Curator

Down familiar curves of the museum,
extinct footsteps echo from two galleries away.
Some days, our travertine floor
sings only for my wingtip shoes
as we waltz around your pedestal.

Your gypsum face won't smile,
but your lips touch softly as flesh.
The white folds of your dress, carved
onto your skin, may not change
with the seasons, but your beauty
is as rare as the day I met you.
You are my alabaster empress—
though you bend the hairs on my arms with sight,
I can feel you like a bird feels a shadow.

Surprising Disappointment

As a Tuesday surprise, I took my morning class a bag of Chips Ahoy Cookies. I thought the students could use a sugar rush before lunch to help them power through the grind of grammar.

The students sauntered into the room, and I greeted them with: "I have a surprise for you today. It's very special." They brightened with the unexpected news. The anticipation caused the students to take their seats quickly and murmur quietly.

I know. The surprise wasn't that good. In fact, I bought the cookies mostly because I like them, and I could eat the extras. But cookies are cookies, no?

As I was reaching into my briefcase for the crinkly, navy-powder blue bag of cookies, I heard one of my students say, "I know what the surprise is." Of course he couldn't know the surprise; Chips Ahoy Cookies are one of the most random things to pull out of a briefcase. But still, I postponed my unveiling to see if his guess was correct.

"The surprise is a Nerf Gun." The pod of boys clustered around him all started shouting with excitement. "Yeah!" "Sweet!" They started high-fiving each other. I was confused. Why would I buy a Nerf Gun for my students? But then again, Chips Ahoy cookies are no more logical for a grammar class.

I heard myself rasp, "Sorry," as I pulled gift from my bag. Most of the kids looked fairly excited, but the group of boys looked noticeably deflated. Their faces left the traces of their Nerf-gun smiles, but their eyes dulled with the revelation of cookies instead of weapons.

The class sat quietly eating their one-cookie ration. While crunching on my cookie, I too felt a bit deflated. Brushing the chocolate bits from my tie, I began to understand how my mother must have felt all those years ago when I shouted to open the big, green present under the Christmas tree. The present that I was sure held a Super Nintendo. The present I shook every day since it appeared under the tree. The present that turned out to be a desk chair.

Retail Trash

I am distressed and ashamed to report that fellow members of my society have been treating the world with intense selfishness and malignant apathy.

I'm not quite sure why, but people in retail stores are constantly leaving their food trash on the shelves. At first it was a simple Jamba Juice cup in Target. Then it was an annoying Target cup in Toys 'R Us. And then my rage boiled over with the free Coscto samples strewn about the warehouse.

Maybe this problem has been around my whole life. Maybe I'm just becoming more aware of the problem like a scab I've been picking at for the last few months, bleeding more with every aggravating scratch.

Retail stores have trash cans to use if we are sensitive enough to take a few seconds and search. And if there aren't trash bins in the store, the cashiers almost always have trash cans under their checkout lanes.

This retail littering is completely irresponsible. Leaving trash in the stores wrongfully assumes that it is the employees' job to clean up after the wanton disregard for cleanliness. When employees are forced to act as garbage collectors, time is taken away from their other, more important, customer-service duties.

I sympathize. It's easier to throw our trash on the ground than to find and touch a sticky waste receptacle. But it's also easier to steal what we want rather than to purchase. To use violence rather than forgiveness. Surrendering to our own selfish instincts leads to a breakdown in functional society. Part of living in the world of Targets and Costcos is sacrificing our own selfish needs for the betterment of the other retail shoppers.

Ordering a Chipotle Burrito...

is a bad time to woo a woman. After a particularly difficult Friday at work, I decided to treat myself to a Chipotle burrito for dinner. I walked the familiar four blocks to the Mexican Grill only to be surprised by a stunning new employee preparing the food.

I don't usually associate Mexican-food establishments with beautiful women, but, dear reader, believe me, she is beautiful.

It was her eyes; blue is not a color typically found in the metallic chromes and dusty maroons of Chipotle decor. She had enchantingly curly hair that most women pray for with curling irons and $50 bottles of hairspray. And I smelled the hint of white plums over the stench of carnitas fat and steamed tortillas.

I approached her ashamed that I chose to wear a white tank top and basketball shorts from the 1990s.

"Can I have a chicken fajita burrito, please?" She nodded her head and smiled. Her shiny pink lips curled into a crescent smile. She pulled a tortilla from the bag and flipped it into the steamer. She pressed down and waited.

This is my chance. I have 15, maybe 20, seconds to catch her attention.

I asked her, "How's your day going?" You'd be surprised how such a simple question receives such a friendly response from most women. Perhaps the non-sexually aggressive nature of the question is the root of its genius when trying to converse with women.

We chatted while my tortilla steamed. She laughed when I gently made a joke. She responded when I asked her 1st-date questions. Things were going well...

And then the burrito came between us.

"Can I have more sour cream than that?" Why would I ask such a question? All my planned smiles. All my carefully chosen words. All my effort and charm lost on a question that made me look prissy and picky and fat.

"Umm. Sure." She dolloped on another few ounces, but the tone noticeably changed. No more eye contact. No more playful tug-of-war. It may sound ridiculously fickle on her part, but all single people out there will confirm that a wrong word can mean the difference between affection and rejection.

She and I seemed to have a natural rapport. Any other place or time, things would have gone better. I love women. But I love big burritos too. I just wish I knew how to prioritize my desires.

Wallowing in my failure, I saved half my precious big burrito for Saturday night dinner.

The Odd Couple: Toilets and Mirrors

In a public restroom over the weekend, I noticed this toilet-level mirror reflecting back my full-body profile of me urinating.

Why have this four-foot mirror in the restroom? The typical vanity mirror was intact, so for what was this extra mirror?

Finishing up my "business," I started feeling like one of those criminals in the interrogation rooms at police stations. I felt like a gruff David Caruso was watching me through a one-way mirror. I felt like there was an extra person in the room watching me, scrutinizing my every action.

I'll admit that I was more concerned about my posture while using the toilet than my actual aim. Maybe that is why the bathroom floor was so yellowishly disgusting. Again, I'll admit I did nothing to help the situation.

It's like when you go to your friend's house, and the entire wall behind the toilet is one giant mirror. If you're a guy, it's hard to know where to look while you use the bathroom. You feel weird watching your genital area from a third-person perspective, but it's also weird to stare into your own eyes while you're peeing.

It seems obvious that mirrors in bathrooms need to be eye-level and not reflect anything below the bellybutton. Too much is at stake to place reflective surfaces haphazardly in such a sensitive location.

The Sting

Every week or so, my school administrators require a standardized vocabulary exam from each grade. These tests are basic, multiple choice synonym and antonym questions. Grading these tests is very empirical, and, often times, I don't even read the answers; I just make sure the appropriate bubble is darkened.

Today, I handed back one such vocabulary test. Excluding some aberrations, the students did very well. One such case was a girl who obviously forgot to complete the multi-paged test. Her 100% score was defaced into a 70% with her six unanswered questions haunting the last page.

When I handed the test back to this student, she was silent. She didn't even look at me. Perfection except for one non-academic mistake. Her eyes darkened. She pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead, and combed her hair with her fingers trying to massage the embarrassment and frustration away.

"It's okay. It's just one test." I wanted to tell her that I can't even remember my entire year of 8th grade. I wanted to tell her that one test, particularly this one stupid vocab test, meant nothing in the larger context of her life.

But she was unreachable in her own depression.

For the rest of the day, she left the test on her desk, open to the back page. She allowed the six blank questions to taunt her, and she stared right back into her self-proclaimed failure. It was masochistic.

It would be easy to say "life is easy" to an 8th grader. In hindsight, failed tests, unrequited love, and all the other milestones of middle school seem so juvenile and forgettable. But digging deeper, if we are truly honest with ourselves, we remember that the tears of our 8th grade youth were just as painful as the ones we shed now.

The scope of the past might be slightly more narrow, but the sting dulls only because we have deluded ourselves to trivialize the actual importance of 8th grade.

If a Hostess Cupcake Was a Woman...

If a Hostess Cupcake was a woman, she would be the financially poor girl you dated during college. She wasn't rich by conventional standards, but her inner sweetness, her inner white purity, attracted you.

The cupcakes you usually ate were the $5 cupcakes from specialty bakeries—circular, curvy, and decadent. The elegant cupcakes wore silky liners, strawberry powdered sugar makeup, and bodices of buttercream frosting.

But not the Hostess Cupcake. You met her in Target while shopping for sale items. She moved in smooth glides like the glazed frosting crowning her chocolate body. And even with her generous proportions and armload of clearance, Hostess products, she entranced you with her wildly spongy skin, dark brown complexion, and her sweet personality.

She didn't wear expensive cupcake liners like the "beautiful" women you usually dated. She was confident leave the house in clear plastic wrap. And when you took her home for the evening, you pulled apart her individually-wrapped dress and slid her out. You inhaled the milky-sweet scent of her dark brown hair, and you gently caressed the unmistakable swirled white frosting that looked like eight cursive "e's" all in a row.

You leaned in a for your first kiss right on the border of the cocoa frosting and the touchable cake. She accepted your advance, and when you pulled away, you saw the pocket of white, sweet personality you'd uncovered. In the blackness of dark chocolate lay a center of creamy-smooth personality.

You leaned in for another taste; dense chocolate and fragrant vanilla lips pressed against yours. She taught you that a cheap cupcake can give a rich kiss.

I Can't Believe It's Come to This

I've become obsessed with my dry-erase markers. At first it was a friendly relationship: I'd gently remember to locate my markers before class started. Now, knowing what I know, I burst in my classroom every morning and unsheathe my markers to take solace in pointy tips and dark ink.

These markers are a commodity at my school. All classrooms have white boards, so a dark-writing marker is more valuable than knowledge itself; I can't hypnotize my students with rhetoric or grammar. No. I need the dark envy of the green marker and the rage of the red marker.

The school provides markers, as they should, but they ration them like we're in a war zone. One new marker a week seems reasonable, but with multiple class periods and grammar lessons running coast to coast on my boards, a pen lasts only about 3 days.

So I made some sacrifices. On Monday, I spent some of my own money to buy an economy pack from Target. I hit the motherload. No more black, red, and green. I got seductive magenta and filthy brown and citrus orange.

And let me tell you, Tuesday's classes were vibrant. I was underlining complete predicates with magenta and writing subordinates in orange. The board looked like a bag of Skittles.

But of course, great success with my pens bred enemies. On Wednesday, I returned to my room from making copies to find that my citrus boardfellow was missing. "I probably just dropped it," I rationalized. I didn't want to suspect my neighboring teachers; suspicion only breeds hatred. By the end of the day, though, there was only one place left to look: Room 13, Ms. Johnson's room.

"Hi, Judo. How was your day?" I exchanged pleasantries while examining the room. And then, I saw the incriminating evidence: Homework: Write 1 page on Montezuma written in my stolen Sunkist shade.

Battlestations.

I stole my pen back when she wasn't looking. Wait. Is it stealing if it's mine?

I hid all my pens behind some books on my shelf, but all Wednesday night I imagined some curmudgeon absconding with my prized pens in the night. I can't believe it's come to this. I'm one of those guys that has actual mini-psychological freak-outs about his pens.

It's not that the pens are expensive. It's not about money anymore. It's about honor. If Ms. Johnson wants to pilfer from me, she's going to face the ramifications. And I'm not talking about the Principal; I'm talking about wartime conditions. I'm talking about grenades of loudness exploding through our shared wall. I'm talking about snipers of insults during staff meetings. I'm a general leading my infantry against her troops in a battle of standardized test scores.

I'm talking about warfare at the middle school.

Genuine Sports

With all the negativity in recent sporting events, I was excited to see a sensitive event on Sportscenter.

I found it genuinely refreshing to witness such a sweet and noble act. The father catches a difficult foul ball and, in his celebration, gives his trophy to his daughter, no more than two years old. Not quite understanding the weight of the situation, the girl throws the ball away.

The father's reaction is amazingly priceless. He is shocked, maybe even disappointed in losing the keepsake, but his unconditional love for his daughter outlasts any material loss. He cradles his daughter in his arms, the palms of his hands larger than her head, and cherishes the moment together.

I'm not going to hyperbolize and title this man "The Greatest Father Ever" because millions of fathers out there would do the exact same thing: find unending joy in a daughter's innocence.

But I would say this is very noteworthy because this girl is incredibly lucky. In a few years, when she is more aware of life and the context of fatherhood and baseball, she will be able to relive this event cognizant of her father's genuine affection. I'm sure my father has, many times in his life, shown such unwavering love...but I have no such chronicle of his paternal care.

What a lovely day to be a little girl loved by her baseball-fan father.

Celebrity Outbursts

Serena Williams threatening a lineswoman. Kanye West disrupting a ceremony. Roger Federer using profanity on live television. These last few days have been tumultuous for celebrities.

In reaction to these public displays of rudeness and boorishness, there have been numerous claims that the end of civility is neigh.

They are celebrities, and their skills have placed them in a position to reach millions of people as role models. But are we too quick to judge?

The controversial Serena Williams foot fault lead to a very public emotional frenzy. I've read and listened to countless reports about how she, as the icon of Women's Tennis, must compose herself with more dignity regardless of the situation.

To me, that reaction is too simple.

Of course I am a champion of public sincerity, but can we not allow a person one mistake? Especially when 1.6 million dollars are on the line? Dig deep, readers. How much control would you have if someone unilaterally prohibited you from 1.6 million? I would be pretty upset, to say the least.

One could retort by saying Williams does not need the money, and thus, her outburst was rooted in childishness. But that just proves my point further: Williams's outburst came not from the loss of 1.6 million, which most would consider to be the impetus for any irrational behavior, but something larger, the priceless prestige of a Slam Title. While I do not condone her actions, I certainly understand and can forgive with appropriate penalty.

Like Serena, Kanye West is facing massively hostile public opinion. In his recent upstaging of Taylor Swift, people have branded Kanye West as the executioner of civility. West stole the microphone during Swift's acceptance speech and promoted Beyonce, one Swift's competitors. This is wholly uncalled for...in action, but not in message.

Much like the Serena incident, I can sympathize. After watching both videos, I find that Beyonce has a superior video (although it is not, as West claimed, "one of the greatest videos of all time") to Swift. West had a very valid point. His delivery method simply drowned his message.

The next day, Kanye West appeared on the Jay Leno Show and was visibly emotional and remorseful, verging on the cusp of tears. His regret is genuine, from what I can tell, and, again like the Serena incident, deserves forgiveness once the situation has been rectified through genuine apology.

Williams, West, and Federer should be punished, but we, as fans and followers of their celebrity, should forgive them for such outbursts. In fact, I wouldn't even call them "outbursts"; if they were like us—actually they are—those actions would just be a Tuesday night.

Are we as society members so hypocritical that we cannot see some of ourselves in their vulnerability? Are we so elitist that we can instantly turn our noses down at a celebrity if they make a mistake? Are we so eager to boost our own anemic egos by eroding their celebrated accomplishments?

Let's be civil. Let's forgive.

Lanai

Often, it is the most deserving people who cannot help loving those who destroy them.
—Hermann Hesse—

The wind's hibiscus fingers reached through
the open sliding door and smoothed my hair
with dreams of coral glass and chocolate nuts.
I rolled into the gift the charmed lanai
delivered. Calming hums of pineapple
lullabies asked me to stay in paradise.

I feigned sleep as if my departure
eased with torrents of drowning denial.

The misted midnight air knew my secret
but wished me honeyed peaceful sleep despite
my lie and despite our sinking concord.
The curled Hawaiian draft draped its bent leg
atop mine and gently lowered itself
into the sweat-syruped cradle of my arms.

The thought of leaving made the subtle breeze
of island balm decay in gales of ruin.

Back home, the chills of dreamless slumber beckoned
the breeze once more for humid kisses—wet
against the marooned contours of my back.

09.09.09

I felt left out of the celebration. Amid the spectacle of this triple 9 date, I was painfully ordinary. I didn't do anything "nine-oriented."

I read a news story about couples to be married at the 99¢ Store with nine guests in attendance. Tim Burton released a movie today entitled "9." And even Sportscenter on ESPN did a "Top 9 Best Plays by Players Wearing the Number 9." The Beatles also understand the magnitude of this date. Not only did the "Beatles: Rock Band" release, but a number of remastered albums hit store shelves today.

Desperately trying to participate in this non-holiday, I thought about going to restaurant and ordering a meal for $9.99 and tipping $9.99, but frugality overtook me. I thought about running nine miles, but I was too tired from work.

I felt a little sad, almost like it was unpatriotic not to appreciate this date. But I guess today is just a regular Wednesday. If people love 09.09.09, what will they do next year on October 10th? Or how about November 11th in two years? Is today really that special? Maybe I'm contributing to the problem by blogging about it, or maybe I'm just jealous I didn't have a special 09.09.09 shirt like one of my students.

Dear reader, how did you celebrate today?

Getting a Speeding Ticket...

is a bad time to woo a woman.

I was on a first date with a gal. First dates are one of those rare times where the intense feelings of nervousness and anxiety must be channeled into abnormal amounts of charm and smoothness. Girls assume guys will be on their best behavior on a first date. So if a guy uses a salad fork at the wrong time or uses a tiny swear word in casual dialogue, the girl assumes he is irreparably boorish and foul-mouthed. Romantic first impressions are everything.

We were driving up 101 heading to the restaurant. I was multitasking in the car: trying to wipe my sweaty palms on my pants, looking suave while driving, keeping the radio on songs that show my taste in music, and engaging her in stimulating conversation.

And then, flickering blue and red light flooded the cabin of my car.

"God dammit. Crappy popo." Oops. First date. Ah well, she'll understand.

The officer strolled up to my window. "You know what you did wrong back there?" It was like a human talking to a dog.

"Yeah. Speeding." Just give me my ticket and let me go. Of all the bad times to be emasculated and toyed with. I have a first date riding shotgun, and she gets to see me dominated by another man.

He was a tall CHP officer. I wished he was one of those fat officers, so at least I would look physically fit in comparison. But of course he was buff. Tall. Sunglasses. Giant man hands.

"Caught you doing 75." Really? That's actually not that fast considering my mind was more on her legs than the road.

He moved in closer to take my license and registration. His crotch was right on my nose. He was so close, I could smell his zipper. It was like my first day in prison, and he was my cellmate. What a charming image for my lovely date, who by now was noticing the tears of anger and regret filling the corners of my eyes.

After he had his way with me, he condescendingly tapped his palm on the roof of my car and said, "Try driving more slow, sir." More slowly, dumbass.

I felt a conquered "Yes, sir" leak through the gaps of my teeth clenched by hatred.

I pulled back into traffic, ears flushed red with rage and frustration. Silk shirt tie-dyed with sweat. "God dammit," I muttered. Then I remembered I had elegant company in the car.

I turned to her. "Sorry. I just hate cops."

"My dad's a cop." Of course he is.

Guess how Saturday night dinner went.

A Real Life Peep

I was out shopping today, and I spotted this tiny bird sitting on the edge of a parking-lot median. It's hard to tell from the picture, but half its body was hanging off the ledge naturally condensing the chest feathers into its pectoral region. Because of this unusual posture, this bird looked just like a Peep.

It's strange, almost meta, that the abstract design of the marshmallow Peep was actually emulated by a real life bird. Maybe this isn't a big deal to someone who spends more time with birds and their reclining postures. But for me, a city boy, I can easily say this was the highlight of my weekend...and it's not even Labor Day yet.

Punishable Kiss

I usually eat lunch outside on a picnic table designed for children. My knees press into the bottom of the table, and I hunch over my sandwich so far that I can see my fly.

But today was different. One of the first-grade teachers asked me to watch her class while she ran a quick errand. Why not? I can watch some six-year-old kids while I jam on my lunch. "I'll be back in 30 minutes," the first-grade teacher said walking out. "Make sure they don't stand up. That's a rule in my classroom: no getting up without permission. If they do, it's a timeout in the Corner," she called over her shoulder.

I capitalized "Corner" because there actually is a "Time-Out Corner" labeled with a laminated placard and sad face.

While pontificating the somewhat tribal act of eating lunch in a school setting, I noticed tiny Jane in the third row. In a class primarily of Indian kids, her baby-blue eyes stood out. Where most of the other girls' hair blended with their black uniforms, tiny Jane's platinum blond hair streaked across her jumper.

Jane was slowly unwrapping her Hostess Cupcake. She meticulously slid the cupcake out of the wrapping taking extra care not to scrape any frosting on the bag. She sacredly held the cupcake in her left hand, and with her right, she smoothed out the wrapper to make a tablecloth, of sorts, for her dessert. She placed her cupcake on the plastic doily and reached for her juice.

And that's when it happened.

Her elbow grazed the edge of the cupcake, and the wonderful Hostess treat, smooth frosting and all, fell into the squalor below.

I saw her tears even before they welled up in her eyes. Jane's tears were not for attention; they were a reaction to true sadness. Her face tightened as if spider legs were attacking her perfect blue eyes.

I started walking over to comfort her, but another boy beat me to it. An equally tiny Iqbal broke the cardinal rule of the classroom in order to get out of his seat and approach Jane. He tiled his head to the side, and he gave Jane a kiss on the cheek.

As if a crying girl in wasn't bad enough, now a puny James Bond thought he could accost any girl he wanted?

I inhaled, ready to release a booming chastisement at Iqbal. I loaded my arsenal of rhetoric: How could you get out of your seat? Don't you know the rules? Get to the Corner! But Jane's childish smile safetied my trigger. Iqbal actually made her happy. In the wake of the destroyed cupcake, a very random kiss stopped the tears.

Both Iqbal and Jane knew the magnitude of a kiss, so it wasn't easy to ignore this act. This was intentional. There was something so purposeful and pure about the moment.

The kiss was untainted by the typical social contexts and gravitas. A kiss not to court or to show romance. A kiss extended as a simple offering of friendship and comfort. Nothing more. No strings. No guilt. No wondering about relationships or the future. How could I punish something so charming?

I left work today feeling happy...and not because it was Friday.

If Skin-Tight, Orange, Metro Pants Were a Woman...

If skin-tight, orange, metrosexual pants were a woman, she would be that girl from high school who was so gorgeously out of your league. She walked around campus like she was too good for you...because honestly, she was. She was untouchable, like those shiny mannequins wearing those orange pants in the store window, coquettishly mocking you with unattainable "come hither" glances.

You saw her studying under a tree. You thought you'd go sit next to her and strike up a conversation. Then, after an adequate period of time, you'd become friends—maybe more. But then you remembered she was too far out of your league. It was the same sinking realization that H&M didn't make metrosexual, orange pants in a 36/30. Besides, tight pant seams transecting a gigantic mushy posterior would be wholly unattractive.

But still, you thought about going up to her, telling her you thought her beautiful and interesting. But then you remembered that annoyed glances from stunning women hurt more than leg compressions from pants with a crotch that forces your junk down the left pant leg.

No. You stayed away from her. Better leave the suffocatingly pretty women to the star athletes, and better leave the tight, orange pants to the men for whom "butt-crunching" is a verb.

Leaving high school, you knew her class schedule, the page numbers of her yearbook appearances, even the license-plate number on her orange Mustang. But you didn't know the timbre of her voice, how she took her coffee, or if her hair smelt of cherries or peaches. Leaving the store, you could only imagine how ridiculous—and ridiculously sexy—you'd look with a pair of orange tights pasted to your thighs. So you departed without knowing what it felt like to have either one of them touch your legs.