Writing (Absence)

So my writing urge hasn't subsided, today I'm starting to think about where the writing stems from. Both yesterday and today it seems to start with a single phrase that, for some reason, is lingering in my head. The previous little snippet (It comes) grew from the first line (From beneath the sidewalk...). Todays stems from it's first line as well. I'm wondering if this is where it all will come from, the initial line that runs through my head until it is vomited onto the page.

With stale tastes of honey and coffee grounds, he slept late.

Sunlight brushing the cratered surface of vacant pillows, cheek adjacent, and still.

Murmers of traffic whispers hints of waiting hour.

How long since he had left?

Eyes sealed against the heat of day, he dared not glimpse the persistent face of the clock.

Swallowing the faint flavor of morning exodus he allows his lids to lift.

Emptiness is waiting.

A silent room.
Closet door half open, clothes peaking out , as though planning an escape of their own.

The still room feels vaguely used, like the laundry that litters its floor.

How long?

He turns to face the demon that pries at his conscience.

8:30

the flavor of honey stained coffee left in mouth by his lover still lingers.

The rug is an obstacle between him and the door.

Corner folded back by half woken feet shuffling out while he slept.

The light has invaded the kitchen.
It has sought out and landed on the soiled French Press, on the half emptied cup, and the sticky faced bear filled with honey.

As he pries the press from the morning sun's grasp and bathes it in the small stainless sink, he notes the absence of his own cup.

The dish washer is empty.

The cupboard proves fruitless.

He settles on a juice glass as the kettle sings.

The fresh grounds gulp and gasp under the pressure of scalding water and steel plunger, drawing flash images of the evening prior.

How long?
Thirty minutes?
Forty Five?

He turns to the ice box in search of cream, eggs, bacon.

The door bears tidings from absence.

Breakfast in the microwave.

He turns to the box in the corner.
Nestled amidst greasy finger prints and specs of old lunch (Damn I really need to clean this he thinks) lies another message.

Press start.

The small screen on the box flashes:

*2:00*Press Start*2:00*Press Start*

He opens the door and peeks in.

His cup sits filled to the brim with rich brown fluid, still swirled with the white of cream un-stirred.
Next to it lay two eggs laden in congealed grease, a biscuit dabbed with near melting butter, and bacon nearly crisp but not quite.

He closes the door again, staring at the mottled surface.

His broken reflection pock marked in finger prints.

He tastes again stale honey and coffee grounds lingering from sleep.

Presses Start.

Ta Dah!!!

Here's the frames I received today. Can you spot what little changes I've made in this picture? I'm sure any of you who have any knowledge in photoshop can tell. (Yes, Mr. Satán I'm sure you've already identified several flaws in my bland play). I can't wait to get actual lenses in these things, lenses that aren't just plastic demos, lenses that won't break and scratch easily, lenses that don't have the Frame's name written across the left eye (Ohp! Damnit, I've gone and spoiled the surprise!).

OH YES!

I got new specs today. Despite my 20/20 vision, I have an ongoing love affair with eye wear. This is largely, I think, due to the other half of my family's profession. You see, my brother, mother, and myself have all pursued careers in education. However, my grandfather, father, and sister all took on roles in the optical realm. As a result I've been surrounded by glasses, books, and colorful charts my entire life. Occasionally I get a wild hair in my left nostril and decide it's time to get frames again. My newest pair are "conservative" as my sister put it. I do look rather like some sort of something I'm not. It's highly enjoyable, I can't wait to wear them to work and appear to be a "smart" teacher.

He he. accessories ladies! accessories!

Writing (It comes)

I'm reaching the point now where I sit down to write when I have nothing of interest to write about. Not even a mundane complaint or a cute anecdote from my day. I just want to make letters move across a page, it need not be paper, it could easily be pixels, just something. I feel I should find a way to harness this, focus the craving onto a topic. Write a book or children's story. But I'm not quite ready for that. Instead, today, I wrote the following. It could serve as an introduction to a book, or it could stop where it ends now. I'm not sure what it's faith shall be, but here is what, well.... it is:

From beneath the sidewalk it came.
Beneath the top soil, root balls, water table. Deep in the mantle where the ancient and new coexist. It slept cradled in the warmth of the Earth's blood, floating, waiting.

This timeless existence of before and after, of something and nothing, in one.
Here is where it started, here is where it ends.
Here is all points in between.

There is no time like the present here, no time like the past or future for that matter.
No time at all.

So when it woke it might have still been sleeping. Had consciousness been? Or is it being?

It draws in a deep sigh. Thick with molten rock. It stretches all points outward. Burbles of song seep through the mantle as it rubs what will be, what are, and what were, eyes.

The song increases, rising and falling, singing of Core, Crust, and between.

Singing of plates, rifts, and continents.
Mountains, forming, eroding, exploding.

Without time existence is mundane. One vast purgatory of half sleep.

The burbling tune crescendos in a shudder of vibrations careening in waves and bubbles through the thick fluid of the planet's womb. The last wave of song shakes all; Core, Mantle, and Crust. Forcing inward and outward.

It is said the whole Earth swelled that day.
That the axis tipped just slightly.

The Atlantic grew wider, the Himalayas grew taller, and the Cascades all blew steam from their caps. Kilimanjaro is said to have woken. Its bare peak re-dressed in white ash.

All for the coming of something whose presence seeped out undetected.

It settled in on the Americas first, a vast land of isolation. But it knew loneliness well and craved change, so it drifted on.

Over the swollen Atlantic it went, passing ships and platforms unseen.
It landed softly on a cold grey beach, slipping over the green grasses bringing light as it went. Through fog and brittle winds, past a pier to a town with stone buildings. Along cobbled streets it passed narrow doors, through a window cracked open above the road.

The bustling figures inside didn't notice the ruffling of sheets in an unoccupied bed. The warm breeze had surprised them.
The Sun had breached early.
The figures stood at the opened window looking out.

"Spring's early," said one to the other.

"Or is it late?" the other replied.

Comment conundrum

Today I recieved two (count them two!) comments from an anonymous source. Usually this gets me excited. My pulse starts to quicken at the idea of strangers reading my mundane musings. However, the comments read something along the lines of:

"Nice job! I made some quick easy cash as a secret shopper! You should try it by clicking the link below. I made $900 having fun!"

Now, don't think I'm opposed to making some money. I am, after all, student teaching, which is to say, I'm working full time and paying money I don't have to do so. No, not making little-to-no money. PAYING MONEY! But that's beside the point. I do not like the idea of some random schmuck, flitting through my blog, paying little to no attention to what is written there (I realize there is little written here anyway) and then posting some skeazy ad trying to coerce innocent people into following their insidious link.

Needless to say, I rejected these comments (there were two, completely identical). I now feel slightly less annoyed by the requisite request to enter the letters of an odd squiggly nature whenever I want to leave a comment on someone else's blog.

Keep the Mother Fuckers away!

On a lighter note:
I've been slaving away at this work stuff. I have to complete all these things by Monday and I'm nearly there. All that's left is to complete my electronic portfolio for my credential. If I continue to work tomorrow as I did today, I'll be ready by Friday and can enjoy my weekend thoroughly. Who knows, maybe I'll go to the Mountain again, just because, or play Tennis, finish the portrait I'm working on, or just lamp in the sun (for a definition of the verb "lamp" please ask Mr. Jason Rieke of Eureka, California, his boyfriend Joe, Juleen Norling of Portland, Oregon, or I suppose you could ask me).

LBC Fag Forboding

Last night Master Spiziri and I decided, after a lovely day of rollercoastering, that it would be wise to to imbibe beer at a local establishment. You see, Beer Bust, being a gay tradition, was happening, and it appeared that there was one in Long Beach. So We headed down to the place that claimed to have cheap beer. To our dismay, they had rid themselves of beer on tap (they tell us this after we payed the cover mind you). So we were drinking cheap beer in the bottle (actually preferred, though more expensive). We walked around. It was here that I was reminded of why I want to leave Long Beach. The music is frightening, the folk in attendance equally so. Inevitably it ends up with me and Master Spiziri standing in a corner, nursing beers, and allowing our self righteous gay selves to criticize the rest of the patrons. I feel awful doing this. Believe it or not, my self esteem is really not that high, yet when standing in a packed room of drooling homos such as these, it is hard for me to understand why they are drooling. Is it because they are in fact pavlovian and someone in the background was ringing a bell? Or was it simply their choice destination, enthralled by their peers and the incessant thumping of top forty remixes from five years ago. We stuck it out, enjoyed ourselves as best we could and planned to never return unless really tired, bored, and desperate (I might add that from the other perspective that this would be a choice environment, with fabulous music, to those who feel this way I give great kudos, I unfortunately am not one). I look forward to the days when the seedy underbelly of the homo community in which I live is that of the perverted folk I'm familiar with. The ones found in bars that reek of urine and stale beer, rather than cologne and fresh nail polish. When I can join the trapeze classes in Hollywood that happen on weeknights, and possibly work for pay. Those days will be soon and I positively quiver with anticipation.

Or perhaps that's the Ibuprofen talking.

By the by, I just finished watching "My Neighbor Totoro." I haven't seen it since I was in high school Japanese class. This was a recent American release by Disney. They employed Dakota Fanning and what I assume was her sister, amongst other celibrities and semi-celebrities to play the voices of the characters in English. It was still adorable, though I don't remember it being so sad. The ending is positive, but the meat is a bit heavy. I loved it. I think I shall have to search out "Graveyard of the Fireflies" next.

Irritant

A throwback to an earlier age.

Home for the summer slaving.

The weasel had come and gnawed at my flesh.

Or so it felt.

Enslaved as I was for the goods of the white bread

I scrubbed.

Brush and thinner bringing down aged paper.

paper of lines orange and pale green.

A top a stool I stood scrubbing, peeling,

paper in thin whisps, fragments like skin of the ancient.

Bubbling from the chemicals and the grueling labor of my arms.

POP! Went the Weasel.

And with it came the blood.

And with it the blood, the agony, the fear.

Were I a woman I would know menstruation, yet I am not.

I have no Uteran Lining to shed but the blood came and caked my thighs.

The pain was real and the fear that coupled it doubly so.

Now I remember.

The pain and swelling that preceded.

The knot below that grew and swelled.

The Black Bean that hell forsook has returned to stab at me with needles and glass.

Asking me to be ginger while demanding my attention ten fold.

If I had the courage I would lance.

If I had the tolerance I would ignore.

But I am a lowly faggot. Set here to wallow in my celibacy, wondering if I should have the ability to know contact again will I be able?

Or will I sit in my memory of bathrooms with wallpaper falling,

craving numbness,

bloodless,

release.

Hell Has A Name

Hell has a name, and it is spelled R I C A.

This test has tried me to a point that no standardized test has (at least not in well over a decade). I entered without too much anxiety. I consider testing like I consider many things, to freak out about it accomplishes nothing. The best one can do is to apply themselves adequately and hope that that is enough. So I did.

Well, I applied myself anyways, not as much as I could have, but I at least put for the application during the test itself.

The test allots four hours to complete the entire thing. When I took the CSSET you were given five hours. In those five hours you could take one, two, or three subsections. I took all three with the CSSET. I finished in two and one half hours and passed all three subtests with little to no studying. This RICA, alloted you four hours. Again, I studied the minimal. I finished with only five minutes to spare. Even the proctor commented about my cutting it close.

I found the proctor's comment odd. She of course, sees all that people are doing during the testing process. Once I had finished the (seemingly endless) seventy multiple choice questions, the two one page open answer questions, the two two page open answered questions, and read and taken notes regarding the final five page case study, I raised my hand to use the restroom. At this point I still had a little over an hour left to finish the exam. I thought to myself, "Okay, I have to pee. Nothing is going to relinquish this need other than going to the restroom and letting it out. I have over an hour, and I'm prepared to start writing. I might as well go and come back refreshed, ready to write."

The proctor saw my hand raised, and immediately assumed I was finished with the entire test.

Mind you, on any other test I've taken in the last nine years, she would have been correct. My theory with tests tends to be: either you know it, or you don't.

In this case, the content, or at least the answers to the prompts, is largely subjective. What you know is only part of it. It's what you can do with what you know that truly seals the deal.

When the proctor assumed I was finished, I was slightly abashed and ashamed of my slowness. But I was bound and determined to not let anything dissuade my completion of the test, not even an overt urge to urinate. So, I walked quickly to the restroom, relieved myself, and hustled back to the room.

As soon as I retook my seat, I was back at it. I noted, planned, and began to write. One hour later I was still finishing my thoughts and reeling for anything else that might add to the concepts and stratagems I was employing in my case study.

Finally, I was finished. I had written the full five pages, by hand in pencil, and was done. I was not overly pleased with my writing, but had no time or energy left to revise or fix what had been done. I did not, in truth, even have time to proof read. I quickly skimmed over what had been written, decided it was mostly legible, and turned it in.

This is when the comment of "just made it" was made.

Hmmm...thought I, perhaps I'm not ready after all. Perhaps this Reading Instruction Competence Assessment is trying to tell me something. Perhaps one does need to be a complete expert in the field of linguistics and cognitive assessment to truly complete the necessary requirements. For all I know this summation is correct. I won't know for weeks to come if I exhibited the necessary knowledge or not.

For now all I know is that I would much rather endure the persistent agony of an enraged hemorrhoid for days than face this test again.

For my sake, I hope neither turns out to be my fait.

New York Moments (Take 3)

Of Loss and Beauty.






There really is a hole there. A loss of something so real and tangible that even those of us who have never witnessed the place before can feel it. It is powerful and disgusting. The lack of something and the effects brought upon us by it can be overpowering at times. I actually saw a couple stop and pose for pictures in front of a NYFD truck. I thought to myself "When did tragedy turn in to a trendy tourist commodity?" Then I remembered the date and moved on.





This is St. Patrick's Cathedral. It lives on Fifth Avenue. Somehow, it sits across from retail establishments, hot dog venders, and delis. I sat on the steps here for a bit and wrote in my journal. I was struck by the similarities between this place and the feelings I received when viewing ancient structures in Spain. The beauty and pageantry of a lost age coupled with the rush and industry of ours. Some how the two seem to coexist without contention. As though timeless is a real thing, not just a cliché adjective for good design. The real beauty in this for me was the sense of complacency the building seemed to have. As though it's weary stones were tired but content to stand and watch the new polished sky scrapers and tiny carts come and go.

New York Moments (Take 2)

Here are more images from my New York Excursion.













Please read Left to Right, Top to Bottom. I only ask this as I am writing in English and this is the chosen directionality for this language. I apologize if it causes a stretch for your mind, then again, you chose to view and read this, so chances are, you don't mind at all. The First image is of a sign in the subway. I found it entertaining, and highly suggest to those in the marketing department at MTA that they make a jingle to go along with it. The second is the subway itself. For those of you who live in a city with an effective public transportation system, this is probably not exciting. For those of us who do not have such a system, it is a glorious thing to behold.

The third image is the moment at which Mr. Satán seemed to have discovered a tie in his soup.

Finally, the Uneven sign. Needless to say, I should be required to wear one of these everywhere I go. I know that those who went on this trip with me agree to this statement. To them I say...well..I'm not at liberty to say that here. But the appreciation and biting satire are involved.

Caterwauling Craving

Caterwauling is such an adept description. I've been studying for my test tomorrow. No, not nearly as much as I should have been up to this point, but studying none the less. While laying about in the sun with my iPod strapped to my ears I've poured over the contents of my RICA test prep book. The wonderous function of shuffle (as I believe I've mentioned before) on the iPod has given me access to my entire library at random. In this I get to "re-discover" artists I have in my library that may or may not get enough of my attention. Today it is the screaming banshies that have grabbed my interest. It started with Diamanda Galas. You see, she's new to my repetoire (with many thanks to Mr. Satán). Caterwauling is perhaps the most effective word to describing her delectable style. She seems to howl and grate through songs like a live cat strapped to an electric cello. She wails and screeches through her songs in pure emotive desperation. This may cause some to flee for Tierra Del Fuego, or some other far flung locale to avoid the sound, but to me it is captivating. It demands attention with such vigor that it causes my sub-conscience to tremble with recognition. Images are brought to my mind as I listen of depravity, desperation, and other unadulterated emotive states. Her voice is genius in its sonic impurities and emotional honesty.

The second artist, though possibly considered mundane to some when compared to Diamanda, is equally banshee-esque, though more subdued. I would possibly say that she is more guttural, visceral, ground and pulpy in presentation, while highly polished and developed in other ways. I speak of P.J. Harvey (good 'ol Polly Jean). To her I owe hours of elation, aggravation, and determination (should you not find these words befitting of Ms. Harvey, feel free to insert your own -ation term here). Specifically, the iPod selection of the day was "Mansized." Such a glorious piece to behold. I simply cannot get enough. Having had my CD's stolen multiple times (yes, J-J-Jimbo is in fact a Ninny) I no longer own as many of her albums as I once did and find my collection lacking in certain songs that I truly love. Luckily for me I do have a live concoction of her music; boot legs and what not that have come into my possession through various means. On this there is a live version of "Man Sized." No, it does not hold the finesse and disparity of the string quartet version on Rid Of Me, but it does the job in it's own way. When PJ begins wailing "Man Sized! Man Sized! Man Sized! Man Sized!" I croon with glory. There are few words to describe such a glorious wail. As though she has opened up her thoughts and let them explode through her larynx. When tied to the understated opening of the song, the seemingly introspective and methodic plodding of the lyrics in an almost whisper of words that build and build to the climax of shrieking. How I wish that more of our society accepted what is essentially a modern form of keening. Wailing out music as a means to express what words alone cannot.

Caterwauling.

I should be sleeping

One of my final purchases for my trip extraordinaire was a transpod. I decided, at the last moment (that moment being this morning before driving back to Long Beach from San Diego) to get this lovely device, rather than new shoes.

Oh what a glorious decision this was!!!! Now that I have all of my music on my iPod, I can hear any of it anywhere! Today I had my entire music library with me all the way from San Diego, and around town once home. It was phenomenal. I'm in love.

Is it legal to marry electronic devices in California? I mean, it's not like I'm going to procreate with it, we're not even the same species. I just want to show the world that we have chosen to be together for better or worse (mostly better though) and that if I should choose to leave it, I'm willing to fill out the proper divorce papers to finalize the separation. That's reasonable right?

Oddly, I think there are many in this country who'd rather I married my iPod than whatever man I end up falling in love with. But that's another tangent.

YAY! iPOD! Everywhere!

I think I just leaked with all the excitement.

And then there was none.

Disillusionment settled around me slowly.
A sheer cloth slipping from my face.

Distance looming on the horizon,

welcomed by the glare brought on from the shed fabric.

Time elaborates on wounds left vulnerable.

Susceptible to permeation from multiple sources with no bandages able to cover the whole.

I have slept little and too much, trudging onward in a world of discovery.

Looking for a future while writhing in the past and wondering where the two will collide.

Will there be more fireworks?

Fire words?

Or will the merging be more sedate as the rest of reality hints?

Words bear sharper edges than actions and actions wield great strength.

If I could leave both and live in my mind would it ease the transition?

Or would it merely complicate an already disastrous state?

Patience has never been my strong suit and now I find myself facing eternity with my watch placed firmly before my eyes,
foot tapping,
jaw clenched.

As though I can will the future to come more quickly.

Anything to urge this eternity of adjustment.

Anything to let the past be itself, and the present a new entity to enjoy rather than fear.

New York Moments (Take 1)

So the trip has transpired, and with the exception of a few moments where my inner-turmoil surfaced like bubbles in a hot pot of water, it went well. New York is, in fact, an amazing place. I look forward to going back and seeing some of the things I allowed to slip by un-experienced. Here though, are two glorious images from the trip. If you pay attention over the next few days, you may also notice a minor change to the Ninny Spot. It's getting a new subtitle and image to head it up.

You shall see.

You shall see.



I can fly! I can fly!!!










This one is a lovely detail of yet another reason why that poor little man should never leave his house.

Odd product

My most recent attempt at a cake was an odd one. I had never had this cake before, I just thought it sounded good (by title alone). It's a cake my Mother used to make apparently, though not since I've been around. It's called "Tunnel of Fudge." So I set about making it. The ingredients were simple enough as were the directions. I baked it, let it cool in the pan, pulled it out and set it to rest over night. Today I concocted a pretty decent chocolate glaze (though it's a bit too sweet I think). I ladled the cake with the glaze profusely, being sure that nearly the entire thing was coated in a sweet chocolatey goo. The finished product was lovely to gaze upon. I waited an hour or so for the glaze to cool some (it will never fully dry, but I didn't want it to be warm). I cut the cake and scooped a bit onto a plate. To my astonishment and consternation, the center of the cake was gooey. The edges of the cake were fine, maybe even a bit on the crisp side. I was sure I had done something wrong, but tried the cake anyway. It really did taste similar to fudge (this is partly due to the large amount of chopped walnuts it contains). I liked the cake but was still concerned about the gooey middle. Finally my mother (who had been sleeping when I tried it initially) woke up. I asked her if the "Tunnel" part of the title suggested that there was indeed supposed to be a pseudo-tunnel of less than cooked cake in the center. She confirmed this. So apparently, I have a new cake recipe in my arsenal. One that involves goop. I will admit, that though discerning at first, this goopy center is enticing. The cake is really rather pretty, and the gooey center makes me feel like it's a bit unusual and something fun to serve adventurous folk. I was considering scrapping the idea of taking the cake with me to work tomorrow, but now that I know it's supposed to be like this, I'll take it with me and simply apply a warning label for folks who pass through to try it. I think it shall read something like this:

WARNING: This cake, though scrumptious, contains large numbers of chopped Walnuts. If you have an irrational fear or allergy to said nuts, please do not consume. The center of said cake is also quite moist. One might go so far as to say it is "gooey." Please note that this texture is indeed intentional and is referenced in the cake's title "Tunnel Of Fudge." Enjoy.

Peek at ures

As promised, here are the pictures of some of my more recent projects, and farewell momentos from the ankle biters. The gifts are fantastic, the culinary projects not so much. But I tried, and that's the part I enjoy. Today I made a new cake. Well, it's actually a cake my mother used to make (but I've actually never had). It came out looking alright, but I have yet to try it. I think Tomorrow I'm going to make a chocolate glaze or icing to drizzle on it before I dig into it. I intend to take most of it to the new school to butter up the staff (the best way to a school teacher's heart is through sugary baked goods).

BUT, without further ado: The pictures.





These are the lovely gifts my munchkins gave me. They make my heart swell with cholesterol, I mean pride.



































The first picture here is of the spread from my cooking extravaganza. Baked bacon (the best way to cook it I must say, and fun to say to boot), home made buns, and stuffed burgers extroardinare.
The second picture is the compiled sandwich. Not so pretty, but it tasted good.

Oh! My iPod is now fully loaded. All of my music is catergorically entered into my iTunes and I'm good to go. Not a week to soon either. I LEAVE FOR NEW YORK DAY AFTER TOMORROW!!!!!!! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAAW!!!!!!

Another Day Of Infamy

Today was Election Day in Long Beach. The items on the ballot, though not necessarily too significant on the international, or even national level, were significant to our thriving metropolis. Mayor, City Attorney, City Auditor, and School Board positions are being decided upon. That in mind I'd like to invite the United Nations to come and monitor our electoral process. The School Board has been running a rather slanderous campaign. There has been an ongoing argument between the Board and the Union over cost of living increases for district employees leaving teachers working without contracts at the moment. Through out the campaign season the Board has sent out costly mailers to all district residents extolling their (fictional) virtuous ways in light of the rough rocky economy and decreasing enrollment, and villainizing local educators as money grubbing ne'er-do-wells whom care nothing for the students. This in itself is enough to get me wound up. In a time of budget crisis our public board sent out mailers that must have cost a quarter of a million dollars (lied about the expense) to propogandize their position. Then, at the last minute (just yesterday in fact) I received another little item in the mail. This one had printed on it in bold leters "Important: updated polling place information."

"That's odd," I thought as I opened it.
"I've voted in the same place for the past several years, why would they change that now?"

They hadn't.

Printed in tiny font on the upper right hand corner of the enclosed sheet was my polling place, the same place it's been for years. The rest of the page and another page included, was propaganda for the local School Board Incumbent. Admittedly I'm biased. I'm quite fond of the challenging candidate for the position this woman holds, however, this mailer sealed my resolve. I was offended by the attempt to make it seem so official and government sanctioned. I wanted to call the woman personally and tell her what a fiendish and corrupt bureaucrat I thought she was.

But I didn't.

Then today I drove to my traditional polling place. The people working were not overly eager to greet, then again, I wouldn't have been either. They were friendly enough, located my name and marked me off their list. When they handed my by ballot they started to tear it off the stack from the same side, causing my ballot to be held together by a thin thread of remaining perforation. This was irritating and distracting as I walked to my booth. In my little booth (or rather, plastic table with what looks like test dividers from a first grade classroom) I took up a ball point pen and looked at the ballot. There was no booklet to assist me, nor did I receive one in the mail. Luckily I live in an informed household and formed my opinions and views from conversations with friends, family, and advertisements (the least influence coming from the latter). I marked the bubbles for my choice of Mayor, Attorney, and Auditor. Then I gingerly flipped it over to scan the back, shocked at how short and uninformative the thing was. I glimpsed what looked like legal mumbo-jumbo decrying the contractual agreements one takes when voting. Then I struggled to slip the frail ballot into it's stiff sleave and took it to the nice gentleman who's job it is to remove the end tab and slip the ballot into the box. I proudly adorned my "I voted" sticker, and left the place.

Once in my car it dawned on me, "Hey, there was no place to vote for the School Board!" I picked up my phone and rang my dad to ask him when we were supposed to vote for the positions I was most concerned about. "Today of course," he replied.

"But there was no place to vote for them!" I answered.

I decided to go back into the polling station and inquire about this mystery.

"Oh, that's on the back of the ballot," they informed me, ten minutes too late.

"You're kidding!" I said. "Shoot. That's the one thing I really care about!"

But I was fucked. I now sit fuming at the poor planning and logistical mess this election was. If those staunchy fooligans are re-elected I shall be livid. As though our children don't have enough to worry about without thinking of losing any remaining qualified educators due to inadequate monetary compensation.

Once again I'm reminded of one of my greatest concerns with our education system. How does a populace with little-to-no appreciation or understanding of the pedagogical process, decide who's best suited to dictate district mandates?

POORLY! That's how.

That is, unless they surprise me with an informed and supportive decision this time around. Somehow I'm not counting on a society that supports education, but we shall see.

This, That, & Sleepless

My ongoing effort to finish updating my iTunes is progressing nicely. I'm nearly finished loading all of my CD's onto the thing. I've gone through already and manually entered the track titles for all the things I've loaded before when i didn't have an internet connection and organized it all by album and artist. Soon I will plug in my iPod and will have all yes ALL of my music on my blessed little technological marvel.

The real problem with all of this is it's actually causing me to lose sleep. I keep myself up at night plugging away at the fucking thing! But I'm nearly finished so it won't be long before I can just let it go.

Last Friday was my final day as a 1st grade student teacher. I bid my ankle biters a fond farewell. They gave me adorable little gifts that I have photographed for all of you to enjoy, I will upload them tomorrow. Tomorrow I start my new assignment in a third grade classroom. It should be interesting. Especially since it's basically midnight, and I'm not asleep yet. But that also will change soon.

I attempted more cooking shenanigans this weekend. I produced home made hamburger/hot dog buns (which were not great but definitely edible) as well as a chocolate chip cookie disaster. On the bright side, the chocolate chip cookie disaster makes a fantastic ice-cream topper. I made some excellent gourmet hamburgers with my father's help which I also took pictures of (that you will see soon as well).

Finally, the other thing: I have a quote of the day, courtesy of the Simpsons.

"You know Smithers, 'I told you so,' has a brother. His name is 'Shut the hell up!.'"

Time-ing

Time seems to be accelerating. My final week at my first student teaching assignment is half way finished. Between observations tomorrow, and open house on Thursday, the weekend will be upon me before I know it and with it the advent of a new school. I look forward to the new assignment. It will be nice to see a different school environment, a different age group, and a different teaching style. It will be sad to say good bye to the ankle biters. I have grown accustomed to them.

With the changing of the rooms, or at least, with the compeletion of the first week at the new school, will come the departure for New York. It's funny, how much I'm looking forward to this trip. It's almost as though I'm traveling to another country. Perhaps it's just the idea of a real vacation. None the less, knowing how quickly this week and a half is going to fly is even more encouraging.

On a completely different note:

I'm watching "The Chronicles of Narnia; The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe." I love that the evil queen is a great white hippie. Stupid white dreadie! That's right! Big pussy gonna get you!