-knotted tie and mimeographed handout threw them for a loop:

Parent:So you're in charge of this class? You look awfully young.
Me: I know. It's all that clean living. It's a killer.
Parent: No, really, you look like you ought to be crying for your mamma and pissing in your didies.
Me: Listen, pal, what I do on my own time is my own business.

Best one-liner of the day

Annoying colleague: You know what your problem is?
Me: I only have one?

So I ripped it off Ocean's Eleven.

First Day

Well I don't know what all the fuss is about. The first day of school is usually relatively stress-free, at least, as far as the classes I've been teaching my career thus far. It's too early to tell, but meeting my classes and running through the usual shebang of rules, regs and policies went over pretty well. Half the battle was having the next six weeks more or less planned out, which puts a spring in my step like you wouldn't believe. I only made one slip--Gentle Reader can judge for herself whether it was Freudian or not:

Me: And your name is?
Student: (xxxxx). (I don't want to embarass her, if you can dig that.)
Me: Great. Now tell me something about yourself so I can remember you better.
Student: Well, I'm kinda shy...
Me: Why? Were you abused as a child or something?

The words were right out of my mouth before I realized I said them, and I felt a slow, sinking feeling in my gut. Oh shit, I think, I just blew it on the first day. Thankfully enough, the girl wasn't embarassed, the class got to see me put my foot in my mouth for the first time (whew, that's over with), and within a matter of thirty seconds, it was business as usual.

The news reporting class is pretty full, and two kids were set to drop it before I explained what it was all about. Then they were interested, and wanted to stay. Cool. A full load in there, which is nice.

And I'm going to abstain about the new prep for now. I will point out that, when I'm not a hundred percent sure about the assignments, you can guarantee some fun times are ahead for me and the class overall.

One big hurdle (I said it before, but damn it, I'll say it again) is keeping myself organized. I'm using my plan book this year. I happen to be gifted with an incredible memory for the mundane: movie lines, release dates for Led Zepplin albums, you name it, it all stays upstairs and will stay up there until I'm old and grey, unable to remember to wipe my own ass after a healthy bowel movement. No matter--I'll be able to give the nurse giving me my sponge bath a play-by-play of the Dennis Hopper/Christopher Walken scene in True Romance while she's working. Part of this memory ability has always been strong in the short term department. If I have an appointment, or something is due, odds are I usually remember it without having to write it down. But freeing up that part of my mind by writing it all down (and I mean everything, from remembering to send out a staff e-mail regarding news stories for the year to coordinating my paper load with my dentist visits) allows me to concentrate on a few other things.

I also think it's meet to point out that this is probably the least stressed I've been at the beginning of school. Whether it holds or not is another matter. Were I a religious man, I'd be praying for it round the clock. But a different, far more wiser part of me points out that half the battle is attitude, and if I remember that I'm working for a living, it makes me enjoy some semblance of a life that much better.

So what's that life tonight?

It was going to be reading Davies and taking some practice GRE tests. It may still be so. Or I may read the rest of that Ellison book I've had lying around. I read a couple more stories last night, and they were well worth the time. The future of America's youths can wait a few hours, after all.

Crapola:

Well, it's August. Damnation. Time to get my thumb out of my ass and prepare to put it back in my ear in order to block out the whining I'll undoubtedly hear in a matter of weeks: "Why are we doing this?" "This is dumb." "You stink." "I want to go home."

And that's just my colleagues. The students are even worse.

All of my vows last week to 1) do work and 2) exercise were nothing short of futile. But I'm all about making smart choices these days, so I'll most likely hit the gym tomorrow; work today and every day this week, even if only for a few hours, and make some calls to set up paper distribution schedules for next (this) semester. That way I'll have a few less headaches along the way. I've also got to write for application materials for doctoral programs; Dr. Youbet told me he'd be happy to write a letter for me (as in "I'd be happy to slam you in a quick 30-word paragraph and tell the whole world what I really think of you"). That means I've got to write the other two profs and get them to change the date on the letters they've already written. With a little foresight, and a fair amount of success on the GRE class and test, my application materials could be sent out by October...November at the latest. Plus, with applying to seven schools instead of one (a la last year), my entrance is almost assured. Almost. Now if I can just find my Idiot's Guide to Learning What You're Supposed to Already Know, I'd be in gravy.

Haven't had a solid drinking binge at home in a while, and Matt's drinking excursions are starting to inspire me (God help me). I just read Michael Cunningham's The Hours and am dying to see the movie; I've also got a couple of episodes of Twin Peaks left to watch.

Oh yeah, I'm supposed to be working. I figure a rough six-week outline for the advanced classes should be a good start. Tomorrow I'll go to the office or the library and start reviewing the Honors stuff.

I do have to keep in mind that, even though the kids are doing layout next week, it's hardly full-time employment until the 18th. Them's the words.

Ego food

Just got an e-mail from a former student. It poses a good head-inflater, but also an interesting pedagogical issue:

I feel privileged to have been taught by you. I know it can be tough teaching cavalier seniors when the vast majority cares for nothing but to pass out of class and move on with their lives. I admit, I slacked off considerably this year in school--though I found myself teaching myself more outside of class than I ever had before. But you managed to keep me interested regardless. . .

Many times I found myself researching "tidbits" that you would mention in class of separate works of literature, only to find many of them more interesting than you had described. Although you may not have noticed, oftentimes you would mention other works of literature that you have read, relating them to work we did in class. Well, I am an overly curious know-it-all sort of person and would teach myself anything that you mentioned that I did not already know, or at least as much as I could.

Now I'm not excatly made of stone, and this is the kind of job perk that keeps suckers like me returning to the classroom day in, day out. There are just a couple of things that have occurred to me:

1) I think I may have taught him what "cavalier" means. I only hope it wasn't in a shitty context, like "You damned seniors think you're so cavalier. Well you're really a bunch of snots. Now write out 'I will not dissapoint Mr. L. for the rest of the hour.' "

2) The aforementioned student was easily one of the brightest I've ever taught...and probably one of the best in the school. Yes, he did slack off in my class, and while I'd like to argue that I was too busy trying to get other slackers to pass the fucking course to devote enough attention to him, the truth is that his very intelligence and maturity led me to believe he knew he was slacking, and that the best lesson he could get was to suffer the consequences (in this case, an A- instead of an A, God save the Queen). Besides, calling home to complain about a kid not living up to his full potential when he's doing above average work is like wearing a Kick Me Hard sign. And if I sound like I'm ducking work, you're probably right.

3) He mentions that I managed to keep him interested. Leaving aside my sneaking suspicion that he's playing it smart and setting up future letters of recommendation (would that I had taken such an angle myself), there is a disturbing sense of pleasure in keeping a kid like that engrossed. Like I said, he's smart as hell--but the real challenge in my job is getting kids to learn whether or not they're engrossed. You can save all the "Inspire me, o conveyor of wisdom" bullshit for the teacher flicks--in real life, getting that grumbling little SOB to do something that requires brain cells and meets your standards is cause for parades and balloons, never mind whether he liked your class or not. Still, I suppose I'm beating myself up here a little--you don't have to fight battles like that with a kid like this, which leaves you open for all sorts of other methodologies. You wouldn't have known he was engrossed--he was too polite to snooze in class, unlike some of his peers, but I would have bet my pension plan, if I had one, that his eyes glazed over at least on a biweekly basis.

Still, the gesture is not overlooked. I thanked him for his feedback and gave him a few more books to read (A Clockwork Orange doesn't hold a candle to Burgess' dystopian The Wanting Seed). If I can get a kid to at least read my recommendations, never mind liking them, I consider myself a true purveyor of culture and its digestion.

These are those trees we educators see instead of the forest. And there's plenty more of them to get lost in. Maybe I ought to quit and go into investment banking. Then I could really get my pedagogy straight.

Too Funny Because It's Too True

Weapons of Mass Destruction Message.

Plagiarized this one from Wiggo. Couldn't resist.

Praise be to the old man--for my 28th birthday, I got a new decorative bookshelf. Enough to put my snotty "this-is-what-I'm-reading-what-about-you-you-ignorant-wretch" attitude out for everyone to see. But the best thing is, amongst the screws, divots and felt buffers, the package came with its own bottle of glue for me to sniff. Coolness.

Also picked up the White Stripes' Elephant and some dumb Mortal Kombat game for the PS. Used to play that game while sniffing glue (or some semblance of) way back when. Brought back fond memories.

Time for a bottle of wine. Never mind what O'Reilly says--Vive la France!

Bashing bullshit laissez-faire

A while back, Tso gave me a bootleg copy of Simone. I didn't expect it to be the best movie in the world, and as a result, I put it on the bottom of my Things to Watch List (right below When Bad Stunts Happen to Jackasses and The Joy of No Sex), but there eventually came a Sunday afternoon when I had nothing going on and decided to watch it. For those ignorant of the plot, Simone deals with a movie producer's (Al Pacino) efforts to create a digital superstar. Later on in the film, people begin wising up, wondering if Simone even exists in the first place. Pacino's daughter poses such a question to her mother, who responds: "There's no proof Simone doesn't exist."

"Look at what you're saying," the daugher retorts. "Is there any proof that she does?"

I couldn't help but notice at the time that such a question mirrors the whole WMD quest currently underway in Iraq. There's no proof that there are, or ever were, weapons of mass destruction in Hussein's hands, but the position of the hawks has always been "There's no proof that there weren't, either." Stupid position, really--leaving my own war stance aside for a minute--to look for proof for a negative. Rhetorically speaking, it's a dead end. I can't prove Santa Claus doesn't exist; I can't prove that the Easter bunny isn't hiding somewhere with a basket of goodies for me next April, and I sure as shit can't prove that, to use John Proctor's words in Arthur Miller's The Crucible, there isn't "a two-headed dragon under my wife's bed." Such questions are little more than a cat chasing its tail.

But that's irrelevant. The question itself ("are there weapons?" "are there not weapons?" "should we be doing what we're doing?" "why shouldn't we be doing what we're doing?" "shouldn't all women sleep with Gregg?") reveals a bias, and, as most liberals would be only too happy to point out, everyone's got a bias.

So who do you trust?

Who do you trust to give you unbiased information when such information isn't even possible? How can you trust the media, or politicians, or the Joint Chiefs of Staff, to provide you with "just the facts, ma'am," when the facts themselves, carefully selected, arranged and ordered so as to prove a singular point, are no more reliable or incontestable than the tea leaves a psychic reads at the bottom of your mug?

Well gee golly gosh, I guess you can't.

Now such an admission might seem defeatist. Far from it, I say. Knowing that biases exist does not make any information thrown your way completely worthless. Nor does it excuse you from formulating opinions of your own (that's right, Cisco, I'm talking to you here).

See, just because presentations of the facts are skewed doesn't mean your own perception is. Never mind my own positions for the moment--I'm talking about having a position in the first place. Too many people today equate terms like "evidence" and "facts" with "proving my point" when really it's all about discovering the truth. If I were to come across something, evidence, a written piece, whatever, that would make me believe the war on Iraq was a good thing, I would probably find my opinion influenced. Maybe even changed. Because I'm not about proving myself right. I'm about discovering whatever truth I can.

From poet and educator Taylor Mali:

I'm writing the poem that will change the world,
and it's Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly is writing a research paper for me
about how homosexuals shouldn't be allowed
to adopt children.
I'm writing the poem that will change the world,
and it's Like Lilly Like Wilson at my office door.

She's having trouble finding sources,
which is to say, ones that back her up.
They all argue in favor of what I thought I was against.

And it took four years of college,
three years of graduate school,
and every incidental teaching experience I have ever had
to let out only,

Well, that's a real interesting problem, Lilly.
But what do you propose to do about it?
That's what I want to know.

And the eighth-grade mind is a beautiful thing;
Like a new-born baby's face, you can often see it
change before your very eyes.

I can't believe I'm saying this, Mr. Mali,
but I think I'd like to switch sides.

And I want to tell her to do more than just believe it,
but to enjoy it!
That changing your mind is one of the best ways
of finding out whether or not you still have one.
Or even that minds are like parachutes,
that it doesn't matter what you pack
them with so long as they open
at the right time.
O God, Lilly, I want to say
you make me feel like a teacher,
and who could ask to feel more than that?
I want to say all this but manage only,
Lilly, I am like so impressed with you!

So I finally taught somebody something,
namely, how to change her mind.
And learned in the process that if I ever change the world
it's going to be one eighth grader at a time.

Shifting gears for a moment, let's assume that there's value in an average opinion. Maybe just having this opinion isn't going to move mountains, but by God, you 've got it--that's why we live in America in the first place, right? To have opinions? To learn shit to shape and mold our ideologies and the person we want to be? To help mold the country into what we perceive it to be?

To change the world one eighth grader, one high school student, one person, one ideology at a time?

Is that an idealistic way to look at things?

Not remotely. You don't agree with me? You're wrong.

What is the definition of an idealist? Someone who sees only goals and not the real world? Okay, take that definition for a moment and then look at the facts (or my own rhetorically selected snippets of the big picture, if you want to be snotty):

The 2000 election has created a serious mar in the American population's perception about the weight their own votes swing. Such a mar may well result in an even lower voter turnout next term, with many citizens voicing their trepaditions in language such as "If my vote doesn't count, why bother with it in the first place?"

The war on Iraq, arguably speaking, was carried out contrary to 30-40 percent of the nation's opinion, and pretty much anathema to the entire world's opinion (minus Tony Blair, who, in the minds of the hawks, constitutes England itself). So why protest it? If it's going to happen anyway, what's the use in speaking out against it, or voicing arguments (reasonable or otherwise) as to why it should not take place?

The University of Michigan's affirmative action debacle will get a bunch of white people (not a significant percentage, I bet, but a percentage nonetheless) deciding that, if it comes between me and another qualified minority, it'll go to the minority, so I'm screwed anyway. So what's the point?

And with Rehnquist, O'Connor and Fitzgerald stepping down from the Supreme Court, only to be replaced by other conservatives (if I had to lay money down, that's what I'd envision) will result in a stronger conservative government, leading many Democrats and liberals to shake their heads and wonder what they're beating their heads against the wall for.

All of these are, more or less, seen as no-win situations through the lens of certain mindsets. Bullshit.

Bullshit bullshit bullshit.

Now why would I say that? Why would I, a pinko, peacenik, liberal subversive get the nerve to make such a statement? Are these not facts, garnered as objectively as possible? Has history not taught us that resistance in the face of an overpowering, ideologically entrenched majority rule is sometimes suicidal, usually futile?

From To Kill a Mockingbird:: "Just because we were licked two hundred years before we started fighting is no reason for us to not try now." Atticus Finch. Good night, Gregory Peck.

From The Shawshank Redemption, by Stephen King: "Andy didn't say anything [in response to someone asking him whether his letters to the prison board would do any good] except to ask what would happen if a drop of water were to fall on a cinder block for a thousand years."

And my own personal favorite, from Amelia Earhart: "Courage is the price the world exacts for peace of mind."

You see, just becuase a battle may not be won is no reason to fight it. So fight it.

I don't care if it never does any good, even though history has shown us that the right numbers in the right places with the right words can change anything. Anything.

You don't agree with me? You're still wrong. And fuck objectivity and bias.

From Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States:

Student protests against the ROTC [with regards to the Vietnam War] resulted in the canceling of thsoe programs in over forty colleges and universities. In 1966, 191,749 college students enrolled in ROTC. By 1973, the number was 72,459.

From a news dispatch in Atchison, Kansas, 1886:

"At 12:45 this morning the men on guard at the Missouri Pacific roundhouse were surprised by the appearance of 35 or 40 masked men. The guards were corralled in the oil room by a detachment of the visitors who stood guard with pistols . . . while the rest of them thoroughly disabled 12 locomotives which stood in the stalls." (This strike occurred as a result of the Texas & Pacific Railroad's attempts to quash a union for workers' rights (for an eight hour day, safe working conditions, etc.). After fiery meetings, police brutality towards strikers and even the trials of avowed anarchists (see entries on the Haymarket Square riots and the Homestead act), despite a long and bloody road, workers' rights are now ensured.)

And don't tell me today's ruling on sodomy laws in Texas had nothing to do with the Rainbow Coalition's efforts, trying to promote homosexual relationships' equality with heterosexuals'.

These are just a couple of examples off the top of my head. There are numerous others, some of which are so obvious it would be insulting to bring them up (King's nonresistance protests; the women's suffrage movement; the Native Americans' tribal attempts to circumvent the use of their land by the federal government). In all cases, however, you see a group of people working in concert to change something.

For every one of these examples, there are probably ten to twenty others that failed miserably.

That, to me, does not spell a reason to give up, sink into apathy, and not put your own hand in.

You see, I may not know a lot in this world for sure, but I do know that one way to make sure you don't get what you believe is right, or don't change anything for the better, is to do nothing.

That attitude, and my unwillingness to lie down and let those in power walk over me when I perceive them to be doing so, doesn't make me an idealist.

It makes me a fucking realist.

Note: on a less serious note, if you really want to see the risks of not making your voice heard, consider the Onion's American People Ruled Unfit to Govern. Scares me a little, I tell ya.

Time magazine gave a cautious evaluation of the Philly schools that have been privatized over the past nine months. The consensus seems to be...there is no consensus. Until more results and testing is in, everyone out there in the city of Brotherly Love (among them Paul Vallas...I keep forgetting he went there) is going to run with the ball until something blows up. What really pissed me off (besides the idea that corporate America can swoop in anywhere and expect to fix anything after the shit year they've just caused for so many people--not that I'm generalizing of course) is their backlash. Specifically Chancellor Beacon Academies, which is considering a lawsuit after being dismissed by Vallas because of a lack of results (dirt on them not available in web article).

Now that's just the kind of work ethic kids are already learning, thanks to peabrained parents who want to put the onus of responsibility on anyone but their kids. The whole concept of privatization makes me see red. If it were just pouring more money into the system, I could perhaps calm down, but then I remember that money doesn't even do anything unless you've got someone in the system who knows about teaching and who knows where the money could be best spent.

I'm reminded of the grader fiasco we recently had at my school. See, because we require an extraordinary amount of writing (and I'm not trying to sound arrogant--I've ran the figures of how much writing our students do by virtually everyone I know and it's miles above everyone else's experiences, both as a student and as a teacher), the district decided way back when we'd get a budget to recruit help grading all of this. When I started teaching, I was naive enough to believe I could do it the way my professors had always done it--for content alone, fuck grammar. I still combat this mentality. I mean, if a kid has had three years of teachers shoving grammar down his/her throat, and they still don't get it, I'm not going to do much good in addition. So why not take them to task for not knowing what they're supposed to know?

Anyway, somehow the budget was magically depleted. Not because of yours truly (I was loathe to send out that much stuff), but because of (allegedly) overspending by certain teachers and misuse of the system. A big brou-haha ensued during a faculty meeting, the result of which was we were going to bully the administration for more money while continuing to disagree on how it should be divied up. Whatever.

Shortly after we were told not to overspend the budget, the district gave everyone in the building a school CD holder. For our CDs. I imagine the retail went for somewhere around ten bucks apiece, but I'll be kind and say seven. Multiply that by, say, three hundred teachers and that's $2,100. Or one grader.

I never scored very well in Monopoly, but come on!

Back in Illinois now, thank God. One more day in the Big Apple probably would have fried my brain but good. All it took was about twenty minutes of Midwestern air circulating in my lungs to dope me up and bring me off that natural high of city living, steady alcohol and sensory excess. Better than a healthy shot of Valium, as far as I'm concerned.

It was funny to watch the old high school/college patterns develop (though in all honesty, a weekend full of them probably took ten years off my life). We would wake up eleven, twelve, one in the afternoon, and Matt would hang over the edge of his bed, staring at me lying on an inflatable mattress on the floor. "God, you look like shit" was his standard morning greeting, to which I would mumble something vaguely comprehensible. After showering (and how in hell he does it in a bathroom no bigger than my hall closet is beyond me) and dragging a razor over my face, it was over to the corner restaurant, where I had the best lox and eggs I've ever had.

"No more alcohol for a while," one of us would promise the other. "My liver is ready to jump out of my stomach and start kicking me in the ass." There would be no fuss over that particular point; we would arrange for something cultural (a museum, city tour or whatever)...and then by three o'clock we were back in the bar drinking. Hell, isn't that what they invented Bloody Marys for? When Wiggo hooked up with us (and believe me, an alcohol-amateur he is not), his amazement registered through every layer of my booze-soaked brain. Would that I could put such an accomplishment on my curriculum vita.

So I get home and find that I still have no food in the fridge, my bills still aren't paid and I still don't have all the paperwork in for that camp trip for the kiddies in July. So I had to put in about thirty minutes at the office today, after which it was straight to this month's Premiere magazine (the Top Ten Best Sex Scenes of All Time), a couple hours of NYPD Blue (in the city pan-and-scans I can now pick out three buildings besides the Empire State and Chrystler buildings that I can recognize) and a DVD (Tell Me Something--kickass review to be published). My brother's bachelor party is coming up in a few weeks; Wiggo will be back in town in two weeks. I should be thinking about curriculum and what not right now, but I figured I'd take a good week off of anything like that before straining my brain cells. Besides, after a weekend like this one, I'd probably get in more trouble trying to put lessons together than not.

Anyway, I'm thinking of looking into NYU and what it has in the way of a rhetoric program. It probably won't happen (I have no idea what their requirements are, but I know damn well how much their TAs make, and while you can live like a king on such a salary in DeKalb, similar ambitions in the City That Never Sleeps, Stops Drinking or Throwing Lustrious Entertainment Your Way fall significantly short of reality), but I can't help thinking that if other people can make it work, maybe I could qualify.

Qualify as "other people," that is. Ever notice how everything that ever looked the best or the worst to you always happens to someone else? There's my answer.

After several hours of arguing and three or four Bloody Marys, I managed to cough up another $95 to stay here another day. And if I'm drunk enough tomorrow, I may extend it another twenty four hours as well. Damn it, I'm on vacation. Time I acted like it.

Salome was phenomenal. Of course, most of the play was taken up by Pacino sitting in an armchair delivering diatribes against his wife and stepdaughter that make his rants in Glengarry Glen Ross look like an exercise in marital restraint. But it was great nonetheless. (John, if you're reading this, yes, Marissa Tomei gets topless. I couldn't get a picture for you. Sorry.)

I even saw Guy Pierce in the auditorium (this was in the Barrymore) talking on a cell phone. I would have talked to the guy, but he must have spotted a drunken fanatic fan a mile away, because he walked off the minute we made eye contact. Does that make me a psycho fan because I'm all excited about making eye contact with Pierce? It even made Pacino and Tomei's performances anticlimactic.

Anyway, we've found our old patterns quite easily. We're up in the morning hung over and billious, swearing not to drink to excess for another day...and then reneging on that promise by noon or one p.m. the same afternoon. Amidst all the drinking, though, I did manage to take in a fair amount of what the city has to offer:

The Brooklyn Bridge
The Met
The Empire State Building
Rockefeller Center
Fifth Avenue
Saint Patricks Cathedral
The New York Public Library (great bar behind it!)
Bryant Park
The Village
Times Square
Grand Central Station (another great bar, but the bartender thought I was gay and gave me a bunch of male strip club addresses, damn it)
Columbia University

Tonight, it's Little Italy with Wiggo and Toola. Then more alcohol. If I make that flight tomorrow, it'll be a miracle.

Oh, and I even got the time wrong for the return flight. Surprised, you should not be.

Three hours until Salome. About to break out my new suit--I'll probably spill vodka all over it. God, the drinking continutes nonstop. We got in around 4 a.m. yesterday, slept for almost eight hours, woke up dishevelled and gravel-throated...then went to the Met (Metropolitan Museum of Art, for the unlettered) and hit a bar on the way back. Two Black and Tans later and I feel like I've been taking vitamins and exercising for a year.

I picked up two books at the museum which, combined, make up a sort of halfassed rhetoric primer. One is a more or less illustrated history of writing; the other more of the same on philosophy. I haven't forgotten about getting those GRE scores up yet...I've just put it on hold to drink more.

In New York now, drunk, barhopping, listening to Carmen in Matt's shoebox of a New York apartment. They tell me this is what I work all year to afford--a lousy weekend in New York for the sole pleasure of listening to operas, going to Broadway plays and drinking in overcrowded, trendy, yuppified bars. Oh man, am I on vacation or what?

Almost didn't make it--almost missed the flight. I have two things to thank for making my flight on time--one is a lack of traffic on 290; the other is dumb luck.

Three vodka tonics; half a bottle of Merlot; one Bud Light and a glass of French wine. Not a bad resume for the first Friday night of my summer break.

On a survey we're giving to graduating students of LP, one question was: "If they made a movie about our school, who would you get to play your favorite teacher?"

Setting aside such trivialities as "Barney the Dinosaur," "a pile of shit" and "there are no good teechers here they suck," here's what's lined up in the casting agency for yours truly:



Topher Grace. Skinny, shaggy-haired, yet still appealing to the ladies. Okay, I can live with that.



Woody, from Toy Story. Hmm. This one requires some thought. Yeah, I'm a rough-riding cowboy, but there's still something a little too flighty about the guy. Maybe if I kept the hat on, it would work...don't forget, though, I get to land Bo Peep in the end.



Jim Carey. Apparently I have a knack for doing impressions of people the kids don't know (like when I ripped off Matt's father's "skin in the game" schtick and said it was my uncle). Okay, that works. As long as I don't have to light any farts.



Vin Diesel. Works for me. Note the rippling muscles, the firm jaw, the utter lack of comprehension of a quality movie script...oh wait, would this have anything to do with the fact that the student who recommended me is trying to suck his way up to a B in my class? Nah.



Arnold Schwarzenegger. Ditto Vin Diesel.

There were others, but I can't remember them. Those are the top runners. No wonder I have such a healthy self-esteem.

Interesting conversation with a colleage today. We were arguing over bathroom duties next year. See, because I go between two different campuses, I've been exempt from such circumstances as having to stand outside a bathroom door watching for smokers, drinkers, screwers and anyone else who might violate the school code in some weird and uncompromising position. (The kids are even worse.)

Colleague: Look Gregg, I just wanted you to know, I think it's about time you did a bathroom duty. I mean, I know it's not in your contract and you don't get paid for it or anything, but we've got a hole in the schedule we need to fill.
Me: Well you can't get me to do it. Because it's not in my contract, I'm not obligated to do a thing. Especially if it's to free up time for you so you can go to that mediator conference. Sorry, pal, but you're out of luck.

Okay, that's what I should have said. What came out went something like:

Colleague: It's time you did bathroom duty. We've got a hole in the schedule to fill.
Me: (mumbling) Sure. Whatever works for the better of the school.

Then again, if I'd had any guts:

Colleague: You need to do bathroom duty. It's going in your contract.
Me: Fuck off. (walk away)

But instead, I think I'll go to the truth:

Colleague: You've escaped the terrors of bathroom duty for long enough. Now you pay the price. I told you you couldn't steal my quizzes without some kind of payback.
Me: Oooh, bathroom duty. I am like so scared.

This whole exchange will seem a lot more entertaining if you remember that 1) it actually happened (mitigating circumstances and verbosity changed to protect anonymity) and 2) all scenarios ran through my head so fast, I didn't know which one I'd actually said.

Colleague: Why do you spend so much time with your head cocked to the side like you're thinking something you're too chickenshit to say out loud?
Me: Ooh, I am like so scared.
Colleague: Huh? Of what?
Me: Aren't we talking about bathroom duty.
Colleague: No, now we're talking about what a chickenshit you are.
Me: Oh. Well. Uh, could you ask me again if I'll take bathroom duty?

Complaints:

If I see one more picture of a chubby-cheeked Iraqi child kissing a U.S. soldier, I'll start projectile vomiting.

If I have to grade one more response paper that begins "This book sucks," I'm going to break out a bottle of Elmer's Glue.

If I have to hear one more person quote Savage Nation when defending overseas political strategy, I'll shoot myself in the face.

And if I have to go one more ride without a car CD player, I'll most likely commit hari kari. That's right--I finally cashed in the lousy $250 or so and bought myself a new car stereo. Funny--the stereo is worth more than the car with me in it. But at least now I can blare The Cult on my ten-minute ride to work in the mornings (afternoons take a bit longer).

Testing on Wednesday and Thursday, which means I only have to teach one class. Awesome. Hopefully I'll use the time to catch up on grading and planning, but most likely they'll find something better for me to do. Like wax the floors. They could use it, after all.

War is what upsets the public in wartime, not pop song lyrics , from The Scotsman, via Matt. Good take.

Finished Why Do People Hate America, and I only wish I had a photographic memory. I'll have to look it over for the key points. I won't say the whole thing was gold, but it was up there, especially about the cowboy attitude Americans tend to project into world affairs.

Speaking of the war...

Tribune critic Steve Johnson reminds us (in today's article) that just because the television broadcasts images of Hussein toppling over does not mean the war is won (it ain't exactly the Berlin wall, after all--there are plenty other statues to be torn down). Of course I'm jubilant that the Iraqi dictator is off and running, most likely in northern Iraq. Who wouldn't be? Just because you're anti-war doesn't mean you don't like to see a torturer and murderer of innocents get his come-uppance (if in fact he's gotten it--it's a little too early to tell).

But there are repercussions that are going to follow. Various intelligence sources have already commented that this war has been a prime breeding ground for further Al Queda recruitment of more terrorists, and since terrorism against the U.S. is what gets your average Joe Average jumping up in his seat, we could be in for some trouble there. Besides, despite American media portraying a grinning, victory-saluting Iraqi population hailing our troops, there is still instability. The BBC reports further fighting and looting in Baghdad, not twenty-four hours of the American occupation.

Although even Rumsfeld is cautioning us that it's not over, the television and front-page pictures are saying otherwise. Keep your ear to the ground.

Who says the war isn't under control?

"You just fucking killed a family because you didn't fire a warning shot soon enough!"

"Our soldiers on the ground have an absolute right to defend themselves," General Peter Pace, vice-chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, said. Presumably against entire families, too.

And lest I forget...

Happy war, everyone.

True story

It's pt conferences and I'm tired. I've been there for fourteen hours or so and I've sat through numerous meetings with parents whose kid(s) is/are doing fine. They could get a conference with a rock and witness more productivity. And I had the usual run of "My kid is getting a B+ and what are you going to do about it, rookie?" speeches thrown at me as well. Fun and games, all of it.

Then, two parents come in unannounced. Immediately my guard goes up:

Mom: Are you Mr. L?
Me: Yes, hold the applause.
Mom: You teach writing?
Me: In my spare time. But I've always wanted to be a Solid Gold dancer.
Dad: You have our daughter in your class.
Me: Oh God, I'm sorry about that. I tried to reach her, really I did. It's just that I've been under a lot of pressure and I haven't been sleeping too well. If you want your tax dollars refunded back to you, I'll understand, but I'll see what I can do to salvage the rest of the semester and teach her something.
Mom: Actually she loves your class.
Dad: She says it's too short.
Mom: She says she learned how to write.
Dad: She says you taught her.
Mom, Dad: Thank you.
Deep, meaningful pause...
Me: I'll try harder. Really, I will. You think she'd like to SSR?

I'll start taking scholarships in my name any day now. Wait and see...

One more amusing anecdote:

I'm charging up and down the class, ranting and railing about Marxism, feminism, psychosocialism and Freudianism in English literature, one eye on a couple of giggling girls in the back and the other on my watch, counting down the hours until I can escape to the teacher's lounge and drink a glass of fa Chrissake orange juice. "Ladies, quit horsing around back there," I say in my best Authoritative Teacher voice (which usually comes out sounding like a bad case of the hemmehroids). "This is not a playground, and the proletariat/bourgeoise struggle is a serious thing."

They stopped giggling. I went on with my "lesson." "So in this novel, we've got a bad guy, right? And he knows he's bad, right? Right?"

"Are you going to the party tonight?" someone whispered to someone else.

Here I stepped up on a desk, figuring if I couldn't teach, at least I could command attention. "You've got to look above your surroundings, that's what the Marxists were all about. They didn't see their futures as only lasting until the next paycheck. They planned ahead. And they were conscious of their surroundings. Like you all have to be, damn it."

"Hey, should you be swearing so much?" someone asked.

"Be conscious of your surroundings," I snapped. "Pay attention. There's a lot to observe in life, and most of it starts with you and your life. Got it?"

The two girls started giggling again. "Ladies, one more time--quit goofing around. Or you'll be cleaning blackboard erasers until June 5, I kid you not."

I cast them The Look (if you've ever been caught horsing around by a veteran, you know it; if you've ever seen a guy trying to stare down a bully unsuccessfully, you've seen mine) and beat the clock at thirty seconds before the bell ranting about Oedipal complexes in Romantic poetry. "Does everybody have all that? Men want to sleep with their..."

"Mothers," the class intoned dutifully.

"Okay, then, that's it for the day. Have a good weekend." I hopped down and beamed out at all of them, radiant in my scholastic wisdom and savoir faire.

On their way out, the two giggling girls passed me a note. "What's this?" I asked belligerently. "More of your damned tomfoolery? You're lucky paddles are outlawed in public classrooms these days."

One of the girls simply unfolded the note, pointed, and stalked out the room. The other one followed suit.

On the note:Check your zipper.

Somebody call Satan--Hell must have frozen over.

Kim got a blog.

That's right--a blog.

And she's already got her share of reviews:

From the New York Times: "Finally, a blog that addresses the fundamentals of political, socio-demographic and cute, cuddly kittens has found its way to the World Wide Web. I look forward to the next post with bated breath."

From Time Magazine: "This solitary voice of a pro-animal rights crusader and anti-consumer weaves its way among the tangled web of movie reviews, dilapidated memoirs and otherwise cumbersome rants of the sub-literate. Like her stinking boyfriend."

From Cat Fancy: "Lots of cat and dog pics. About f***ing time."

The cat's wake last night was a complete success. I'm sure he's looking down on us fondly right now, thinking how much he misses us. Barring that, he's probably waiting for someone to change his litterbox again.

As for me, another broken up week--I've got a conference to go to Tuesday, which should alter my routine nicely. I've been a vegetable all weekend, and not by choice either. My brain is squeezing thoughts through it one at a time, painfully and quite slowly. It took me over three hours to do one lousy stack of essay exams, and just the memory of that grueling endeavor is keeping me away from the remaining stack. I did do some planning for tomorrow, though--I looked up a bunch of alchemists mentioned at the beginning of Frankenstein to try and get some philosophical background into the class discussion. But most likely it won't work worth a shit.

Layout starts Wednesday, too, and the assistant advisor isn't back from surgery yet. That should be a good issue to tackle: "Listen, Ms. B., I know they just removed your lower spleen, but I need someone to proofread Page One. So quit lying around, slacker. Earn your $8.50 an hour, or whatever we're getting for all this."

At least there's a three-day weekend next week. That's good.

And a four-day weekend (of sorts) the week after that. That's even better.

Also, barring some unforeseen event, I should hear from U of I by then, which means I'll know whether or not to drown myself in alcohol out of self-pity or arrogant victory. I guess it all comes out the same in the end either way.

The Year in Retrospect

or

Another frigging "Best Of/Worst Of"

It's that time of year, kids and kidettes. 2002, in most respects, wasn't a year I can comment upon extensively as a consumer. For one thing, the first half of the year I had little to no money to see the films I wanted, and the books I wanted to read remained elusively out of print. For another thing, once I had the money, I didn't have the time or energy to properly immerse myself into the medium as much as is my wont.

For me, it's not enough to simply watch a movie. You've got to have an hour or so afterwards to list its technical and symbolic successes and failures (quart of Guiness mandatory). After that, I've got to read a few well-respected Internet reviews (or, if Rotten Tomatoes isn't cutting it, Peter Travers or Roger Ebert will do in a pinch) and get the gist of what other people are saying about it. If any of it is good, and non-copyrighted, it's mine for the taking, and a good four hours of such research is well worth the energy leeched and real work neglected (bottle of bourbon optional). Then I write my own review, revise (bottle of glue to be sniffed mandatory), publish, and then yank it back off to put in a few gems of wisdom. All too often, what's running through my head is, "Hey, look at this piece of gold, maggots! I'm head and shoulders above you all! Hell, I'm fuckin' Shakespeare!"

Of course, once the "you screwed up" e-mails roll in ("that comment about misogyny in Mission Impossible: II can't even be called ill-founded since that would assume you founded it on anything in the first place") or, even better, nothing at all ("review? what review? hey, you want to buy some Internet porn?"), such grandeurs hardly endure. It usually takes another bottle or two of glue to set me straight again.

Still, I've done the best I can keeping up, perhaps not so much with what America (or popular America, or popular white-boy America, or whatever) would consider hot or not, but at least with what I believe should be highly-regarded or not. And since it's always been easier to rip apart than to praise, let me start with:

The P.U.s of 2002

Straight Out Worst Movie: Master of Disguise--Admittedly I didn't see this one. But I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that any movie starring a man who not only disguises himself as a turtle, or calls himself a turtle, or sticks his head back and forth and reiterates "Tuuuurtle...tuuuurtle..." but is also meant to be taken humorously will probably not replace Citizen Kane on the AFI list. Nuff said.

Worst sequel: Men In Black II. I only considered the first one so-so, but this one takes the taco. Cute, cuddly singing dogs, a hackneyed love story and more of those stupid worms. Give it up already.

Worst trailer: The Matrix Reloaded. It's just not long enough. So there.

Worst style: Avril Lavigne. I never heard of her until I casually asked someone what the deal was with all these girls wearing men's designer clothes. Then I heard the music. Then I heard the music combined with the sight of the performer, and I remembered how parents used to complain about Madonna's bare belly. Somehow, I can't help feeling nostalgic.

Worst argument: Anything Dick Cheney said about the necessity of war on Iraq. Weapons inspectors list dozens of assertions about Iraq's lack of threat to the U.S., from their inability to construct weapons of mass destruction to their inability to get them to reach the U.S. Cheney's response? "They're lying. Next question." Were I to receive such a response in my writing class, I doubt even I could be sweet-talked out of giving an F on the logos appeal.

Worst cliche: Although "my bad" seemed to be edging out of the average adolescent's vocabulary by late 2000, it has recently come back by a landslide. If you examine the etymology behind the phrase, some admission of guilt is implied. If you listen to its use today, it would remind you more of a Catholic dogma of forgiveness. I busted a kid for swearing in class, to which he responded, "Oh, my bad," and then couldn't believe I had to follow through with a detention. "I said my bad!" he screeched, to which I responded, "And I said 'You're right.'"

Worst cable TV screwup: Transformers Armada. I never thought the day would come when I would say 80's animation kicks the shit out of the new millenium's. Haven't we been treated to such eye-strippers as Princess Mononoke or even, I guess, Shrek? Can't they do better for a Transformers revival than a bunch of blockheaded robots stumbling around, moving their mouths but nothing else while they fight? And the story? "Little robots give us power! Soon they will be mine! Ah hahahahahaha!" That's not worth getting up early for on a Saturday morning. It's not even worth leaving work for on a weekday (not that that stops me).

Second Worst cable TV screwup: The Cartoon Network finally decides to rerun Futurama, only it's on at 11 p.m. Sunday through Thursday! The local taxpayers don't let me stay up that late!

Now for the hard part. I've got to extol the work of others. 2002 was host to a number of either dubious successes, or semi-promising indicators, which, when you're having a bad year, is probably the best you can hope for. In no particular order:

The Dubious Successes or Semi-Promising Indicators of 2002

(pardon the redundancy)

Best Film: Road to Perdition. A lot of people scoffed at any claims that Tom Hanks deserved an Academy Award for his role in Cast Away. As The Critic Jay Sherman complained, "Where's he gonna put it?" Still, there's no way to step over true talent, even if it keeps knocking you over the head year after year. Hanks has proved his mettle in this gripping piece of work, and if that weren't enough, there's still Paul Newman and Jude Law to consider. Most likely this one will be short-changed since it came out over the summer, but here's hoping anyway.

Most Pleasant Cinematic Surprise: Robin Williams. I always had a high opinion of his acting (such turkeys as Death to Smoochy aside), but this year's One Hour Photo and Insomnia cast him in entirely new roles, with sometimes surprising and always pleasing results. I hear Williams was a pain in the ass in high school as a kid because of his gifted intelligence. With these films under his belt, I'm almost willing to forgive him as an educator, but not until he comes back as Edward Nygma/The Riddler in a future Batman movie.

Best Trend-setter: Spider-Man. It's about time they did a movie based on one of the comics' more popular characters (I can't fucking believe Captain America had a series in the 90's before the Wall Crawler), and the whole thing seems to have set off an avalanche of Marvelesque films (Daredevil, The Hulk, and, if rumors are to be believed, some day The Fantastic Four to name a few). Bring it on. Bring it all on. When you get to Ant-Man, though, give it a rest.

Best musical release: The Iron Maiden Boxed Set. No, really. You can take your Eminems and Susan Tidechis and shove them. Shove them sideways, if they'll fit. This selection isn't just about the music--it's about the merchandise as well. My brother latched onto the coolest boxed set in the world for my Christmas present, and the fact that Iron Maiden did it is only incidental. Believe me, it hurts to admit this, dedicated Maiden fan that I am, but we're talking about a boxed set complete with tin box (death's head glaring at you from the cover), shot glass, band family tree bound in metal, and three (3) two-disc sets of music. One of them delivers the long-awaited B-sides which, even if you're not a Maiden fan, will knock your socks off. It covers a lot of ground, and it kicks a lot of ass. Brother, I take back (almost) everything bad I ever said about you.

Best Indication of a Shitty New Millenium: Public Contempt for the Underdog. Sounds hazy, but let me explain: The underdog used to be a popular figure, one that we could all identify with. He may not get his way all the time, and he may get kicked around by people bigger than him (Charlie Brown, Droopy Dog, George Bush Sr.), but sooner or later, he gets his comeuppance. Nowadays, the underdogs are either way under us (Jackass: The Movie), too cutesy-cuddly-ignorant to ever get fazed (Sponge Bob), or else they get a few ideas of their own and start venting their aggressions on the rest of the world (George Bush Jr., Bill Gates). So what are we left with? Underdogs to the underdogs. Since when did bulging muscles and a square jaw ever remotely spell "stereotypical loser"? If that's a product of the new millenium, then this millenium is going to suck the royal root.

Best Use of CGI to Display Bug Creatures Fighting Jedi Knights: Attack of the Clones. (Upon close scrutiny, you'll find I had to create a category for that one, or it never would have made any Best Of lists. Whaddya gonna do?)

Best Piece of News: Historian Howard Zinn (A People's History of the United States of America--this link is to an audio reading, by the way) is joining forces with Ben Affleck and Matt Damon to do a television adaptation of Emma for HBO (based on Emma Goldman, a renowned American rebel and outspoken opponent of World War I who was exiled for her pains). Any day history becomes the driving force beneath a piece of popular media is a tallymark for us all, myself included. I understand Zinn wants to write screenplays (for Hollywood?)--be warned about Faulkner and Fitzgerald's issues (as if you have to warn a historian like Zinn about anything that already happened).

Oh yeah...

Unless I forgot to fill out a form, or pay a fee, or some damn thing, I now have my Master's. Or so they would have me believe. You know the old line "The check is in the mail?" Same thing here.

It occurred to me last night that I was missing my graduation ceremony. Bummer. But the final essays were calling me. It should surprise no one that I claim to be a student of irony (look at the past several months of my life for proof), and I find the fact that all the essays I had to grade prevented me from going anywhere that night, even though I felt no burning urge to grade them. I find that very ironic indeed.

Either that, or it's just stupid.

As per wiggolation:

Sundays have ceased to exist for me. Literally. It's always been that way, even at points during my childhood. As Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes said, "Any day you have to take a bath and go to bed early isn't a day off in my book." Translate that to my life and it reads: "Any day you've got to grade papers, prep for tomorrow, fret, worry and obsess over lesson plans isn't even half a day off in my book since, when you wake up at eight, or ten, or twelve, or whatever, you're already worried about falling behind."

And I wish I were smart enough to leave it all alone Friday nights and Saturdays. I really do. But no one ever said I was bright...just cute.

Does it isolate you? You betcha:

Friend: Hey man, how you doing?
Me: I'm working. Some of us have to work over break, you know.
Friend: Yeah, uh...anyway, a bunch of us are getting together tonight. You coming?
Me: I would, but then I'd have four hours less of my weekend. And I need those hours to fret and stare at the wall, worrying about lesson plans.
Friend: Come on, man. It's Saturday night.
Me: Ha. For you it's Saturday night, maybe. For me, and all other dedicated teachers out there, it's recharge time. I'm going to watch Lean on Me and take notes, so that I can finally get my students eating out of my hand the way they already would be, if I were worth a damn at my job.
Friend: Have you ever thought about getting psychiatric help?
Me: Have you ever thought about going into teaching? It's the noblest profession there is.
Friend: Not from where I'm sitting.

An exaggeration, to be sure. But only slightly.

Still:

Top Five Places I'll be Come Christmas Break

5. Not near school.
4. Not under the bed.
3. Not by school.
2. Not in the school library, desperately searching for films detailing the use of a restrictive clause in an expository essay.
1. Not in school.

Like others out there, I've got to get back in the habit of my old writing style. Hard to do when you're worrying about someone looking over your shoulder. Maybe I need a cool nickname, like Stick Boy, or Gargantuan.

It's a sad fucking state of affairs when you realize you'd have to study a few hours to pass your own final exam. Fortunately, that doesn't apply to me--I could get it down cold in an hour and a half. Yeah. You bet. At any rate, it's done, which would be cause for celebration if I didn't have some other papers to take care of and a few chapters to prep for tomorrow. Thank God all my paperwork is in order for my observation tomorrow--I found out about it just as I was prepping a video and doping out a syllabus for the annual Pre-Final Exams Week Juggling Contest.

Actually, that could work pretty well.

A Sandwich Never Tasted So Bad

No such luck drinking beer and burning stuff in Dewey's back yard last night--the little one got sick, so we couldn't go. But we did do the next best thing (if you ignore about a thousand other possibilities, that is)--go see a movie in Sandwich.

The Ring has its pluses, and if I get my computer back this week, hopefully I'll have time to write a review (now that I'm not slugging away through literary criticism, that is). But Sandwich itself deserves immediate mention.

First of all, Susan (whom I had the distinct pleasure of talking to yesterday, and Susan, baby, I know you're lurking, so don't pretend you aren't blushing with pride over that one, and make sure your damned e-mail goes through this time) mentioned to me she'd taught there all last year, even after my dire warnings (which I don't remember giving and rarely heed myself, so who am I to talk?). Susan had intimated that the phrase "keeping it in the family" took on dire overtones in this quaint little village, and a first impression of its citizens did not tend to disprove such a theory. Kim and I sat in the front row at the local multiplex, and within two minutes of having gotten settled, we were surrounded on the other three sides by gabbing, rude, and generally shitheaded teenagers.

Siskel and Ebert these kids were not. Shit, I would have been satisfied with Roeper and Rutiger. For example, in one tension-inspiring scene, the heroine approaches a closed door with some kind of liquid trailing out of it. "Blood," one of these degenerates muttered behind me. "It's gotta be blood."

"She's gonna step in it!" his girlfriend squealed, to which there were several gasps of astonishment at this leap in reasoning. I shoveled more popcorn in my mouth to try and drown out the noise of ten brains coming to a grinding halt, but Kim wasn't having any of it--she hissed several words at them, and those words were not Happy Birthday.

Then, the heroine gets closer, and we see that there's no red tint. "Oh, it's not blood," another one of them announces, to which the others grunt assent. Oh man, if I didn't have a critic to point these things out to me, I don't know what I would do...

The heroine flings the door open, and we see a genuinely freaky sequence of shots: a staccato of black and white images, bodies, severed fingers, insects and other unsettling juxtapositions of the serene with the out of place (courtesy of cinematographer Bojan Bazelli, who didn't attempt anything like this in turkies like Surviving the Game or Kalifornia--could it be more screenwriter-inspired?). Since none of these Last Picture Show casting rejects had their Ritalin this morning, this of course sent them into a frenzy, and I heard one of them remark several times over, "This is a really fuckin' creepy movie." Just what we needed. More local insight.

What I wanted to do was turn around and say, "Your observations are fascinating. They really are. But I can't possibly stay on such an abstract level of analysis, so if you could just, you know, keep your firm grasp of the obvious down to a gentle murmur inside your head--which, by the way, is called thinking--I really would appreciate it."

But sarcasm never goes over well with these rubes. I know from experience. So what wound up escaping after all was: "Shut up! Christ!" (I've been pretty good about not taking the Lord's name in vain lately, but this time it slipped out. I like to think of it as a call for help, though--as in, "Help me, oh Lord, before I remember that your commandments only direct us not to kill humans.")

Still, there was an acceptable level of silence throughout the rest of the movie. Maybe I've learned a few tricks after all.

I can say, with some justifiable pride, that relatively few of my students would have behaved in such a manner, and those that would have most likely would not have been wearing Varsity letterman jackets and sporting "I'm a Fuckin' Honors Student" bumper stickers. So maybe geography plays a part after all.

Either that, or radium levels in the water.

The Comprehensive Exam is Oh-vah!

I can't help feeling like something of a schmuck. There were two possibilities for me to answer, and only two of the works were even on the freaking test (one work per!). No cross-comparisons; no compare/contrast. Just "Give me the dirt on women in Frankenstein" and "So what's the big deal with the witches in Macbeth?"

Well, I chose the Frankenstein one, and managed to fill up an entire blue book (both sides of the pages, doublespaced) that, I think, more or less answered the question. My brain never really got above second gear, though (hardly a surprise to me, considering my mental drive in last year's exam), and as a result, I kept thinking that my answer, while covering all the bases, seemed overly simplistic. I mean, I wasn't even inserting Lacanism, or that much Freudianism. I wasn't introducing the concept of the gaze, I didn't address Foucault's theories, and I didn't even fucking mention the word "antidisestablishmentarianism," much less "textual instabilities." So what gives?

Well, I'll tell you what gives:

If I fail the test again, I have to take another 15 hours here at good ole NIU before I can take it a third time. So I'm thinking that, if I do fail (God forbid), I'm just going to have to go back to school anyway. I mean, it's a lit exam that I should be able to pass. If I can't, there's something wrong with teh repository of information I'm supposed to have shoved into this cranial crap-bin I call a brain. Last year, after the exam, I always figured that I'd substitute teach out here and study full-time if I failed, but then Discover Card called me and scheduled an ass-kicking appointment to remind me of my pecuniary obligations. So that didn't work out. Thus I wasn't able to put in the kind of hours I'd have liked to in studying for this test.

But the question was so simplistic, that if I don't pass, I'm just going to have to go back to the basics. What a shame: no more tardy forms, detentions and field trips through LP. I think my heart is breaking.

No, it's not. It's just that sirloin I had for lunch before the test. Mmm, sirloin.