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)