Bye, Murphy

Although he was a member of our family for only a month, the loss of a new friend pulses as raw as the loss of an old one.

My mom formally adopted Murphy just one month ago. In his new Sacramento home, he spent the first week cloistered under the bed in the guest room. I remember crouching on my hands and knees, head pressed against the carpet, coaxing Murphy out into the open. Over time though, it was my mother's affections and gentle voice that conquered Murphy's agoraphobia.

It was here, once Murphy regained his personality, that sweetness and charm bloomed. Like a gregarious puppy, Murphy asked his new family members for belly rubs. He would stretch out, arching his back, emulating the crescent moon. We would stroke his underside white fur, and Murphy would thank us with purring as consistent as heartbeats. And though animals seem more adorable to their owners' egos, I swear Murphy's heart-shaped nose was no mirage of my adoration.

Pets bind to our souls. They honor and cherish the mundane naps and impromptu walks. They depend on us, not as slaves, but as friends who trust unconditionally. Our rage, our tears, our weakness are neither judged nor exploited; they love us simply, without pride.

As the vet pushed the cocktail of euthanasia, I dreamed of all the possible futures, and none of them ended quite like this.

To the skies...

Homage to Michael Jackson: Jason Derulo's "In My Head"

Jason Derulo's "In My Head" is a typical pop song with predictable pitch-perfect auto tuning, bridges nestled in cookie-cutter verses, and anemic lyrics about unintentionally sexist intercourse.

But despite all this, there is one aspect that makes the song more than a repetitive echo in the Top 40 charts: The "In My Head" music video, di­rect­ed by Kai Craw­ford, is a purposeful and elegant homage to Michael Jackson's "The Way You Make Me Feel" directed by Joe Pytka. Though Derulo's lyrics have little connection to Jackson's 1987 classic, the music video is a subtle, almost masterful, update to Jackson's wooing dance tune.

At the heart of both videos, a male character engages in flirtations, dancing, and flirtatious dancing. Though Derulo doesn't solely imitate Jackson's dance moves, the specific cinematics of those dance moves are similarly silhouetted. Derulo's video goes even further to introduce a blue hue to the screen in a similar style as Jackson's dramatic final dance number.

Derulo goes beyond simple imitation though. One criticism of Jackson's "They Way You Make Me Feel" is negative portrayal of the loitering and fraternizing aspects of male society. Jackson's video, in a misogynistic fashion, isolates the female object of affection (Tatiana Thumbzen) in an accosting manner. Jackson chases her around the streets, simulates sex (or rape), but still manages to win her over.

Derulo's video, perhaps trying to avoid this distasteful perception, updates this idea by providing his female character supportive friends from the start of the video. Also, the female lead in "In My Head" clearly enjoys Derulo's advances from the start, while Thumbzen seemed actually to fear Jackson up until the end of the 1987 video.

Though there is an obvious imitation, great steps have been taken to push forward while acknowledging Michael Jackson's groundbreaking, although sometimes controversial, music video style. Filmed in late 2009, still in the wake of Jackson's death, Derulo's eulogy is more than imitation, more than wearing a blue hoodie instead of a blue buttoned-down shirt. The "In My Head" video takes the grandeur of 1987 and rebuilds it in 2010.

Vows to My Wife

I think of you and see your subtleties.
Your laugh at "taco hugs," my dancing shows.
Your often overlooked ability
To listen to my shouted anecdotes.

And from these small affections choices rose:
To live in San Jose, to dream as one.
To know our passing summer days unfold
In winter's basket, each delight in turn.

And every night, when sleep has caught your eye,
I come inside and whisper sweetest dreams:
"That though I've held another's hand, your smile,
Forever trust, is all of which I dream."

These words, tattooed by faith, are promises:
The greatest day of life has yet to come.

Infanticide

With hundreds of students bringing in six periods worth of other class materials, I feel somewhat isolated in the English building. I see enigmatic Chemistry books under their arms and esoteric History books peering out of unzipped backpacks. Earlier today, in a vain attempt to feel connected, I read the cover of a student's math book and said, “What's 'cal-KOO-luss'?” She was more confused than amused.

The grass is always greener...On my side of the fence, King Zeus and Kobo Abe sulk with me as wonderful experiments, exciting projects, and intriguing homework from other classes parade around, flaunting their grandiose mystery.

And the Grand Marshall of the parade, the most educational and most entertaining project, the Flour Child. High-school students are asked to be “simulated parents” by carrying around a sack of flour everywhere they go. The Life Skills teacher at my school took it step further by having the students put faces on their flour sacks.

Some keep their flour sack in their lap all period. Some coddle their faux offspring. Some even made clothes for their simulated child. The simulated parents are passionate parents. With their general apathy for my forced English assignments, seeing their enthusiasm birthed a faith in me that students do have fortitude and “stick-to-it-ness.”

I've grown so accustomed to the flour children that I, too, have now started to personify them. I know Julia has a “child” named Pearl. I know Ivan had his “son's” ear pierced. Though I sometimes lose hope in my students desire for their own education, I've put my deepest trusts in the flour children to teach ultimate responsibility, honesty, and mental toughness. In that way, maybe the simulated parent assignment was more important for me than for the students.

But to my horror, this morning I stumbled upon the scene of the crime. A tiny child brutally torn open by the blunt force trauma of a shoe tip. Smooth baby flesh could not repel the rage and irresponsibility of a failed parent.

The murder fled the scene, leaving the gutted carcass behind. The callous parent tracked sneaker grooves unceremoniously through the white powder during their cowardly escape. Still smiling, the infant looked up at me. Love for one's child or education was not universal. My childish belief curb stomped to death: students cared no more for this beautiful project than they did for any of my sterile essays.

Halo Reach ID

I just wanted to buy Halo Reach. That's all.

All weekend, I planned on purchasing the new Xbox 360 game during my Tuesday lunch break. This would allow me to go home directly after work and avoid the brutal rush-hour traffic around my local Best Buy. I put my "Happy Birthday from Best Buy" gift card in the top drawer of my desk at work. With a $100 balance on the card, the only thing standing between me and Master Chief was 4th period.

The second hand moved with the speed of melting ice on a cool day. Though I usually appreciate student comments, today, minutes from Halo Reach, their inanity grated my patience. I kept glancing back at the top drawer of my desk, imagining the moment when I could fondle the plastic gift card and slide it into the cashier's scanner. So eager for the climax of my day, I held the card in my hand five minutes
before class even ended.

And when the bell finally released me, I shooed the children from their chairs as if the room was on fire. I power walked to my car and almost vehicular-manslaughtered the janitor as I cut through the lines of the parking lot. Down the street, the deep blue of the Best Buy sign taunted me like the ocean taunting a captive goldfish.

In the moment of sweet release, I got into the Customer Service line, stacks of Halo Reach a mere three feet away. "Next in line," never sounded so beautiful. I slammed my pre-order receipt on the counter and said, "One standard Halo Reach please." The female cashier mockingly smirked at my nerdy bravado. I didn't care; I could taste firefight and forge modes, Spartans and Elites.

"Can I see your ID?"

In my feverish haste, I sped to Best Buy without my driver's license on my person. I had no form of identification to purchase the "Mature" rated title with realistic blood and gore. I pleaded with her, showing her my car keys and necktie: "Would someone under 18 be wearing this in the middle of the day?" My fingers grew wet with frustration. Sweat bled onto my gift card. It was no use: the tiny girl would not budge for my logic. I walked back to my car knowing I wouldn't have time to return until after school, when traffic would ensnare me.

Some people like getting carded. In their folksy voices, I hear crinkled women say, "Oh, I take it as a compliment!" People can only be happy when they don't have something at stake. Or maybe old women just don't care about alcohol or video games.

Chalkboards vs. Whiteboards

I was spoiled by the whiteboards at the affluent private school last year. My chisel-tipped Expo pens glided across the boards like a sharpened knife through a peeled banana. Though there was some expense in buying those pens, they were consistent for me: the ink flowed abundant or it didn't. I found comfort in the efficiency of that binary.

But the chalk boards on the East Side are a breeding ground for debauchery. The frail sticks of chalk irrationally break mid-sentence. The pieces roll into the corners of the room, forcing me to bend over and expose my unflattering angles. The friction between pasty chalk and mealy board sends tremors through my whole body. I write the word "warmth" on the board, yet I quiver from an involuntary orgasm induced by chills.

When erasing them, the boards become stubborn palimpsests, unwilling to relinquish the past. I stand in a blizzard of chalk, blinded by shards of diamond dust irritating my eyes. Turning away, my students bluntly state, "You have chalk all over your pants." I look down. White, faded hand prints cover my black slacks. It's as if a phantom fondled me from my blind side, leaving behind a whisper of the one-sided romance we shared.

I cannot have these moments of weakness; I have a fiancée to think about.

I love you, Pop Tarts

Pop Tarts make me smile. For me, the toaster oven in my apartment exists only to warm my crispy, sweet pastries. I don't use a spatula to buffer my relationship to my Pop Tart; I coax it from the still-red toaster oven like a mother holding her newborn for the first time. I gently pass the rectangular treat from hand to hand so the darkened corners of the pastry don't burn my fingers.

And then there's the first bite. My front teeth pierce three layers of euphoria: sugary white frosting, puffy warm pastry, and the gooey fruity filling. My mouth combines the three striated layers, and I french kiss the grooves of my molars filled with a fruit-frosting-pastry symphony.

Some of my skeptical friends criticize my choice to consume Pop Tarts regularly. “Those are for little kids!” “Those are so bad for you.” “You're an adult; why don't you just cook food for yourself?” Excuse me, did I hear you right? Make my own Pop Tarts? That's like asking someone to make a Unicorn.

For me, Pop Tarts are perfection. Pop Tarts are the well-rounded toaster treat. The frosting isn't overly gooey. They don't need to be refrigerated. Sure, there are other cheaper, more delicious, or better-for-you pastries. But Pop Tarts and I are in it for the long haul. Pop Tarts and I have an equal relationship: they taste great, and I return the favor by eating them.

I love you, Pop Tarts.

Calypso Footwear

The white borders encroached farther down like an invading army from the north: About half my nail was jolted loose from my big, left toe.

I wear my Reef sandals lovingly. Even in the cold blasts of winter, I dedicate myself to my flip flops. They give accessible, sock-less comfort, and I give them four-season usage. And when summer breaks free, my sandals and I are inseparable. The tan lines, where my Reefs gently caressed my feet, demarcate the space between my darkened flesh and virgin skin. I am Odysseus; they are Calypso. We make love on island beaches while all responsibilities are far, far away.

But today, in the glowing honeymoon of sunshine, my commuter bus broke down. With only 15 minutes before class, I decided to run the last mile to campus. This was the moment our footwear/wearer relationship was tested.

Through the urban corridors of Downtown, my flip flops pounded over gutter trash and stagnant garbage water. My open-toed footwear, in unfamiliar territory, couldn't protect my feet from the grime and filth. With my briefcase unevenly chopping my running stride, I contorted my feet into eagle claws preciously gripping my backless sandals onto my feet.

In mere moments, it became clear, though. We were not made to run together. The final realization came when I bashed my unprotected toe on the curb. The concrete separated my foot from my footwear, ripping foam and flesh.

My Calypso flip flops love me casually. Going to the beach, going to the market—those are the lustful trysts captured so vibrantly in my fantasies. But in the real moments of life, away from frivolities, I can only run with functional, loyal, Penelope-like shoes. And, looking down at whiteness of my toenail, I see Calypso is a dangerous temptress: she hides her jealousy for Penelope behind a veil of comfortable beauty.

Happy Birthday, America

I can tell it's the Fourth without looking at the calendar. The smell of bbq traipsing over summer green lawns. Plywood bunkers selling Roman Candles in a dusty field. And of course, hot dog buns on display in the Safeway parking lot.

To be honest, I really like America's birthday. Sure, I'm not David McCullough, and I don't even like going on picnics. But, I celebrate the Fourth the only way I know how: I sit at home and eat popsicles watching Seinfeld reruns...not as a British subject.

But of course, some fool had to go and mess it up. A man grilling on his back patio set off the sprinkler system in my building. The annoyingly loud, putting-fireworks-to-shame siren blared in my building for 2 hours. I was forced to eat my Big Stick on a park bench.

I'm not a manly bbq chef like Bobby Flay, but at least I understand my shortcoming. I don't douse my charcoal in lighter fluid, and I certainly don't ruin my neighbors holiday weekend by forcing them out of their homes.

Watching my neighbors evacuate the building, I counted 38 people. That's 38 people's prime relaxation hours destroyed by one man's bbq ego. Making matters worse, the unapologetic buffoon came outside in a tacky red, white, and blue apron.

I love the Fourth, but American flags are not pants. The date on the calendar doesn't automatically make people good outdoor cooks. And mylar balloons are not meant to be eagle-shaped. Come on people; let's give America a tasteful birthday without fire-related accidents.

Pee-Free Bags

I haven't frequented the Ladies' room enough to draw any meaningful conclusions, but Men's bathroom floors are disgusting.

There are pee drippings all around the urinals. I almost wish my shoes didn't have grooves in the bottoms as I imagine the pee seeping into the rubber crevices waiting to be absorbed onto my foyer carpet. But then again, without the grooves, I'd be more likely to slip in the piss and take a knee in the yellow flood.

And because we men don't use the sit-down toilet as much, I often think we haven't developed the appropriate public throne etiquette. I see streaked seat protectors half flushed down the toilet. I see used toilet paper thrown on the ground.

So I get it: the floors are nasty as hell. But what is the solution when we have shopping bags, and we have to use the facilities? I usually just bite the bullet and try to find some dry spot in the bathroom, far away from the toilet, usually near the sinks.

But in a Southern California mall a few weeks ago, I saw a man putting his newly purchased clothing items on the diaper changing station. Is that actually better than putting it on the floor? The diaper changing station is a table designed to contain poop and pee pee within its borders. And not just any poop, but rampant, baby feces. I mean, the bathroom floor may or may not have poop on it, but the baby table definitely does have poop on it: that's its job.

As I carefully snapped a picture, I imagined an East-LA gangster getting the wrong idea as I snapped a photo in the bathroom.

Where are we supposed to put our bags? I propose a system of elaborate hooks in the entryway of public restrooms, and Satan will have a special place for those who choose to pilfer the bathroom bags from their sacred, poo-free hooks.

I'll Do It. I'll Hit an Old Man.

What is with the old people in class? You know who I'm talking about: the 55+ student in your undergrad or graduate classes that just won't stop talking. No matter what the subject area, the old guy pounces into action with some useless comment about their own life experiences.

I have news for you geriatric, aspiring student: no one cares.

I've recently gone back to school, and maybe my patience is lower, or maybe I'm just a jerk, but the old guys always respond with, "Well, that's not always true." Then they traipse down some stream-of-consciousness labyrinth talking about their dead wives and their daughters in law; I wouldn't be able to follow their logic even if I had a flashlight and a bag of breadcrumbs.

Half the time, these oldie students come out of their 2-minute anecdotes looking surprised, like how my Grandpa used to look when I woke him from his naps. How'd I get here? What does my comment have to do with teaching pedagogies in secondary education? News flash old man: no one knows.

And unfortunately, the professors are brilliant, but polite; they let the old students go off on their tangents as if it will spark some kind of classroom discussion.

No one should interrupt the lunatic old man feeding the pigeons in the park. That nostaglic sparkle in his eye while he is talking about his favorite dog is priceless, and who is he really hurting by talking about Buster the beagle? The problem with the elderly in the classroom is that they are only about 25% senile: sane enough to type in an add code but crazy enough to make me regret the rising tuition costs.

I don't know how much of them I can handle. Don't get me wrong, I love old people; I just hate it when they hobble into my academic world. It's getting to the point where I'm prepping my knuckles for the backhand. Seriously, my classes cost money, and I want to hear the PhD recipient not the senior citizen.

The First, Last Day of School

As long as one is not getting fired or laid off, the last day of work is supposed to be empowering because few things give the all-around satisfaction of quitting a job and moving on to bigger and better things.

I remember quitting my first in corporate America. I walked into my boss's office knowing, for once, I held the trump card. "I'd like to give my 2 weeks notice." It felt like unlocking my own prison cell from within. The useless projects and unending meetings dissolved away. "Well, I'm going to need it in writing," my boss replied, still trying to dominate me. But it didn't work; I slapped down my letter of resignation like a Draw Four card in Uno. I didn't care about burning bridges.

But on Friday, the last day of my first teaching job, I found myself trying build bridges with my now-former boss. The principal and I hugged; surprisingly, it was a real hug, one where our chests actually touched a little bit.

And, oh, the students. They smiled, imbibed with summer ecstasy, but I could only look at them in a eulogistic fashion. Though they are still alive, it felt almost like a funeral because I would never see them again in the same context. The "academic year 2009-2010" versions of themselves died last Friday. I snapped pictures and inhaled the sadness of the moment; is this what birds feel like when the fledglings take off for better pursuits?

What's Up in Aisle 12?

Oreo Cakester? If I'm looking for a subtle chocolate flavor flanked by wonderfully fluffy cream, I'm going to buy an Oreo. Perhaps I should be more specific: I'm going to buy a REAL Oreo.

Listen here. I'm from the street, and I eat my Oreos the right way, with milk and NOT in cake form. I might dig on some Oreo ice cream or maybe even an Oreo mini, but why would I bastardize my sweet, sweet sandwich cookie perfection by turning it into a charlatan "cakester."

Dear Nabisco: stick to the cookie. If I wanted shitty chocolate sponginess, I'd just buy some Pillsbury cake mix. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH! I just said that!


















Buy 8 or more and get a $0.50 discount on ice cream? Seriously? Safeway is basically telling us: you can save $2 if you stuff your fat asses with 15,000 heart-stopping calories of Neopolitan. I have news for you Safeway, I can't be a member the Safeway Club if I'm dead.


















It felt like a peach and smelled like a peach, so why the hell did it look like Saturn? And this wasn't some strange retarded peach; the whole basket looked squatty and deformed.

And oh my goodness, what are these Fruitty-Pebble sized oranges in my supermarket? I asked the grocer "What's this?" and held up the perplexing miniature. "Hmmm. I forget what it's called. It's like, a small orange."

So helpful.

Best Friends

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You've Screwed Me Again, DST

Daylight Savings Time and I have a love/hate relationship. She's prissy and flaky, always changing the time of sunrise and sunset; I'm grouchy and inflexible, always wanting my daylight consistent.

In theory, though, I love Daylight Savings. I can play basketball with my friends later, and studies generally agree that there is less crime and fewer traffic accidents. Plus, DST means that the perfume of spring has finally put a sleeper hold on the chills of winter. We're that pathetic couple who can never break up because the sex is too good.

But all practical reasons aside, DST is like any other woman: devious.

Back in April, when Spring Forward was still new to 2010, I was having a drink with a friend after work. We met up around 6 when, and thanks to DST, the sky was still "afternoon bright." Time passed quickly as we sat sipping our beverages and laughing. And because our conversation was so engrossing, I didn't mentally recalibrate my mind that "twilight" equaled 9 pm.

Losing track of time, and DST being a harpy of timekeeping, I arrived at home to my dog shamefully apologizing for dropping a bomb on my bed. And like any other woman, DST laughed at my having to wash poop off my white duvet.

DST is a beauty, but every end of March/beginning of April, it's like I'm on a business trip to the East Coast. I love the summer warmth of 8 o'clock at night, but I always feel slightly restless knowing that sunset is that much closer to midnight.

Tyrannosaurus Cookie

At first, I just assumed the outline on the display was misprinted. But then I found tyranno after tyranno with the weird proportions and confusing appendages.

Is that his jaw? His arm? And what about the larger protuberance near his other leg? I am so confused. And of course, the Sur La Table sales person thought I was being a jerk when I asked, "Can you describe this cookie cutter to me?"

Maybe a baker with frosting and imagination could salvage the basic shape into something recognizable. But for me, laymen baker, this tyrannosaurus cookie is simply strange.

What a shame. The king of the dinosaurs deserves much better cookie representation.

Airport Driver

While at the airport, I saw this well-to-do gentleman with his sign. He cradled it in one arm and patiently presented himself towards the escalators leading from the terminal.

I watched him for a moment or two. He never shuffled his feet or fidgeted his hands, and the only time he checked his watch was to make sure his client wasn't going to miss their appointment. Stoic and classy to the end.

I hope that one day, I'm important enough to necessitate a driver. Nothing will ever replace the smile of a friend or loved one at the baggage claim. That after hours confined in a pressurized tube, someone is waiting just for you, waiting just to give you a hug and talk to you even though your breath stinks from the nap on the plane.

But the next best thing would be an airport driver, a hired friend. I imagine it would be quite thrilling to walk around the corner of a foreign city and see my own name in bold Sharpie writing. I imagine the driver taking my carry-on bag and providing witty banter to pass the interminable wait for my checked luggage. In the lonely cities of the business trips, the airport driver would be the welcome party, the guide, and the friend.

Yes, if an old friend can't greet me, a salutational handshake with a driver would be the next best thing.

Dead Frogs

I'm not exactly sure why, but there is a box of dead frogs in my classroom. In my storage cabinet, on the shelf just below the American-Literature anthologies rests a cardboard coffin holding 10 plastic-wrapped frogs.

"We think the students will be too excited and eager to see the frogs, so we thought it best to hide the frogs until Friday, the day of the dissection." Of course. That sounds logical: Hide the formaldehyde pickled frogs in my Literature cabinets.

I stood outside my cabinets, imagining the frogs belly up with "X" marks instead of eyes. I had to look at them. There was some force compelling me to look at the corpses. Even though I knew it would be unpleasant, I pushed forward, opened the cabinet, and removed the Fedex frog box.

I unfolded the cardboard flaps and peered in over the edge. My body was tense, preparing for a possible strike from a zombie frog breaking for freedom.

But there was no escape attempt: just speckled frogs vacuum packed and stiff from latex injected into the veins. I got close to one of the frog's faces. The lids were closed over the dehydrated pebble-sized eyes, and his head seemed flatter than I thought it would be.

I feared the idea of the dead frogs at first. But sharing a moment with them, alone in my classroom, I felt somewhat like an accessory to murder. Though their blood was replaced with chemicals, and their lives probably taken months ago, the dissection seemed more like an execution.

My cabinet feels like death row.

I Hate Protractors

I'm not a math fellow, but I think even math teachers will agree with me that protractors are ridiculous. They are useless!

Now before all you SOHCAHTOA lovers write me hate mail, let me clarify that I know protractors are immensely useful in real world situations like architecture and astronomy...but in middle school?

Protractors are just weirdly shaped. They don't really fit in pencil boxes and they end up cluttering backpack pouches. Seriously, who has a semicircular slot just for their protractor?

And though I haven't verified this with one of my math teacher colleagues, I'm fairly certain protractors are only used for, at most, half a textbook math chapter, hardly necessitating a specific tool for angle drawing. I graduated 8th grade: I don't remember using my protractor for anything academic related.

Through this school year, I've had to confiscate over five protractors. Boys are using them as fake brass knuckles. Girls are using the raised tick marks to file their nails. Aspiring circus folk are spinning them on their pencils.

I got so mad at a protractor/Frisbee distraction today that, when I was alone, I snapped that thin plastic in half. I did it slowly. The blue protractor discolored along the lines where I folded it. And the moment I brought its two opposite edges together, I heard and felt its spine crack. Then I imagined its angle-measuring voice screaming. One of the blue shards almost hit me in the eye, but, even with that, it was damn worth it.

Afraid of Sharon Stone

I was a zombie most of yesterday. Two days ago, I went to sleep at 4 am only to wake at 6 am. I was planning on going back into my deep sleep, but a minor emergency (my video game order from Amazon.com got messed up) and anger and frustration jolted me out of the sleepy phase.

So there I was, awake on Wednesday with only 2 hours of sleep. Of course, at about 7 pm, I crashed and took a two hour nap. Now, I'm one of those guys that a nap ruins my chances of falling asleep. Even a 30-minute nap will amp me up so high, I'll toss and turn all night.

So now, with my sleep cycle haphazardly shifted and my dog totally confused, I desperately searched for something on TV.

And that's when I came to Basic Instinct. I've heard good things about it, and I know there are countless references to this movie. So I took the plunge: My dog and I started watching this movie at 2:45 am.

That's when I started freaking out. Sharon Stone and Jean Tripplehorn are CRAZY in this movie. First off, they're naked for about half the movie and the other half they may, or may not, be stabbing people with an ice pick. This kind of psychological thriller totally freaked out the zombie version of me.

After the movie, all I could was imagine the killer jumping out of my closet, out of my bathroom, out from under my bed. I could feel the tingle of their ice pick piercing my neck. I felt helpless and unaware in my sleep-deprived state. So I did the only logical thing: I tied my all my doors shut with rope, and I cleared out under my bed and piled the junk in a corner. Even though I usually sleep fairly naked, I strapped on a sweatshirt like armor protecting from Sharon's potential attacks.

I slept on my side, hugging my dog close to my chest. Even though he had seen the movie, he wasn't afraid. He was as brave as ever. Sharon Stone didn't have shit on Pancake. He was my rock, my hero last night. And in an imagination where Sharon Stone was stalking me, my dog, unafraid of a murderer, guarded me.

I woke up this morning, and thought to myself, "Why the hell is the pantry tied shut with my good, blue neck tie?"

A Farewell at the Roadside

I love Spring Break. Even though it's technically the weekend, I'm feeling the unfettered freedom from adult responsibility. It's the kind of day where I watched a rerun of "Family Matters" and didn't feel guilty that I was wasting my time. I ate crackers for lunch and drank milk from the carton. It's the kind of day when I consider a box of fruit snacks to be a single serving.

But wouldn't you know it? I ran out of delicious snacking items: It was time to reload at the store.

As I grabbed my car keys though, an awareness of my slothfulness and obesity came over me, and I decided to run to the supermarket with a backpack in a vain effort to burn off some of my thunder-thigh calories.

It was pretty ugly outside. The wind and rain synergized into 45-degree blades of cold. Regular people, people with places to go and appearances to maintain, care about the rain. But Spring Breakers? Not so much.

Even with the angry weather, it was a wonderful day. Running out of chips and Fruit Gushers was the worst thing that could happen. I strapped on my running coat and took off with an extra pair of socks in my backpack. My stride was jaunty, and I bounded through puddles just to feel the cool water trickle down my legs.

And then I saw it. At first, I thought it was trash, collected together by the rivers in the gutters. But getting closer, the soaked teddy bears and dead plants revealed a roadside memorial to a person who must have died on that corner.

I've seen these memorials before, usually speeding by at 50 mph in my car. But up close, standing where someone died, standing where someone cared enough to offer gifts: this was something different.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the still legible messages inscribed on the signal pole. But 5 miles into the 7-mile trip to the market, I turned around and heavily jogged home. The Fritos didn't seem that important.

Spring Break!

I really enjoy being a teacher: I get to tell little kids what to do and what to think. And best of all, I get paid for it.

But even with teaching catering to my wonderfully bloated sense of superciliousness, Spring Break is a fabulous perk. What other job gets a scheduled week off right when the flowers are waking from their hibernation? when the sunshine and the air smell crisp? when Persephone herself walks the surface world again and kisses us on our winter-cracked cheeks?

Sixth period was the school-wide Spring Party. My students and I sat in my classroom licking Safeway frosting off Safeway cupcakes. Chip Ahoy cookies crumbled to the floor. And we laughed together like a middle-school clique.

My students assaulted me with "What are your Spring Break plans?" today. Amid the Tahoe, Disneyland, and Vegas anticipation, none of my eager students could believe that I was going to sit at home and relax.















It's going to be a good week. Me so happy.

Do You Renounce Satan...

I've never been to a Catholic-church service before. So when I got an invite to a baptism, I didn't really know what to expect.

As I was waiting, I noticed a hinge on the pew in front of me. It looked like a tiny pew, folded into the back of the bench in front of me. With a curious heel, I yanked the hinged appendage out. But unaware of its total length, the mini pew collapsed onto the feet of the lady sitting about 10 feet to my left. Oops. Good thing the service started right after that. I could blend in with the singing.


Some old ladies who looked like life-sized Mrs. Butterworths handed me a small, 6-inch candle. It had black wick from a previous burn, and the white wax puffed on the side like a mixture of teardrops and clouds frozen in time. Before long, the priest made his way down the middle with a giant, lit candle. At first, I thought it would take a million years for everyone’s hand-held candle to ignite, but like a smile in a room with friends, the flame passed quickly from person to person before the songs started.

The songs made me oscillate between alert and fatigue. When the priest did his solos, I started to drift into a daze. But when the congregation joined, the rotund fellow in front of me bellowed sonorous tunes that jolted me to attention. Though he and I didn’t share the same beliefs, he sang with a confidence and faith that was admirable and inspiring.

And when the songs had finished, the priest took out the wine and bread. I wasn’t expecting to take communion, but the priest said, “Today, everyone is welcome.” I had researched a bit on how to receive communion, just in case, and I’m glad I did. And this was the biggest surprise of the evening: the communion wafer. I’m not sure why, but from my ignorance, I always assumed the wafer was some type of cookie. When the priest put the body of Christ in my palm, I was expecting the texture of a stale Oreo with the clean taste of a Milano. It really was just flat, edible Styrofoam. No offense.

I guess ignorance really does make us stupid.

But for all the surprises, all the fakeout cookies, and miniature furniture, nothing was quite as powerful as watching twin, 5-month-old girls get baptized. There are different types of smiles: opening a gift, seeing an old friend, laughing at a joke, but the warmest and most subtle smile must be watching a baptism.

Paranoia

I didn't forget it was April Fools Day. I woke up cautiously, checking the floor before I stepped out of bed. I smelled each of my shower liquids before lathering them on my body. I read all of my emails carefully before responding.

But even with my prank alert on high, nothing could prepare me for the most dangerous pranksters of all: the kids.

It started innocently enough with one of my girl students. "Oh my god!" She shouts at the end of the standardized test. "I bubbled all the answers in the wrong section!" The teacher in me freaked out, worrying that erasing all the bubbles would be a daunting task; the shadows of lead would still leak through and ruin her machine-corrected answer sheet.

Of course, April Fools.

I laughed it off. It really was pretty funny, and I appreciated that the students weren't maliciously laughing at my "freak out" face...at least I hope it wasn't malicious.

Then things got out of hand. Before fourth period, one kid burst in the classroom out of breath, saying someone had stolen his backpack. I popped out my seat to go comfort the distraught child, only to have him giggle through my sympathy.

After that, the day just went downhill. Every time a student asked for anything, or told me anything, I suspected foul play.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" Umm, no? I'd rather you piss yourself than be made another fool.

"I forgot my homework." SOL. Pull it out or you fail.

"My stomach hurts." Yeah right. You'll have to crap blood before I let you go to the nurse.

Usually this is a fun holiday, but today's paranoia just made me a grumpy teacher. I could feel the frown lines burn onto my usually jovial face.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...damn.

Leave the Bums Alone!

Why does the supermarket have to be so mean to the transients? Legal action against the hobos? This is essentially Safeway stealing the bums' identities; most of the time I wouldn't know they were homeless except for the shopping carts lined with garbage bags and packed with cans.

I'm not sure if this is a real theory, but for me, the shopping cart demarcates between the truly homeless and the average panhandler.

The multi-million dollar grocery conglomerates can't spare a shopping cart every now and then? The grocery stores donate the old bread and fruit to shelters, why not dish out a few carts as well?

I assume B&P Code 22435 can be used against hooligan teenagers from running amok. But if so, the letter of the law needs to add a Hobo-Exemption.

F-ing It Up at YogurtLand...

is a bad time to woo a woman. I'm one of those guys that sample cups are not an option at self-serve yogurt joints: they are a requirement. I yank on those silver handles like the conductor of a locomotive yanks on the whistle. Sure, I'm abusing the system a tad. By the time I'm finished, my three sample cups are dripping with my own spit and tracks of Honeydew Tart and White Chocolate Mousse.

Frozen yogurt is a fairly gluttonous vice...at least the way I eat it. And just my luck, the charming young lady who works next-door to my school walked into the shop right when I was pulling the lever for non-fat coconut.

The woman and I have made eye contact every now and then, and she apparently thought this was the perfect time to make a formal introduction. She recognized me, which at any other time would greatly increase my wooing powers.

But I got over-excited by the woman—and a little by the yogurt—and I misjudged my sample cup placement. There's little room for error! An entire glob landed in the palm of my hand and began trickling between my fingers.

I became frantic. I scampered across shop to the cashier for napkins. There's still time. Maybe she hasn't seen the mess. I grabbed a napkin from the male cashier as fast as I could, drying the white, tropical flavor from my hand. But it was too late. I smiled at her like an adolescent boy who forgot to lock the bedroom door. And through her look of confusion and disgust, she returned an awkward grin.

Once I had finished my clean-up, I thought of going over to her and shaking hands over a name exchange. But the residual stickiness from the yogurt hindered my confidence. Unusual textures can ruin a salutation, like shaking hands with someone right after they come out of the bathroom. Nasty if their hands are wet; nasty if their hands are dry.

I sheepishly hid in the corner of the shop, pretending to have such a deep focus on my flavor selection that she would leave me alone. Luckily and unluckily, it worked. She paid and left without saying a word.

On the way out, trying to save some face, I jokingly asked the cashier if the yogurt explosion in the hand happens a lot.

"Dude, not really."

The New View

It was just wood and nails. 2" x 6" boards hammered together with some metal pipes for railings. The deck in my grandma's backyard wasn't an architectural masterpiece, just two large rectangular boxes with two benches dug into the ground.

Grandpa didn't use pressure-treated wood and didn't seal the surfaces. But, when he was alive, he took care of it and made it safe. I remember running on that deck looking for Easter eggs tucked carefully in the corners where the wood met the pine-needle-covered ground.

About a year ago, I looked underneath the deck planning a restoration. I am no carpenter, so when I saw mitered cross braces and latticed supports driven into concrete foundations, I knew a repair would be out of my abilities and budget.

I stepped back and surrendered to the elements. The deck fell apart. The steps leading up to the first tier started collapsing. Rusted nails wiggled loose from the joints and dry rot caused some planks to turn into trap doors. The once-level surface twisted out of flush as the hill swelled during the rainy seasons.

And so, the deck came down.

With the last splintered piece of timber hauled away, the northeast edge of the back yard is wide open. Before now, I'd never stood on this section of land. And from the new vantage point, the back yard in which I'd grown up seemed different. The perspective seemed incorrect.

I feel that I've lost a family heirloom, something I should have been able to give my own children. I could feel the violation, the vibration that told me I could have prevented the removal had I been just a bit better with tools, been a bit more handy, been a bit more like Grandpa.

St. Patrick's Uniform

I feel bad for my students because they have school uniforms. Especially on days like today: St. Patrick's day.

The students and their uniforms looked more drab and lifeless than ever. Their navy pants were faded and un-festive from repeat washings. The white polos were tinged gray around the collars from sweat. School policy censored the shamrock shirts and emerald earrings.

But when I tried to voice this dismay to my older students, one cheerfully replied, "Don't worry, I got my green in." He revealed a green sock, secretly grinning at me from beneath his frayed pant leg. I smiled.

I guess if you really want it, the leprechaun finds his way in.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Made in the Shade

I saw this kid riding a flatbed shopping cart, and I actually felt jealous. Gone are the days where someone would push the cart with me riding along. Sure, I can coerce my brother to push me for a little while, but self-consciousness rears its head after a minute or so. And if I'm lucky enough for a push, the weight of my adult body causes the cart to fishtail inelegantly out of control.

Going solo, like I'm sure many of you secretly do, I push-start myself down the lanes of the parking lot, and when I have enough speed, I jump on the back of my wheeled bobsled and glide. Though just for a few seconds, the ride is perfection.

Like always though, the momentum decreases, and the cart starts drifting towards the bumpers of the parked cars. We are forced to put our feet down and step back into reality.

Simple things like that are hard to come by: fun with no strings attached. Like going into Toys 'R Us and not worrying about paying the rent. Like buying ice cream and not worrying about getting fat. Like playing a video game until 5 am and not worrying about work the next day.

$10, Large Round Table Pizza

I thought I would build up to this moment. But instead, the feelings, the all-too familiar feelings, have come rushing back. I couldn't wait any longer than simply say after years apart, I still love the "last honest pizza."

I ended things four years ago. I admit it. The price point was simply too high. $30 for an XL pizza was too much for the meek college student. I abandoned dignity for cheapness, substance for flash, Round Table for Costco.

But with the promotion of $10, one-topping pizzas, I come grovelling back to you.

You are as wonderful as I remember. Your darkened crust is as brittle as a saltine cracker. Your melted cheeses flow over the edges of my slice like water over the lip of Niagara.

You puffed your chest out, bearing the pepperoni like young love's corsage on prom night. The edges of each salty circle curled upward, slightly browned along the rim. Tiny, pepperoni bowls filled with an oily, orange/yellow elixir.

I ate you once when I came home from work. I ate you again before bed. And, my dear, if you'll have me, I'll eat you again tomorrow morning.

Glad to Be a Low-Key Dude

I'm glad I'm a low-key dude, so I can buy my 6 for $6 Fruit of the Looms that come in sealed packages.

Sexy underwear is nice but not when it could have the disclaimer, "Other people may have had their junk all up in the fabric of this fine undergarment; buy with caution."

Maybe if I were high-class I could afford special sanitizers to get rid of strangers' skid marks and underwear glue.

Damn You, Crane Game

I don't understand claw vending machines anymore. We used to be good friends, claw machines and me. My father would take my brother and me to Circus Circus in Reno, and I'd drop my allotted $10 in quarters to grab the neon-bright bears beneath the three-pronged grabber.

But now, the plastic controls of the crane seem antiquated. The amity between us, gone.

New prize-oriented games have adapted to fit the technologically evolving market. There's the electronic stacking block game where players use painfully precise timing to stack electronic blocks up to the prize line. Other machines dangle prizes by threads waiting for the player to guide a tiny razor using twitch muscle control.

And the prizes in these new machines! A Sony PSP. A video iPod. Video games. I even saw one that dangled a Nintendo Wii.

This is not 1992. Crane games that still cost $0.50 per play? Are you kidding? $0.50 to maneuver a rusty claw over a misshapen stuffed animal I wouldn't even give to my dog? Even the cabinets that offer digital-camera prizes cost only a $1.00.

But the most egregious infraction is that the vendors of the claw vending machines still pack the hideous prizes in immutable formations. How can I pull out my deformed Magneto when there are seven giant bunnies entangled in his feet?

It's not about the prizes with me; it's about the fun. But downing money into an old-school game machine when there is virtually no hope of winning is just annoying.

Dear Crane Games: get with the damn program and make your lame toys easier to drop down the prize chute. This is your last chance or it's over.

Women's Buttons on the Left?

I was in the Women's department at Nordstrom's the other day, shopping with an old friend from college.  I decided to accompany her largely because she is pretty, and being around a pretty girl, even if she is just a friend, is still better than sitting at home watching rerun Olympic Curling.  Plus I had a coupon for a free Auntie Anne's Pretzel. 

While I was licking buttery cinnamon sugar from my lips, she rifled through the racks with deep focus.  Her mouth was slightly agape as if she was hypnotized, and her eyes darted back and forth along the metal rods of hanging clothing as if performing long division in her head.  All the while, she was whispering things to herself; I'd catch bits like "I have something like that already," or "That's the worst thing I've ever seen," or "Where the crap are the twos?" 

Having finished my pretzel, and wanting to kill some time, I decided to try on a stylish overcoat.  The orange lining caught my eye.  It looked like it might fit me, and I checked the tag in the collar: GIRLS XL.  

It actually fit pretty well.  The seams fell in all the right places, and I filled out the bust very nicely.  But when I tried to button the coat, I was confused.  The buttons were reversed!  Looking down at the open front, the buttons were on the left side, not the right.  My mannish fingers struggled with the oversized buttons.  I fumbled as I tried to invert my right left coordination.  It was a surreal yet familiar feeling...like brushing your teeth with your left hand. 

"Why are the buttons on the wrong side of this coat?"
"All woman's clothes have the buttons on that side."
"Why?"
"So when we're face to face, and you're taking me out of my top, you won't have any trouble since the buttons will be on the correct side for your mannish tendencies."

I knew she was joking, but it was one of the sexiest moments of my life. 

Spaghetti Hot dog Sandwich

The spaghetti hot dog sandwich at Clover Cafe is one of the most loving foods I've ever eaten. The first time I purchased one, I was expecting something exotic. But the experience of the sandwich resulted in the rare occasion where my imagination matched my physical experience.

The bun is a simple homemade hot dog bun. It's nothing fancy. Just unseasoned white bread, spongy and compressible by a simple closing of my lips. The sweet and tangy tomato sauce takes me back to cold Sunday mornings when my mom would make me Spaghetti O's in my Stegosaurus bowl. And the half inch Oscar Meyers delicately resting upon the bed of noodles are the perfect salty accent.

I've never had this type of sandwich before Clover Cafe, but the flavors are so comforting, like a wonderful relationship with a woman. But not new relationship full of white-hot sparks and passion; a familiar, long-term relationship with long-burning, tomato-sauce colored embers. The type of long-term warmth and security where coffee cafes are no longer date spots. Where drinking coffee together is a functional activity to consume caffeine because we were up late the night before folding laundry.

This sandwich is lovely in its simplicity and consistency. This sandwich tells me, "it's okay" when I'm mad, hugs me when I'm under pressure. When I've finished eating this perfectly sized meal, I don't feel like a glutton: it knows my appetites and limits. And when I eat this sandwich, I imagine holding the splotched, arthritic hands of my wife I have yet to marry.

Confusing or Ingenious?

How Do You Know?


Baby, I gotta go watch Lebron do a triple double.

Boy, I don't even know what you just said.

Dial Down Your Drama
www.bom411.com









This advertisement in the mall is just weird.

Take a good look at it before proceeding, reader. It's such a strange and hilarious ad.

Such a nonsensical billboard must have had a higher purpose. So I visited www.bom411.com. It's actually a pretty ambitious site to help youth couples through their troubles (or "drama") by offering advice from specialists and other teens. The site is geared towards preventing emotional and physical abuse and promoting strong relationships.

"BOM" is an acronym for "Boss of Me," implying a sense of self-confidence and choice while still maintaining that youthful rhetorical edge.

I felt kinda bad for laughing at an ad for a worthy cause.

And that got me thinking. Maybe the ad was designed to be crazy. Though it was confusing, perhaps it was ingenious in its insanity as it would attract people, like me, to visit their website.

Hmm.

I'm too tired to think about this now. I'm going to go watch Lebron do a triple double.

Public Versus Private School

Being in both the public and private school settings, I've learned one unwavering fact: kids of all ages make me laugh.



Things I heard while teaching at a private school:

You know what movie scared me recently? I am Legend. That was the first scary movie I've seen since Titanic.
—Jason, 9th grade, on whether or not movies have the capacity to evoke emotions in their viewers.

Who's Brad Pitt?
—Jenny, 7th grade, during a lecture about how famous politicians and icons can use their celebrity for the betterment of society.

Like, maybe if my savings account ran out of money, so I couldn't buy DS games.
—Kisha, 8th grade, extemporaneously responding to my request, "Think about a time when you would feel or have felt totally lost and hopeless like the characters in the novel."



Things I heard while student teaching at a public school:

Fuck man, what's the matter with you? Nacho Doritos smell hella good.
—Julio, 11th grade, rebutting the contention that Nacho Doritos make your breath smell bad.

Can we please stop talking about whether or not Irvin is going to steal a car?
—Ms. Morgan, Freshman English teacher, after asking her students to describe current social problems.

Maybe, like, the Tooth Fairy? You know? It's, like, a lot of gifts.
—Jeremy, 9th grade, responding to the To Kill a Mockingbird question of "Who do you think is leaving gifts for Scout and Jem in the tree trunk?"

Social Mutilation

Usually Pizza Friday isn't a problem, but today, apparently, all the grease, all the cheese, all the wonderfully melded tastes disagreed with one of my students.

During a lecture on Past Perfect Tense, the students had numerous questions. Hands shot up left and right regarding time, grammar, and usage. But out of the haphazard shotgun of hands, Beth raised her hand slowly.

“Yes, Beth? Your question?” Silence. Only a desperate look was in her eye, her mouth barely wide enough to sip a straw. She looked like some had just run over her dog with a truck. But in the context of class, I understood this face. And with my recent experiences with “food pressures,” I understood the issue. “It's fine. Go.” I tried to remain as discreet as possible, but with boorish yet astute students, poor Beth was doomed.

She jogged out of class stiffly, like she was holding an orange between her thighs. But she didn't make it. Half way to the door, the entire class was clouded by the smell of half digested pizza, grease, and feces. Beth quickly looked back into the room, praying we didn't notice, but we all did.

The horror and defeat on her face.

She didn't cry on her way out of the room, but she didn't come back either. I took her bag to her after class. She apologized for missing the end of my lecture.

Dazed, Beth sat on the crinkling white paper of the Nurse's table, her head bowed under the weight of her social mutilation. False platitudes were not fitting, but how do you comfort someone in that state? “I'm not going to lie. What happened can be embarrassing.” At that point, my candor wasn't working as she started to cry, tears tracking down her face like the smooth mozzarella cheese off the pizza we had for lunch. “But everyone in life faces these setbacks.”

Between staccato inhales, she whispered, “No one will forget.” She phrased it perfectly. Her tone, thicker than granite. For such a simple event, so much gravity.

“Yeah.” Defeated as well, I sat with her at the crossroads of her social life. “I know life right now is measured by how many friends you have, but in the future, it's the quality of friends that matter. This will show who your real friends are.”

“I guess so. But it still sucks.”

“Yeah.” At least it's a Friday.

Pancake Day

Apparently it is customary to eat pancakes today as part of Fat Tuesday. This Pancake Tuesday is the last day for butter, eggs, and sugar usually restricted during Lent, which starts tomorrow.

For me though, today made me think of my dog, Pancake. He was pretty confused when an evening news report on Fat Tuesday prompted me to start screaming, "It's Pancake Day!" and giving him crushing hugs and smothering kisses.

Silly dog got a feast of a dinner. How often is there a day named for your dog?






My Chihuahua/Pug "Pancake"

Romance

I haven't worn a tie for you in four years,
and $49.99 buys a week's groceries, not a dozen roses.
The stub from our third date downtown
went through the wash.
And the only sounds from our bedroom
are my eyelashes scraping the pillow
as I fall asleep beside you.

Though the hanger has ruined your red dress,
though I watch TV as you say goodnight,
I'll kiss you from post-its that read:
I wish every night was taco night.

Fighting Off Food Poisoning...

is a bad time to woo a woman. We rested peacefully together until the sharp, compressing pains grabbed my entire lower body. It was the pain of 100 crunches while holding in a bowel movement.

I slide out from her pink duvet and made my way to the bathroom with only pinches of streetlight to guide me. Have you ever tried to navigate someone else's apartment at night while there was a #2 deadline? It's deadly.

And the food poisoning was so gut-wrenching that when I did finally make it to the toilet, I couldn't push. So I sat, pain-curled into the fetal position, too sick to move and too gnarled to release the building pressure. Until I did.

It was one of those valve releases that makes you happy toilet bowls provide 360 degrees of catching ability. In third grade, I always thought the fart noises made on the arm were too rich and sonorous to be actual farts, but last night, even a circular breather, on the squishiest of arm fat could not have compared to my symphony.

After my four or fives waves of attack, thinking the mayhem complete, I reached for the TP. That was then I threw up.

I held the vomit in my mouth, my left hand covering my embouchure like a hand suppressing a giggle in church. Since I was already on the toilet, I assumed I could vent accurately between my legs to the tainted water below.

3 AM does funny things to the mind. I ended up spewing onto my lap.

So using about half her fancy $5-a-roll toilet paper and frigid sink water, I cleaned acid-masticated pork shoulder and half-digested frozen yogurt from my thighs and butt. Usually I highly distaste feces and vomit, recoiling from even the slightest hint of either. But with both seeping under my fingernails and into the folds behind my knees, I really only cared about getting back into a warm bed.

Feeling woozy, I wobbled my way back to her pristine bedroom. And with my eyes slowly readjusting, I made out her upright figure in the darkness. "Oh my god. That sounded disgusting. Maybe you should go sleep on the couch in case something else happens."

Dejected, I made up a spot on her couch. At least she didn't make me go home. But next Saturday night, I'm sure I'll be going solo.

Sadies

Sadies exists in a very specific year of my life: 7th grade. All the years before and after, this dance meant nothing. But in 7th grade, I lived only to be asked to Sadies.

I had never been to a school dance before, and I had never heard of Sadies. So when I discovered the nature of Sadies, I was filled with adolescent excitement as I foolishly thought it would be my savior. All the pressure was on the girl.

And what a girl she was. Chloe. She wore pastel shirts that reflected in her shimmering blonde hair. Her eyes looked like two butterscotch candies gently set above her defined cheekbones. She was a cheerleader, so even though I hated the school rallies, I crammed myself into the bleachers to watch her dance.

7th grade was a strange time for sexuality. Before 7th grade, "crushes" existed in the undefinable and unnameable realm. I liked a girl, but I didn't know why. Maybe it was the way she laughed at my jokes or the colors that she wore, but in the end, elementary love was just that: elementary. And after 7th grade, physical attraction became much more sensory and carnal. I wondered how hard to grab her breasts and what her neck tasted like.

But 7th grade was a strange time: where I wondered what her hair would feel like between my fingers, but even my most depraved fantasies only involved Chloe walking up to me, interlacing her hands with my stubby fingers, and asking me to accompany her to Sadies.

Of course, Chloe didn't ask me. She didn't even know my name.

After 7th grade, Sadies meant very little to me. To this day, I've never been to a Sadies. Never been asked by a Chloe. All my dates have been off my own momentum. Sadies was the one chance to feel the rush of being desired. I guess it wasn't as trivial as I thought.

I saw this sign today at school, and I thought about Chloe. What could have been, my dear.

The Andre-the-Giant Apple

I don't think this has ever happened to me. Usually, I forget to buy apples, and then when I run out, I spend a few apple-less days regretting my forgetfulness. Thus, having two generations of apples overlap is very rare for me; I guess I had above average foresight this weekend.

But with two apples, one old and one new, I realize they are very different. Look how much bigger the right one is! When I buy fruit at the store, I buy uniformly, but with these apples from different shopping trips...whoa! Softball to baseball. Mastiff to chihuahua. Andre the Giant to Asian woman.

Some of you might poo poo on my awe. They are different breeds of apples, so there are bound to be different sizes. You've never seen differently sized fruits before?

But you know what, naysayers? I don't care. I was so jazzed-up about my discovery that I ate both apples in one sitting! They were so different, and yet, so the same.

I'm so happy.

What's Up With Live Scan?

The first time I was asked to get a Live Scan was for a job in Sacramento. Live Scan sounded so official with its procedures and regulations. I felt like I was joining the elites of employment. Even the futuristic name "Live Scan" sounded like something from Minority Report.

Boy, was my intrigue crushed.

I went to the Davis PD, and a balding obese man was my technician. He mouth breathed all over my palms, and the dirt under his unclipped fingers looked like he was housing worms in his nail beds. The machine itself looked like an 90's copy machine, hardly something from a Spielberg film.

Since that first time, my Live Scan experiences have only gotten stranger. One time, I drove out to a building behind a dilapidated Taco Bell for my fingerprinting. The tech had a greasy pony tail and the machine was covered with those grocery store, $0.50 "Homies"stickers. The unprofessionalism was aggravated by the man's examination of my ID during which he called me "Ben" (My real name does not have a B, E, or N).

My most recent Live Scan, today, took place in a closet next to the main elevators. I'm not one to be overly paranoid about identity theft, but my SSN number strewn about the main foyer of H building?

With ungloved tentacles, the girl caressed my fingers over the disgustingly sticky scanning plate. I began to worry that a sex offender—deviant hands and all—was the client she serviced right before me. And through some kind of pervert-technician germ chain, I may now have unwanted fluids on my hands.

Live Scan is super important for safety; I get it. But why must these operators be so unprofessional? Can we not hire technicians that have people skills? the ability to read legal documents? the desire to brush their teeth?

Happy Birthday, Judo Rhapsode!

I created this blog one year ago today. It's been fun. My gratitude to all my readers. I'm not sure how many of you there are, but I appreciate the comments online and in person. Thank you.

Mwa Ha Ha Ha Ha!

What's up with these Halloween things in February? I'm not sure why, but I was both spookily afraid and pleasantly surprised today.

It must be a sign that the Halloween gods are pissed that October is so far away. I'll give them a big "mwa ha ha ha ha" to appease them.

MWA HA HA HA HA!
(yeah, it's a real thing)

Sweet Nap

I arrived early for my eye exam yesterday. I have terrible patience for waiting rooms, so I brought a thick novel with me to stave off boredom.

Just as I was sitting down, a woman two seats away got called in for her appointment. She rose from her seat slowly, her husband's hand gently assisting in the arch of her back. As she was walking down the hall to the exam room, her husband, as if jolted by a small current of electricity, popped out of his chair and handed his wife her purse. She didn't say 'thank you,' but she smiled a small, almost secret, smile. He returned to his chair, slower than before, and sunk into the patterned, mauve fabric to wait for her.

For the next half an hour or so, I lost myself in my book, unaware that the man had drifted to sleep in the cushioned but uncomfortable chairs. It was only when his wife returned that I looked at him, his head hanging forward like in prayer. Trying not to wake him, she sat down carefully like she was sitting on a porch swing supported by thread. She had a grin on her face like a child discretely opening a cookie jar. Instead of waking her sleeping escort, she returned to her seat, allowing him to continue his nap.

The love story in my book then seemed flat: For the next 15 minutes, I kept peering over at the couple. The man still napping, dreaming of and waiting for his love. The wife, gingerly turning the pages of her magazine to limit the rustling leaves.

When my name was called, I tried to gather my things as quietly as possible, but when I rose from the chair, I accidentally woke the man. My Spanish is rusty, but as I was walking down the hallway to my exam room, I heard her say, "Because you were sleeping."