Never thought this day would happen...

But, teaching today has been literally boring. Students are all working, they seem relatively motivated, and they're dissecting "Fall of the House of Usher" by Edgar Allen Poe, which is one of my favorite stories of all time. And, yet, for some reason, they're all working almost independently, and there's no behavior issues. I have nothing to do. It's like I'm not even needed here. I could walk out and go get coffee and come back, and everyone would have finished their work then fallen asleep. That's just how boring it is in here.

I put on the Rolling Stones to liven things up. It makes me feel more excited, but everyone else is boring.

Later in the lesson it gets more exciting... we'll be stealing poe's language and creating our own "gothic" creative writing pieces. I'll post my "gothic" beginning soon.

Book Review: The Pale Blue Eye

Just finished reading The Pale Blue Eye by Louis Bayard... it's a novel set in the early 1800s at West Point. It's a whodunnit with a narrator that is similar to a retired Sherlock Holmes. But, to assist him with the mysterious murder at West Point, he enlists the help of a cadet, Edgar Allen Poe.

I have to say that my love of Poe's literature drew me to the book, and in that respect, I found some great joy in finding little snippets and allusions to Poe's various works. Bayard definitely took the time to create Poe and the time period with an immense care for details and vocabulary. At a few times, I was wary of the use of Poe as a character and of Bayard's book being stilted by forcing allusions to Poe's literature. However, Poe actually became a very realistic character in the pages; I grew to love how Poe would quote literature, compose poetry, and tell outlandish lies.

One allusion did irk me; it used a major plot point to pay homage to a part of "The Fall of the House of Usher," and it did not feel cohesive to the plot of Bayard's story. Along those lines, a few points of the plot were questionable... the author kept a few secrets too long, which was a strength and weakness to the book. Some reviewers were so thrown that they ended up hating the story, and some ended up loving it. I think I fall in between--not loving the book, but genuinely enjoying many parts of it.

Overall, I have to say that I enjoyed reading this. It would probably not be my first book to recommend, except of course to a few select people... some mystery readers or Poe afficianados. I'll probably read his most recent book, The Black Tower, at some point in the near future. For now, I still am lingering over parts of the book and enjoying that glimpse into gothic 1800s.

Letters of Rec

USC sent a representative to the high school where I teach. The woman stressed the significance of writing better letters of rec... showing examples of form letters, and a letter from a prep school in L.A. So, now I'm holding myself to a higher standard for writing these utterly rediculous letters. In order to clear my mind, I find it helps to talk about the student the way they truly are... Here's my most recent.

I am writing to recommend Tenaya for acceptance in the freshmen class in the fall of 2009. I am her former English/Language Arts teacher, and over the past year and a half, I have learned a lot about Tenaya’s integrity and commitment to her education. I believe that Tenaya would make an excellent addition to USC—she will excel in her classes, and will consistently contribute to student activities. She hates cheerleaders.
One thing I quickly learned about Tenaya was that she hates cheerleaders on campus. See, frequently, cheerleaders get special treatment—front of the lunch line, pulled out of boring English classes for pep rally preparation, and other perks of the high school female world. In the midst of a class discussion on archetypes and satire, Tenaya blurted out “oh, like how all cheerleaders are fricking idiots, and like to sleep around.” This is the kind of attitude that USC thrives on… the elitist mentality prevalent among its students that keeps USC from entering the realm of educational greatness that all universities strive for. But, along with eliteness, Tenaya demonstrated an aptness for satirical writing, because she has learned two qualities that cheerleaders frequently possess—bitchiness and sluttiness.
I hope my letter has persuaded you that Tenaya should be admitted. She will definitely stand out in USC’s white-bread, northern-european, pretentious educational atmosphere. Yours truly, an English teacher.

grading

Way too much grading to do. Themes of the Crucible rattling through my head. I don't want to work right now, and I don't feel like reading a billion essays that are sortof mediocre.

King's Canyon

Two weeks ago, Tisa and I went to King's Canyon in Sequoia National Park to stay at my godfather's cabin. It was amazing... the first picture shows the cabin we stayed in. Caught up on plenty of rest, and played games at night. Went for a few long walks, saw a waterfall, and some giant sequoia's in Grant's Grove - they are friggin' huge. On the last morning, it snowed. Amazing, and can't wait to go back. We'll need to get a group together and stay there.



Dave's Cabin


Very necessary fire every night.


Tisa jumping into the waterfall.


Snow, the morning we were getting ready to leave.

Outdoors

Tisa and I went on a few trips recently... both were simply amazing, and I thought I'd post a few pictures to share them with you. About three weeks back, we went backpacking into Angeles Crest, following the Santa Anita Canyon Trail. The trail is not overly difficult, and is only three miles and a half miles to the backpacking campsite, making it excellent. Here are some pictures of the things we saw...


This is the "fire ring" at the campsite. It's sortof an old-timey stove with a chimney. It doesn't make for a nice, sit-around-the-campfire feel, but it did keep us warm.


On our way to camp.


This is just one of these awesome, tiny cabins that you pass on your way through the canyon. It's pretty rustic, and awesome, right off the main hiking trail.


Our tent... finally got to try out all our new gear.

Damn igoogle left tabs

So, I almost just threw my computer against a wall... I signed out of google, then signed back in, and Lo and behold, my igoogle tabs were on the left, taking up space. If you've had this happen, you know what I'm talking about. I freaked out, and it almost took a half hour to fix it. I'm posting this as a quick fix for anybody else who deals with this.
Go to your igoogle home page,
Then, up in your address bar, insert the following:
javascript:_dlsetp('v2=0');
That will reload your older version, with the tabs at the top. Phew. Disaster averted. Gotham city saved.

My Honda; Civic Duty

Ok, so the title's a misnomer. I served Jury Duty yesterday... didn't get placed on a jury, and only was placed in one jury pool. Went into the court case, and the judge explains that the case could take four to six weeks. Man, I freaked out. I've been on one jury before, and actually enjoyed the experience. I was actually thinking, "Hey... I've got some jury days to spare... I wouldn't mind taking a week or two off work, getting some extra sleep, and calling in a sub. Sweet deal!' But after hearing that I could be on a jury for six weeks, I started panicking. Luckily, in this case, the judge was really understanding and excused everyone who claimed that the case would cause a financial hardship. Out of the thirty or forty of us called into the room, only one woman remained for the actual jury selection. Phew.
I must say though, jury duty in L.A. is not bad. You get free admission to the MOCA with your badge (so I checked out some sweet artwork), and you can postpone your date to a comfortable time. In this case, the comfortable time was the exact same week that Tisa postponed her jury service. So we sat, enjoyed a nice cup of coffee, and hung out in the back of the jury room for the morning. Plus, we found some new sweet spots in downtown for relaxing and for good food. All in all, a pretty swell deal.

Figaro Figaro Fig-a-ro

Went to see the opera friday evening with Tisa for her birthday. It was my first experience at an opera, and it was amazing. We had the back row of the balcony seats, and the tops of the chairs in front of us were rubbing against our toes. In fact, walking to our seats, it felt like one misstep would send us tumbling over the railing and into the orchestra. But man, what an awesome experience. The opera was called Il Trittico (The Triptych), and had three different performances. The first was a love-affair-gone-wrong story, the second was a disgraced-woman-becomes-a-nun-because-she-had-an-illegitimate-child story, and the last was a farce about a rich Italian's death, directed by none other than Woody Allen.
I was surprised that they had a screen above the stage that translated most of the major lines. I was also surprised that two people saying they like to have a glass of wine after work (or some other trite statement) can sound like the most dramatic event in a lifetime. And, I was also surprised to enjoy it so much. The music was wonderful, and even sitting way up on the balcony, I felt like the seats were amazing.
Also, Woody Allen? Really funny director. The Italians were grossly following stereotypical "Italian" things. One couple kept making out on one side (his face was planted in between her bosoms), and another actor came on stage with a full mafia get-up. Really enjoyable performance all around.
One last thing I really liked about the performance was the audience's reaction. After every act, the audience would clap like it was the most amazing thing they had ever seen. It made me really glad to listen to a group of people so appreciative of an art form. For a brief moment, I was even glad to be living in L.A.

Where did my last post go?

I put up a huge post ranting and reflecting about my last week. Now it's gone. That's shitty. Shitty I google tool.

Economic Misgivings

Sort of crazy all the financial stuff in the news these last couple days. Don't really know what to make of it. AIG and Freddy Mac and Sally Mae all tanking and getting taken over by the government. Also crazy how much of it is caused by the sub-prime mortgage collapse. It freaks me out that three of the biggest private financial institutions were on the brink (or the beginning of the end) of bankruptcy. It makes me wonder if we're heading towards another depression. I'm not worried about my job or anything, but is the dollar going to just plummet as a ton of money is loaned by the government (who is just borrowing from China)? What about all that money I was saving for a down payment on a house? Perhaps I'll actually get to live my dream--scrooge mcduck's money pit, and a diving board. I think that despite the current crazyness in Iraq and all the hype over the political conventions, economic policy will be the most important issue for voters in november. Sorry to get so serious, just some thoughts. Freaky though, huh?

social darwinism, capitilism, and other bull

Was talking with Tisa today about how f'd up this country is. We have successfully developed a culture that ignores its infirm and does its damn best to sweep the elderly, the sick, and the mentally ill under the carpet. Homeless people? Not in my backyard.
Anyways, was getting pretty fired up about it and made some grandiose claims. Like it all stems from capitalism (which is pretty much an older version of the idea of social darwinism). Basically, we give individuals and companies the ability to make as much money as they want. Being fabulously, ludicrously wealthy is considered a "right" because of the "free" market. And, in order to stay on top, these same companies and individuals need to take advantage of the weak and infirm. Heck, in order to be successful, Walmart can't provide health care for their employees! Because success is measured in dollars: corporate profits and rich CEOs. What's interesting is what is not considered success in a corporation or an individual... kindness, compassion, and caring for humanity. Since we have a "right" to be rich, corporations are enabled to commit crimes against humanity... paying people less, not providing them benefits, and otherwise stiffing the working man.

Alright, call it a rant. But hey, if we really wanted our society to be socially just, why not make all companies non profits? Or even just start with the oil companies? He he he.

And while we're at it, why not do this... instead of falling for the semi-popular opinion that people are greedy, and if you give them too many opportunities, they'll just take advantage of others; why not err on the side of caring for the weak and the infirm. Provide possibilities and homes for the homeless, and help care for the poor and elderly. Sure, some people will take advantage of the system, but I'd rather see people cared for than see them left adrift by a society that views almost limitless individual or corporation wealth as success without realizing the necessity for a social contract of responsibility for the marginalized.

Was this Rousseu's idea? Locke? I don't remember. But if so, I agree with them.

F'ing Aple

Finally called my old financial aid office at LMU to discuss the application for the Aple grant -- a forgiveness program to help me pay off my loan because I teach at an urban high school. Fucking... shit. Found out that the only way to apply for the APLE grant is WHILE enrolled for the credential. So, because I didn't apply three years ago, I can't get my giant student loan forgiven at all. Really shitty. I'm really happy I decided to go to grad school at a private university, so that I could owe a bank 40 or more thousand dollars for the next thirty years of my life. Just to get a teaching credential. So, yeah, moral of the story... whoever my financial aid advisor was will be sore tomorrow.

Kelly Gallagher = Genius

Just had to say. Used some of his techniques for teaching writing today, and I'm excited by my students' work. Gave them a revision assignment, and EVERYONE got silent, totally "pimping" their writing (as I call it in class). Such a great practice, and so good for my students.

Just finished

Just finished reading David Mitchell's Number9Dream which is all one word like blood, water, and gasoline in a clearwater poem. Man, f'ing A, really good book, with only one or two parts that I was questioning as a reader. Not too into the ending, but overall really good.

It's basically about this 20 year old named Eiji in Tokyo who is searching for his father who he has never met. It blends dreams with the reality of the plot so seamlessly, at times I found myself trying to figure out if parts were just fantasy of the main character or the true story that he was living. It's fun reading such a play on reality, and every chapter has at least two "realities."

I've made my way through 3 of Mitchell's four books this year, and am really enjoying them. I'll probably read the first (last on my list), Ghostwritten at some point in the next few months. While I'm working my way in a backwards chronology of his works, I'm seeing the ideas he carried from book to book, and really digging it. Anyways, really good stuff, I highly recommend it.
I'm starting a book club at my high school for faculty; sending our the preliminary email tomorrow. I think we'll read The Book Theif, which came out sometime recently. Don't know the author, but it sounds pretty good.

Reading and Writing

So, just a quick vent for today. I spent the last few weeks reading Kelly Gallagher's Teaching Adolescent Writers. The author is pretty much THE english teacher that I wish I could be... he's really intelligent, and his books taught me more about teaching English than any of my Master's coursework. In any case, after completing the book, I am realizing one of the major faults with our system is the idea that reading and writing should both be taught in the subject called English. This is absolutely ludicrous. The two are completely different skills, and even though writing makes a person a better reader, and reading makes a person a better writer, there is no way to sufficiently teach both of these skills within a school year. I think that it would be far better to split the two, and instead of having a block class, have a different writing and reading class. Of course there would be overlap; students need to read models of what they are trying to write. And, students need to write to help process their thoughts about literature. But man, it would be phenomenal to actually divide up these skills and make them taught in separate classes in high school. Thoughts?

First Day of School

Started today with students, spent most of last week prepping. So far off to a pretty decent start, but I'm realizing that I really don't like this part of the school year. I can't wait for the part of the year when I know who everyone is, and know what to expect from them. Right now, it seems like every little thing might be a test, and it's difficult to know what to squash and what to let go. So far so good. Read the cat in the hat twice (the cat is symbolic of the Id, and the fish is the superego...) three more times to go. Oh, and this year I get third period prep, which means, early dismissal two days each week. Woo hoo!

Bottle Shock

Saw the movie Bottle Shock last night with Tisa, and snuck in a fine water bottle full of 2 buck chuck's cabernet from 2005. It was aged perfectly, and tasted amazing, with hints of blackberry and chocolate, and a suitably strong cab finish. Not that I really know that much about wine tasting or being a wine connoisseur, but the movie definitely made me want to be a little more knowledgeable about different tastes of wine. Enjoyed the movie, and I'd definitely recommend it if you're in the mood for a feel-good, go-california listen to the doobie brothers, based-on-a-true-story sort of movie. Great scenery too, reminded me of Sideways. Clearwater would really enjoy it, as would Drew Solitieri, especially after working in Napa.

Lolita

Just finished reading Nabokov'sLolita two nights ago. Was always so scared to read the book. Figured that if I felt a tingling in my groin while reading about some explicit scene involving a pre-teen that I was perverted and doing something gravely wrong. This time, just figured that hell, if some part of it turned me on, it's because it's erotica--it's supposed to turn people on. That being said, I ended up appreciating a lot of the book; it was exciting to read, and kept me anticipating the next scene or chapter. I felt many different emotions while reading it... of course my groin tingled, but I also felt disgusted (of course) by the blatant dirtiness of Humbert Humbert (the main character), and I also felt slightly sympathetic toward his overwhelming love/obsession/utter depravity/minutely redeeming parts of his character. Overall, I'd recommend the book, it definitely has it's really despicable moments, but Humbert's voice is so interesting that you have to keep reading. Also, I always assumed it was such a "European" book, only to find that it actually is mostly set in America, and has some sense of being a "Great American Novel," with some chapters that sum up the family road trip so well (except in Lolita, there's a molester involved). Looking forward to seeing the movie at some point to compare it with the book.

MP3 players in schools

I believe I just solved any classroom management issues; however, my solution goes against school policy and my administration.
Almost all my students have MP3 players. During school hours, no student is allowed to use their MP3 player... to the disadvantage of the teachers and the students. It is silent in my classroom. Nobody is talking. I mean, nobody. About 100% of my students are working, except for apathetic Anthony, who usually doesn't complete work anyways. I feel victorious. I am able to spend time blogging and doing my own writing, while all my students are writing. This is phenomenal and unheard of.
More and more, educators push for technology in the classroom--smart boards, intellipads, computers... and yet, mp3's are dismissed.
Well... the class was wrapping up so I really didn't finish my thoughts. In any case, as long as students are completing work independently, I'm all for individual MP3 players.

Old Posts

Old Posts of mine, recorded here for posterity.

character assassination

This will not be an elaborate blog. The idea’s interesting though, and I want to hear your thoughts on it.

I went to dinner with my roommate last night, and with some serious introspection, realized something important, but first some background.

Hubris is the ancient Greek idea of excessive pride that leads to a character’s demise. I had always thought that this aligned ancient Greek mindsets with Christian faith where pride is the worst of the deadly sins (lust was the least offensive deadly sin, which means that it’s okay that I looked at porn once today). But really, it didn’t mean that pride was a negative quality and humility a positive quality. All it meant was that excessive pride could cause disasters.

So, within the context of literature, the character could be proud and good would occur because pride was a strength up to a certain point. Which means that excessive pride could be a character’s strength and weakness at the same time.

Extend this concept beyond literature. What if all of us have these character strengths? Then, the strongest of our strengths is our biggest weakness at the same time. And you could imagine all people, say around us in a restaurant, interacting, their strength being a double-edged invisible sword that could cut apart another person or themselves. I can see it during a conversation, where this part of each personality clashes as a sword against the other, each unaware that their sword could hurt his/herself.

My roommate and I examined our personalities for this duality. Thinking about the trait that could be so strong that it could be a weakness at the same time.

Mine would be empathy or sensitivity. I feel like I can immediately identify with anyone, in any situation. I could be in his/her shoes, and I could feel his/her misery, happiness, or contentedness. But at the same time, this is my weakness. I’m uncomfortable when I perceive another’s unhappiness. Here’s a trivial example. Perhaps I host a party some evening. Trying to revel with a large group at my apartment, I find myself frequently concerned that the music is disturbing all the other apartment residents nearby. It will take up a significant amount of my attention, and I will by trying to redirect my friends (unbeknowest to them) to areas where we will be the least disturbing. (I don’t think I’ve explained this well… I apologize. It’s difficult to criticize yourself and confess a true experience of this weakness).

Or perhaps, this example will be better. I can’t count the number of times when a girl has ended our relationship where I find myself apologizing. They’re explaining how they’re in a difficult time in their lives, how blah blah blah… all these things are going wrong and they don’t want me to be brought down by these circumstances. “It’s not fair to you,” they say. And I apologize… I say, “I’m so sorry that all these things are happening in your life.” I apologize for their mothers’ angry words, their irritible bowels, their pet’s deaths, their lost toothbrushes. (I think that example makes more sense). I apologize for the world, truly feeling their sense of loss, anger, sadness, etc., while not realizing that 1) I'm upset, and 2) A lost toothbrush is surmountable in a relationship.

Now, I turn this blog over to you, the reader. What’s your biggest personality strength? How could it be your weakness? Leave it as a comment on my empathetic confessional at the end of this blog.


on being a Romantic

Today, I heard that buried treasure is all but found on Robinson Crusoe Island, off the coast of South America. Researchers used modern technology to find three high-concentrations of gold on the island made famous by the story of Selkirk, the real-life character of Robinson Crusoe. According to their instruments, the treasure hunters have detected hundreds of pounds of gold coins and possibly Incan treasure. (The story can be found on Yahoo News)

Something in the story made my mind associate wildly. I couldn’t shake the idea of all these locals and foreigners quitting their jobs and going straight to the island by any means. By now, these treasure hunters are scouring the island, searching every square inch for the treasure.

Treasure hunting. Buried treasure. Incan gold. Spanish gold.

Each one keeps rattling around in my head making me think that these ideas approach the old vision of the romantic. Today, we assume that a romantic is some kind of sap that believes in love at first sight, sunsets, and mushy letters. It’s a term that has changed far from what it used to mean. Romantics were once dreamers, visionaries, prophets who held uncommon and unpopular convictions.

Think Ponce de Leon… truly believing in the fountain of youth and chasing it throughout South and Central America. Think of Galileo chucking objects out of a tower to prove that gravity accelerated at a constant rate. Think of Leonardo, Benjamin Franklin, and Thomas Edison. Guevera. Kerouak. Each wholeheartedly followed a belief whether true or false. They would have an idea and chase it, everything and anything else in life could be damned.

Are you a dreamer? Are you a romantic? Are you a visionary/incendiary prophet/soothsayer of truth that’s stranger then our everyday imaginations?

I’m not.

And if you’re American, you probably aren’t either. I’m thinking that our basic, intrinsic American ideals hold the old Romantic in check. They glorify an “American Dream”—a rags to riches account of a middle-class house with a white picket fence, kids, a mini-van, and mediocrity, which, with a careful mix in a department store blender, will equal happiness.

The visionary and dreamer are un-American because they have different ideas of happiness. The romantics desire the self-fulfilling glory of proving their outlandish convictions. They are mostly crazy. And their contributions advance society and culture far beyond your everyday American achievements, like when I feel happy because I have made my own lunch.

Five minutes of romantic thoughts later, I heard another striking news report. Two doctors went against the entire medical community because they believed that bacteria, not stress, caused ulcers. One was so sure of this that he gave himself an ulcer by drinking a liquid that contained the bacteria. (This story can be found here on Yahoo News)

He is a Romantic.

But I’m not.

If I had the same inspiration and faith, I would probably leave tomorrow on my crummy bike with my sleeping bag and the clothes I’d be wearing, quit my job, and write a novel while biking to Chile to discover buried treasure. But, for some reason I think I’ll find happiness when I own a house and a minivan. “Still humping the American dream,” said Hunter S. Thompson. I think I know what he means.



Earrigation

Dear Doctor's Choice,

This is an informal business letter. It's informal because this is a personal matter. However, my personal story contains some discussion of a product of yours.

Recently, I discovered that I had a large amount of earwax attempting to take over my outer ear. I decided to purchase your fine earwax removal system.

Being somewhat new to the process of earwax removal, I decided to get the most elaborate kit possible in order to insure the success of the procedure. I also wanted to buy one that would work; I needed some legitimacy on the packaging.
Kit
Luckily, a doctor had chosen your brand, which appealed to my desire for an expert opinion on my ear. Also, your kit seemed to contain the most items. It fit all my needs in one amazing box.

I read the instructions thoroughly during a quiet evening at home (it seems to be fairly easy to have quiet evenings at home when you're single and can't hear what women are saying to you). I must say that your instructions were incredibly well detailed. Your fastidious account of my earwax removal process was thorough and complete. To summarize, the first instruction was that the tip of the applicator should not enter my ear canal. "Excellent," I thought, "the applicator, which must be one of these four items, is going nowhere near my ear canal." The instructions continued by suggesting I place 5 to 10 drops of the solution in my ear (I carefully measured the amount by adjusting three mirrors to watch the process) for several minutes (I timed the several on my watch).

Removing_waxI dipped the bulbous instrument that I assumed to be the "ear syringe" in a glass of warm water, then proceeded to shoot water in my ear. I was sitting up in a chair, using the plastic vessel to catch the water as it left my ear. Amazingly, all the water landed in the plastic vessel. None of it was on my shirt! Can you believe that? None of that weird greasy solution was on my shirt either! My face was not even dripping!

I was so enamored with the experience that I tried it again and again, twice daily for the next four days. The package described a "crackling" noise I would hear as the product worked. The noise eluded me, but I sought it so! This earwax removal gig is not drugs or alcohol, but its definitely addicting!

Ah! Hindsight is twenty/twenty. I recently discovered that my earwax was particularly resilient to your product (as some people’s earwax inevitably is). I did, however, put it to the ultimate test by sleeping with an exact 5 to 10 drops in my ear. It yielded no results. So your product is not for me, despite my intense desire to be your loyal spokesperson.

Even had I known the names of the contents of the package, even had I owned a diagram to show me how to tilt my ear to help aid irrigation, and even had I left the solution in for more then 5 minutes to see if it would work right, the removal procedure would have been thwarted by my hearty earwax.

So, Doctor whose Choice I chose, I bid you happy trails. Your product will surely fall into the hands of another person, like myself, who finds himself completely at the whim and mercy of the directions on over-the-counter health aids. With luck, he too will end up with a clean shirt, and if the product works for him, a clean ear!

Sincerely,

Kevin Cassidy



Fear and Insignificance on Catalina Island

This blog is months overdue, and I suppose, unnecessary because it’s not an update on my life. Rather, it’s about my feelings about 3 months ago, which could be entirely worthless for some of you to read, particularly if you ever feel very immense fears that are difficult to describe.

Over memorial day weekend, my roommate and I went to Catalina Island. We kayaked from Avalon to Two Harbors, about eight miles a day.

The technicalities of the trip are unimportant now. Had I written this blog then, I would have talked about our lack of plans… getting campsite and kayak reservations by cell phone while taking the ferry to the island. I could tell you about my version of “Regulators,” which was a karaoke hit our first night. But that’s all filler.



Insignificance (the name of a great album by Jim O’Rourke and a feeling of unimportance)

At some point during the trip, I found myself in the middle of the ocean. I was so far from shore that I couldn’t see individual beaches very well, and I certainly couldn’t see any people on the shore. The waves were choppy, sometimes forming into whitecaps. Usually, I’d imagine the ocean being fairly flat—a place where you could see for miles. At the surface level, you can see for miles, but because of the little dips and bumps, I would turn around and not be able to even see my roommate.

I was completely alone.

And around me there was so much air and water. I sort of enjoyed imagining a cord extending from my chest to the ground directly beneath me. Being so far from shore, that cord goes very deep before hitting the ocean floor. If you were there, you’d feel it too… this sense of vertigo. Like the kayak could lose its ability to stay afloat and you could fall through all that water.

So there’s that feeling of vertigo, combined with the feeling that everything was existing completely beyond my life. While snorkeling, pink, iridescent jellyfish floated all around. A three foot bat ray sat covered lightly in sand directly below me. And I was insignificant. Whether I was there or not, the jellyfish would be floating and the bat ray would be resting.

I think that frequently, day to day, we find this importance in what we’re doing. Facing the expanse of the ocean and air, and the impartial environment made me have that brief flash of how small each of us are within this huge world, which is a tiny thing floating in space.

Fear

After the first day of kayaking, we set up camp at around 2:00 in the afternoon. There was so little to do, that I was lying down for bed at 7:30, encouraging darkness so I could finally go to sleep. That’s when the fog came in.

It was very slow, but gradually it obscured the boats moored in the water and even the shoreline twenty feet away. The waves got louder in the fog. And it seemed like there was danger coming. Once you’ve started scaring yourself, there’s nothing you can do to feel safe. Perhaps the insignificance was persisting because I felt like the fog would lift me up and I’d fall through it into space.

I guess at any moment, I was worried that the laws of nature and gravity would shift and it would cause eminent death.

All together, it was an amazing holiday.



One reason why I'm skeptical of motion detectors on urinals...

I tested them by pissing in complete darkness. It still flushed when I walked away.

Also, how come they don't flush when the light is turned on or off.

My belief? They're magic.



A Modest Proposal


For improving the moral of the poor by promoting realistic aspirations while boosting California’s economy.

Dear Governor Schwartzenegger,

It has come to my attention that students across the state frequently disrespect their teachers, refuse to attend class, become violent with their peers, and make very little effort to achieve good grades. These problems are notoriously prominent in low-income, typically within large urban areas consisting of a large minority population.

As many scholars before me have inquired, why do these minorities strive to be disrespectful, uneducated members of the community? With such rebellious behavior, these students frequently do not graduate high school and are often ineligible for college.

The reason behind such malfeasance is caused by feelings of low self-worth. This, coupled with acute depression explains their lack of effort at school. These students exhibit their low moral by paying little attention to appearance (clothing that doesn’t fit, unwashed hair, and a slack jawed expression combined with a blank stare), attending few activities (low after school activity enrollment), increased hostility, alcohol and drug abuse, missing school, and having trouble concentrating. These symptoms are clearly evident in low-income school students.

Thus, by improving the moral of these students, we would see higher grades, less violence, better personal hygiene, and stronger concentration abilities. How could we go about changing students’ attitudes on a statewide scale? Simply by matching the students’ aspirations with their sensible outcomes in life.

For example, take a student in a low-income Los Angeles high school. Rather then making him depressed (and therefore, unruly) by frequently confronting him with his limitations, we should be paving his way towards his realistic unemployment lifestyle or his working class job. During this student’s education, he should be reassured about the benefits of low-skilled work (physical exercise, mentally undemanding decisions, and the replaceable workforce—constant turnovers mean new work environments!). He will be happy, having attainable goals with the proper reinforcement throughout his life.

Many may wonder how to best match one’s goals with their outcomes. The answer is quite simple really—insure that the individual is repeatedly assured of his lowered goal. We can achieve this in California by the implementing the following propositions.

1) Beginning with his elementary education. Starting very early, he should be afforded the least experienced teachers (offer more money to teachers in higher socioeconomic school districts to uphold this trend!). He will deduce from the teacher’s inability to control the classroom that he should have no self-control. During this free-wheeling jaunt of primary grades, the student will likely have no goals, which will make it easy to suggest that he assume the lowest aspirations.

2) Continuing with his environment. Make the schools unable to make necessary repairs to buildings, place numerous classes in the gym, and keep the classes as large as possible to insure minimum one-on-one attention. The loud classrooms will dull his senses, hopefully making him realize he likes the din of machinery.

3) Tracking his schooling. Very few of these students should be considering college, so insist on a lack of college eligible classes in his high schools. College counselor on campus? Oh, no! That would be a grave mistake! Some schools go for a more subtle approach, not even acknowledging their different curriculum tracks. But our schools should be heralding the low-level, inadmissible tracks because these will make the individual feel quite elated, graduating high school without having to worry about all that college admissions nonsense.

4) And lastly, why provide textbooks at all to these frequently underachieving students?

By fully implementing this moral change, California will once again be the strongest economic state in the Union for several reasons. 1) A larger group of unskilled laborers means lower wages and less paid benefits. Companies will stop outsourcing because cheap labor will be available in California. We could see the largest big business growth in decades! 2) Our public, low-income schools will be saving more money, turning the deficit into a government surplus. 3) Eventually, the state could close most of these schools, selling the land for increased state revenue, and eliminating that controlling interest group, the teachers’ union, which consistently wastes taxpayer dollars by demanding wage increases and benefits without merits.

For, being a society that heralds freedom for all, we would never consider giving an equal opportunity by providing an education that allows everyone regardless of race, wealth, or class a chance to succeed. We would not want equal access to experienced teachers, clean and suitable environments for learning, college counselors, or textbooks, because each of these would give people growing up in low income environs a chance to change their future level of employment.

I would be the first to set the example for low-skilled laborers everywhere but I've already incurred a substantial debt working on my teaching credential. So, I will probably join the middle class and teach where I will be paid the most.



Eschatological revelations through scatology

two definitions necessary for your appreciation of this installment (taken from Answers.com)

Scatology - n.

1. The study of fecal excrement, as in medicine, paleontology, or biology.

2. a) An obsession with excrement or excretory functions.

b) The psychiatric study of such an obsession.

3. Obscene language or literature, especially that dealing pruriently or humorously with excrement and excretory functions.

Eschatology - n.

1. The branch of theology that is concerned with the end of the world or of humankind.

---and now... let us begin---

You take shit for granted. And I don't mean shit as in the general things in life that you may take for granted. I mean shit.

Saturday morning, approximately 4 days ago, I woke up with abdominal pain. It was mainly in the center of my abdomen, just below my chest, forming a nice bloaty feeling, like I had tried to inflate a balloon by swallowing it and telling my colon, "Hey, it's a party! Invite a bunch of the organs together and just go crazy!!!"

Now, usually, my conversations with my colon would go something like, "Hi, how's it going, uh, colon," you know, general small talk until one of us decided the other was boring.

In this case, my colon decided to give me the silent treatment for four days and counting.

This is nothing unusual for me. I've generally found my digestive system to be the most rebellious group of organs I've delt with in my lifetime. I clearly remember when my large intestine decided he was tough and started smoking cigarettes with my spleen. They'd lounge, cussing out my ribcage for being such a pussy.

While the pain continued through Sunday, I realized I needed serious attention. Numerous ailments had been proposed and considered: bladder infection, urinary track race (which is where your urinary tract finds that its true calling is in the relay race), and although the pain was misplaced, appendicitis made a brief entrance.

Unfortunately, of the options, the doctor I saw on monday morning decided that it was appendicitis, sending me to the emergency room for x-rays, blood tests, and a ten hour day that could cost me my first several children.

I'd love to glorify the details, tell you about how I befriended most of the staff and other patients. You'd love the bit about the back and forth between the guy demanding vicadin and the doctors talking shit while I severly needed to shit. And the part where I pretended I was a doctor (albeit, a doctor with an IV in his arm) and accurately diagnosed a patient while getting a date with the head nurse. Streaks of pornography during morphine dreams.

But I've got no time for those tales of valor, comradery, and hallucinations.

I still need to shit.

So bad that I'm jealous of people on T.V. because I know that they are probably able to shit just fine. I'm jealous of you, especially if you've shit within the last twenty-four hours, if you've got medical insurance (which I don't), or if you've got one of those cool waffle-style long undershirts because, let's face it, I'd rather be constipated with a great sense of style then any other way.

What did eschatology have to do with all this? Well, some people theorize that shitting is proof of existence... sortof an "I shit, therefore, I am" philosophy that is not without its merits. See, it proves that you've truly eaten something, and truly physically altered it when it has finished its process through your body. And since I can't shit, I hardly feel alive.

Which is why I've declared a war of armageddon proportions on my digestive system. I'm eating at least 400% the daily recommended amount of fiber. Building up more and more till either the world ends or my constipation does.

A few things you should know as parting thoughts before you move on...

"catharsis," which means healing through pain comes from the greek word meaning "to pass a hard stool," something I now truly understand (I stole this from clearwater).

Also, being "full of shit" is pretty shitty.

Especially when you're accused of it in the ER.
(I now feel guilty and constipated because I totally don't have appendicitis).



security blankets, hazmat suits, and the elderly

Part I – Security blankets

After I graduated college, my grandmother gave me a hand-knitted blanket (the gift for every grandchild upon graduation). “What an amazing gift,” I thought, entering the harsh, post-graduate life of thankless jobs and a dearth of drinking on weeknights. “This way, while I’m full of self-pitying sobriety, I can feel warm and safe.”

Luckily, my grandmother named the blanket… it’s an “Iraq Afghan,” because she started it when the U.S. invaded Iraq. And she knitted the nice strip of red on the side when Saddam Hussein was captured. Which made my blanket a symbol of personal and national security.

It definitely keeps me warm, but I can’t vouch for its ability to stop WMDs or terrorist threats.


Part II – A problem

I remembered about my blanket because of a 60 minutes story I saw last evening. Basically, states and cities have been awarded exorbitant funds to help prepare them for terrorist threats. I’m divided on the issue because in some cases the local agencies could use more funds for their city/town projects. Also, it gives government spending a bad name because of some frivolous purchases (leather jackets). At the same time, funds are probably even going to Lost Springs, Wyoming (population: 3, in 1998).

By looking to my right, I can see the tallest skyscrapers in LA, under a mile away. If I was a reasonable person, I would spend most of the time on the roof of my building, screaming to the bank logos at the height of downtown (although, my neighbors would probably be the only people to listen), demanding my own hazardous materials suit because of my relative un-safety while living in their proximity.

If I was a reasonable person, I’d play Ultimate Frisbee nearby while wearing a thick plastic layer (1). With enough KY Jelly smeared on it, I’d slip through defenders like a full body condom, impervious to Al Qaeda.

Luckily, I’m an unreasonable person. Otherwise, if you wanted to shake my hand, you would walk away with a handful of some slippery lube.

Part III: A solution

However, years later, sitting under the blanket and watching 60 Minutes, I realized something. If we could only harness the energy of our elderly, all my concerns could be calmed.

What terrorist could attack our country if they had received a care package with hand-knitted blankets?

The citizens with wrinkly skin (who are comfortably ignored by retirement homes) could be put to good use. They can knit, sew, and perform innumerable feats of carpentry into the hearts of the world. My blanket would have truly become an Iraq Afghan. I can imagine Saddam warming himself in it, realizing that the Americans are quite all right. He’s sitting, either in a cave or in his mansion, keeping warm and reading his latest pen-pal letter by candlelight. Saddam smiles while sipping hot cocoa, chortling about a joke from one rich person to another.

Because, really, when you have everything, who wants to share it with anyone else?

I’m not quite sure what point I’m making… I could be saying

1) that old people have all these amazing talents, I’m jealous of them, and wonder, “what will our talents be when we’re old? Will I show my grandkids my Super Mario skills? Or perhaps just admit that I’m better off in a retirement home then putzing around the house calling the houseplants King Koopa and Luigi?”

2) that old people are frequently conservative, and that their desires could sometimes correspond with dictators

3) that foreign aid might make us more secure then haz-mat suits

4) or that I just like my blanket. Because, at the end of the day, the blanket makes me feel more secure then the news or the government.

And a footnote: (1) Seth came up with the idea of wearing haz-mat suits while playing frisbee.



prescribe me to the moon, and, roommate psychics

part one: prescribe me to the moon

I was watching television the other day when several things became apparent… I’m overweight, my joints ache, and my penis is flaccid. Or at least, I watch a lot of the same shows as people who are overweight, have arthritis, and have erectile dysfunctions. Luckily, every one of my maladies can be fixed by simply “asking my doctor about _____,” filling in whatever medication. Pretty soon, I’m going to be on lipitor, shedding pounds left and right… or maybe taking celebrex and doing tai chi in a park without muscle pains. With some luck, I’d be taking levitra to get a stronger, longer lasting erections. Isn’t life awesome? Isn’t being slender awesome? And, erections? Awesome!

This could be due to the television shows I watch, namely Jeopardy. Apparently, I’m within a quite attractive target audience. I wish I could get together with them, crack some knuckles, and discuss our failed weight loss programs. We probably wouldn’t discuss erectile dysfunction very much, because that doesn’t seem like suitable conversation for an assembly of people twice my age. We’d definitely talk about final Jeopardy last night, and I’d complain about how I was close to the final answer—if only I had named the right boring Milton novel.

A few years ago, advertising for medications became legal (I have no idea if this is national, and quite frankly, I’m not going to do extensive research for out of state readers). Thus, medicine has become big business. What was previously an altruistic calling where one saves lives, is now a money grubbing big-business.

Assuming you’re liberal and have some of the same background as me, you herald Canada and any Scandinavian country as a working solution to America’s health care crisis. You, like me, tout these countries amongst your conservative family in the midst of holiday dinner political arguments. All the while, you, like me, stuff yourself full of sweet potatoes covered in marshmallows (knowing in the back of your mind that someday, taking lipitor is going to be Awesome!). But yet we allow our drug manufacturers to spend money on advertising, all the while complaining about the rising cost of erections. (I could have said “infections” at the end of the last sentence… but I didn’t, try to swallow that)

With a little cash, all of us can have the answer to our middling midlife sex-lives! Who needs role-playing, kinky sex, public sex, kinky-public sex, or other naughty behavior more suitable for twenty-somethings, when you can get an erection by taking medicine?

I guess I just wish I had health care, a slender build, limber fingers, and an erection (because then at least I could do something in my spare time, something about as world-changing as complaining about how f’d up America is).

I recently received confirmation that my erections are not quite yet in need of Levitra, thus I also give you:
part two: roommate psychics

A couple nights ago, I had a wet dream. While I’m sure you’d love an extensive description of the hot make-out session in my dream, I’m afraid that I’m not allowed to discuss it. In fact, during the wet dream, the girl interrupted our hot make-out session to make me sign a non-disclosure agreement whereby I am allowed to mention the wet dream in question but not to give any details. Luckily, this wasn’t too difficult to do because I forgot the dream almost entirely after I woke up.

Except until the following night. I had worked all day, and, when I got home, my roommate told me about his previous night. While I had dreamed of a hot make-out session, he had actually had a hot make-out session.

Thus, we are roommate psychics.

What will really be amazing though, is when we stun the world with our abilities by going on Jerry Springer when I’m pregnant and my roommate gives birth to a baby in his sleep.



bad luck, hombre

A myspace blog from 3/24/05

I don't know about you, dear reader, but I, I believe in bad luck. More specifically, I believe in bad karma... and currently, I am facing potentially dangerous karma. The kind that makes your food sour before you get to leftovers. Karma that made M.C. Hammer into a religious zealot (effectively ruining his career). Even worse then that, I'll probably face my doom because of motor vehicles and a predilection for eating while driving.

I believe it began when I found a carpet down the street on sunday. I stood next to it for several minutes, wondering vaguely, "who rolled up this carpet and tied it with this strong piece of string? Why would someone abandon a perfectly good carpet? And, is it socially acceptable to take home a carpet that is assumed to be abandoned?"

Deep in my brain, I knew it was somebody's carpet, and I had no right to take it. Scene's from the Big Lebowski played out; I knew it was wrong, but damnit, the rug really pulled my living room together.

I give you the last 24 hours in pictures: (1) me eating delicious grapefruit in my car, possibly even saying outloud, "this is sooooo delicious," followed by rear-ending a truck on the freeway (more of a bump without negative repercussions); (2) dreams of having mortally wounded the 5 guys in the truck; a 10 hour flu complete with cold sweats; (3) bumping the brand new BMW in front of me with the owner in it, and (4) driving off an unmarked cliff on a hairpin turn.

While one of those is an exaggeration (because by "cliff," I meant "large pothole"), the rest have gradually built towards my current mindframe: I'm considering stockpiling provisions and never leaving the house without a shovel, qualudes, that magic scratch remover from the info-mercial, and a less delicious melon.

So, I'm going to have to ask you... anyone who reads this, what should I do? I need your help. By tomorrow morning I could find myself keelhauled and left for dead in the middle of the pacific (cause if that guy could afford that nice BMW, he could certainly afford to have me tortured at sea). By the end of the week, I will probably die of gangrene because I have eaten too much melon while driving.

Getting rid of the carpet is not an option.

Neither is voodoo because of an incident in the past when I made the voodoo doll of myself and left it near the stove.

Neither is having sex, cause really, if my luck's already bad, it's certainly not going to change for the better that drastically.

Your unfortunate blogger,
-k