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.