Thursday, March 5, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
A List of Memorable Places I Have Thrown Up Because I Was Either Sick or Drunk
1. My first bedroom (sick)
2. My second bedroom (sick)
3. The hall to the bathroom in my parent's house (sick)
4. The bathroom in my parent's house (drunk)
5. Tina's bed (drunk)
6. Wolfe Two men's room (drunk)
7. Wolfe Two women's room (drunk)
8. Off the back porch into a birdbath at Brian Ave for Rugby Rookie Day (drunk)
9. The Wasteland, or TCNJ's famed Rugby House. Sites include: basement, my bedroom there, outside, the second floor bathroom (drunk)
10. The Octagon backyard (drunk)
11. Off the fire escape outside my bedroom in The Thunderdome (drunk)
12. My bedroom and the bathroom in The Thunderdome (sick and drunk)
13. On my ex-girlfriend (sick and hilarious)
14. Billy Donovon's downstairs bathroom (drunk)
15. Outside the Windmill in Red Bank in front of the large window and a man eating his dinner (drunk)
2. My second bedroom (sick)
3. The hall to the bathroom in my parent's house (sick)
4. The bathroom in my parent's house (drunk)
5. Tina's bed (drunk)
6. Wolfe Two men's room (drunk)
7. Wolfe Two women's room (drunk)
8. Off the back porch into a birdbath at Brian Ave for Rugby Rookie Day (drunk)
9. The Wasteland, or TCNJ's famed Rugby House. Sites include: basement, my bedroom there, outside, the second floor bathroom (drunk)
10. The Octagon backyard (drunk)
11. Off the fire escape outside my bedroom in The Thunderdome (drunk)
12. My bedroom and the bathroom in The Thunderdome (sick and drunk)
13. On my ex-girlfriend (sick and hilarious)
14. Billy Donovon's downstairs bathroom (drunk)
15. Outside the Windmill in Red Bank in front of the large window and a man eating his dinner (drunk)
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The Best Commercial Ever
Keep the Arts in Education. With coming budget cuts and reductions, the Arts will certainly be the fist to go. But it is Art that gives us hope in dark times.
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, 'O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.' That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." - Dead Poets Society
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Sketches 2
The place was pretty empty and there was a choice of table or booth.
"Can I get you anything to drink?"
"Water and coffee please."
"Coke...no, sweetened iced tea for a change."
"Ok. Milk or cream?"
"Milk is fine."
She finished jotting and walked away.
"How was work? Get the exams done?"
"Yeah, I've got one set of essays left to read. I want to get to the gym today and I have to be back at school at 6:40 to judge a competition."
"What for?"
"Rock Band."
"Any good bands playing? Maybe I'll come listen."
"No, it's a video game. Kids play fake instruments and pretend to be rock stars."
"So they fake it."
"Yeah. You want my lemon? I hate lemon in my water."
Taking the lemon, he put it on the rim of his glass and began stirring with the straw. I mixed the milk slowly into the coffee.
"Ok so I've been figuring." He grabbed a napkin. "You have a pen?"
I fumbled a black felt tip from my pocket.
"Here's what you're looking at in bills." He was writing as he was talking. "Phone, electric, gas, insurance for the place, insurance for the car, food, gas, savings, and car. First off," he was pointing at the word "CAR" with the tip, "how much is this a month?"
"Three twelve."
"What're you having?"
"You go first."
"Ham and cheese omelette. Can you put sausage in it too?"
She nodded. "Toast and potato?"
"Wheat and home fries if you still have them please."
"I'll have a western omelette with white and a side of sausage. Ok so figure hundred dollars a week for food." He wrote down $400. "One fifteen for phone, gas and electric," he drew a bracket and wrote $200 next to it. "Are you filling the tank once a week?"
"Not really."
"How much was the last fill?"
"About twenty-five."
"So say seventy-five. It depends on where you live. House insurance maybe twelve thousand a year." He wrote $100. "Car insurance one twenty-five. I'll leave this blank." He meant "Savings."
He had always been good at math, as far as I could remember, and had it added in seconds, column by column like they teach in school. He turned the paper toward me. It was not as much as expected.
"Here you go, ham, cheese, and sausage and western."
* * * * *
"I make this," took the paper, added two paychecks together, "a month."
He subtracted the previous amount. "Then this is what you'd have left to pay the mortgage."
That figure was also smaller than expected.
"Don't forget that you'll need a down payment and a couple thousand for closing costs." He looked at me. "You're really ready to do this, huh?"
"Yes, I am."
"Can I take that for you?"
"You're in a good position, you're making money, you have a job, you're putting it in the bank. When we moved out we didn't have any savings and neither of us had steady jobs. We had a little cause we just got married, but it took us seven years to buy a house.
"You know you're not being forced out or anything. You can have people over if you want, that's not a problem. Did something happen? You seem hellbent on moving out. Was it driving Nani the other day?"
"No, nothing happened, it's not that." I looked away. "I set a goal for myself and I want to be out before Ali's done with school."
"And know there's no problem with staying past that goal."
"I want to move out. Staying past that goal turns us into a sit-com." Laughter. Way to diffuse the situation.
"Take that when you're ready."
He started playing the trombone with the check, forgetting his glasses in the truck.
"OK, you ready?"
"Yeah, I'm ready."
"Can I get you anything to drink?"
"Water and coffee please."
"Coke...no, sweetened iced tea for a change."
"Ok. Milk or cream?"
"Milk is fine."
She finished jotting and walked away.
"How was work? Get the exams done?"
"Yeah, I've got one set of essays left to read. I want to get to the gym today and I have to be back at school at 6:40 to judge a competition."
"What for?"
"Rock Band."
"Any good bands playing? Maybe I'll come listen."
"No, it's a video game. Kids play fake instruments and pretend to be rock stars."
"So they fake it."
"Yeah. You want my lemon? I hate lemon in my water."
Taking the lemon, he put it on the rim of his glass and began stirring with the straw. I mixed the milk slowly into the coffee.
"Ok so I've been figuring." He grabbed a napkin. "You have a pen?"
I fumbled a black felt tip from my pocket.
"Here's what you're looking at in bills." He was writing as he was talking. "Phone, electric, gas, insurance for the place, insurance for the car, food, gas, savings, and car. First off," he was pointing at the word "CAR" with the tip, "how much is this a month?"
"Three twelve."
"What're you having?"
"You go first."
"Ham and cheese omelette. Can you put sausage in it too?"
She nodded. "Toast and potato?"
"Wheat and home fries if you still have them please."
"I'll have a western omelette with white and a side of sausage. Ok so figure hundred dollars a week for food." He wrote down $400. "One fifteen for phone, gas and electric," he drew a bracket and wrote $200 next to it. "Are you filling the tank once a week?"
"Not really."
"How much was the last fill?"
"About twenty-five."
"So say seventy-five. It depends on where you live. House insurance maybe twelve thousand a year." He wrote $100. "Car insurance one twenty-five. I'll leave this blank." He meant "Savings."
He had always been good at math, as far as I could remember, and had it added in seconds, column by column like they teach in school. He turned the paper toward me. It was not as much as expected.
"Here you go, ham, cheese, and sausage and western."
* * * * *
"I make this," took the paper, added two paychecks together, "a month."
He subtracted the previous amount. "Then this is what you'd have left to pay the mortgage."
That figure was also smaller than expected.
"Don't forget that you'll need a down payment and a couple thousand for closing costs." He looked at me. "You're really ready to do this, huh?"
"Yes, I am."
"Can I take that for you?"
"You're in a good position, you're making money, you have a job, you're putting it in the bank. When we moved out we didn't have any savings and neither of us had steady jobs. We had a little cause we just got married, but it took us seven years to buy a house.
"You know you're not being forced out or anything. You can have people over if you want, that's not a problem. Did something happen? You seem hellbent on moving out. Was it driving Nani the other day?"
"No, nothing happened, it's not that." I looked away. "I set a goal for myself and I want to be out before Ali's done with school."
"And know there's no problem with staying past that goal."
"I want to move out. Staying past that goal turns us into a sit-com." Laughter. Way to diffuse the situation.
"Take that when you're ready."
He started playing the trombone with the check, forgetting his glasses in the truck.
"OK, you ready?"
"Yeah, I'm ready."
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Sketches, 1
I am a boy, eagerly sitting in CCD, prior to the settling in of my Irish Guilt, sharing a classroom with an elderly priest and a strange girl.
She is always wearing a purple, oversized jacket on top of a white sweater. Her hair is always nestled into a clumbsy ponytail. Her frames are out of style by at least twenty years. She is very far from being even decently attractive.
And she always is paying attention. Vividly, she sits in her chair, aside from her desk, with her elbow resting heavily on her knee. It is her hand I am focusing on - she has it turned backwards. Her chin is resting in the heel of her hand, in that groove between the end of the palm and the thumb bulge. Everyone's been in this position before, at some point. The whole thing looks awkward and uncomfortable.
I try it out. It's not as bad as I thought, the weight of your head is off your shoulders for a bit, not bad. Five minutes pass. My elbow starts to dig into my knee. I sneak another look at her.
She's still sitting like that only now she has her fingers dancing across her lip, now tapping her nails against her teeth. I am getting grossed out. I know my hands are dirty but hers? She looks like she doesn't even shower or use deodorant. No one is sitting near her. Her dancing fingers remind me of a bunch of spiders running across her face. This makes me smile a little and sort of chuckle. She looks over and sees me smirking. She smiles back, still having spiders dancing on her face. I look at the board real quick. The priest has some stupid picture of a rainbow and a pit and some fire and some other bullshit he probably considers "high art" up there.
He turns and tells a joke, one person giggles.
And that was the way class would go for an hour: he would say pathetic jokes, we would try not to fall asleep, and she smiles. And she giggles. And she sort of glows. And she has her arm twisted around the whole time.
I fucking hate her.
Every single time I am sitting like she would sit, my head in my palm, fingers over my mouth, I think of spiders. I think of CCD. I think of old glasses. I think of rainbows and a wooden crucifix and fire and smiles. And I think of Bibles and pits and off-white teeth and blue walls and the "Our Father" and Landscape with the Fall of Icarus. But most of all I think of spiders.
And I change my posture.
She is always wearing a purple, oversized jacket on top of a white sweater. Her hair is always nestled into a clumbsy ponytail. Her frames are out of style by at least twenty years. She is very far from being even decently attractive.
And she always is paying attention. Vividly, she sits in her chair, aside from her desk, with her elbow resting heavily on her knee. It is her hand I am focusing on - she has it turned backwards. Her chin is resting in the heel of her hand, in that groove between the end of the palm and the thumb bulge. Everyone's been in this position before, at some point. The whole thing looks awkward and uncomfortable.
I try it out. It's not as bad as I thought, the weight of your head is off your shoulders for a bit, not bad. Five minutes pass. My elbow starts to dig into my knee. I sneak another look at her.
She's still sitting like that only now she has her fingers dancing across her lip, now tapping her nails against her teeth. I am getting grossed out. I know my hands are dirty but hers? She looks like she doesn't even shower or use deodorant. No one is sitting near her. Her dancing fingers remind me of a bunch of spiders running across her face. This makes me smile a little and sort of chuckle. She looks over and sees me smirking. She smiles back, still having spiders dancing on her face. I look at the board real quick. The priest has some stupid picture of a rainbow and a pit and some fire and some other bullshit he probably considers "high art" up there.
He turns and tells a joke, one person giggles.
And that was the way class would go for an hour: he would say pathetic jokes, we would try not to fall asleep, and she smiles. And she giggles. And she sort of glows. And she has her arm twisted around the whole time.
I fucking hate her.
Every single time I am sitting like she would sit, my head in my palm, fingers over my mouth, I think of spiders. I think of CCD. I think of old glasses. I think of rainbows and a wooden crucifix and fire and smiles. And I think of Bibles and pits and off-white teeth and blue walls and the "Our Father" and Landscape with the Fall of Icarus. But most of all I think of spiders.
And I change my posture.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Yesterday
Student- Isn't that a drug?
Me- What? No, 'anesthesia' is a drug. 'Anastasia' is a Russian princess.
-12 January, 2009. 10th Grade CP1 American Lit 1
I love my job.
Me- What? No, 'anesthesia' is a drug. 'Anastasia' is a Russian princess.
-12 January, 2009. 10th Grade CP1 American Lit 1
I love my job.
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