LA Teacher

Super Wealth

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Fri, 07 Mar 2014 23:25:00 +0000

Super-Wealth

Jake Gittes: How much are you worth?

Noah Cross: I have no idea. How much do you want?

Jake Gittes: I just wanna know what you're worth. More than 10 million?

Noah Cross: Oh my, yes!

Jake Gittes: Why are you doing it? How much better can you eat? What could you buy that you can't already afford?

Noah Cross: The future, Mr. Gittes!

- Chinatown

The greatest disappointment of childhood is the moment you realize that Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

The second greatest disappointment is when you realize that getting doused in toxic waste or bitten by a radioactive spider will not give you superpowers. You learn that men are not faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, or able to leap tall buildings with a single bound. Superpowers, you are told, do not exist.

You are wrong.

There is one superpower. Wealth.

Some are born with it. Others, like Tony Montana and El Chapo, will do anything to gain it. Most dream of it, some pray for it, hardly anyone will ever come near it. A few, like the Sultan of Brunei, who on his 50^th birthday paid seventeen million to fly in Michael Jackson to sing a private performance, are wealthy at birth. Those born with wealth are typically hedonists; pleasure seeking, self-gratifying, indulgent gastropods that scratch every whim while they indulge every desire, but don’t have a clue about the power they wield or how the world functions.

Other people do everything for them.

Then there are the self-made. The true super-powered individuals are not those born with it, but those that built their fortunes brick by brutal brick, cementing their empires via a heartless combination of Sammy Glick ambition and Scarlet O’Hara ruthlessness, avarice and greed a gravitational pit that vacuums in a dangerous fortune. The Koch Brothers, George Soros, Sheldon Andelson, these are the true super-wealthy - cold men who worship the Green God, a deity who cares not about righteousness or morality, learnedness or wisdom – only one word: MORE.

Yeah, that’s right, MORE.

Note that Lebron James is not one of them. He will never be one of them. He’s just a high paid employee.

Nor will Oprah Winfrey. Sure, she’s got money. Lots of it – but that’s not the same as wealth. Oprah is at best a diva whose influence waned the moment she stopped being present on TV.

Then there’s the Donald. Donald Trump, billionaire, proud owner of the 110,000 sq foot Mar-A-Lago manor, President of Trump Plaza, arguably the world’s largest self-aggrandizer and shameless self-promoter. For decades, Trump has desperately tried to convince the world he’s one of the super-wealthy, but it’s a futile exercise, doomed to failure because the super-wealthy don’t brag. Unlike Trump, they don’t have to exclaim how great they are or create catch phrases exclaiming, “You’re fired!” Their money talks for them. Trump hasn’t learned that the super-wealthy don’t have to make it rain in a club because they own the club, and if they want, any of the people in it.

The super-wealthy aren’t the loudest kid on the playground, they are the playground. If the Democrats and the Republicans were playing each other in the Superbowl, the super-wealthy wouldn’t be on either side, they’d be the stadium. Their influence is both intangible and ubiquitous, an abrupt investment by any one of them in real estate can cause housing prices to soar or a decision to dump their stock can crash a company. From the products you consume to the information you see, one modern autocrat has more power to change your life then the president.

Think about it. Which has had more impact on your day-to-day life? Obamacare, or the smart phone? George Bush, or Fox News? Sorry Al Gore, you didn’t invent the Internet.

It was the wealthy.

The top 85 wealthiest people in the world have more wealth then the bottom 3.5 billion.

That’s approximately 41 million wretches per one super-wealthy individual, in terms of purchasing power one super-wealthy individual is equal to a half-dozen 3^rd world nations. The lower 3.5 billion have no pull economically or militarily and short of an epic disaster (tsumani’s, earthquakes, and typhoons) aren’t worth any attention in the media. Some liberals, like Michael Moore and Noam Chomskey, cluck their tongues and whine about the economic inequality, but in America, they’re talking to a wall.

In America, we want super-powers.

Taking away the money from the super-wealthy by divvying up their wealth and giving it to the very poor wouldn’t change anything. All you’d guarantee is that everyone would be poor. Zero times zero is still zero. When socialists tell people they have to share, they’re really telling them that they can’t be John Galt, Lex Luthor, or Batman.

I love Batman.

Bill Gates could be Batman.

Well, maybe not the physical part, but Microsoft has got to be the equal of Wayne Enterprises. Truthfully, Bill Gates has had a lot more success than Batman. Batman has been policing Gotham for over fifty years, and he still hasn’t permanently dealt with the Joker, the Riddler, The Penguin, or the Rogue’s gallery of villains that continuously crop up. Batman’s got a mean right hook, but he hasn’t figured out how to fix Gotham.

Bill Gates gave the world windows. Microsoft put a personal computer in every home. Microsoft changed the way we filter media, shop for goods, search for information, meet people to date, connect to loved ones, consume porn, and even formulate new conspiracies. (Could the tea party exist without the Internet?) Microsoft enables white-collar workers to waste more time then ever before, grants the NSA the power to spy on us while simultaneously granting whistle blowers the power to disseminate inconvenient truths that embarrass the government. Bill Gates instigated a technological revolution.

All Batman ever did is punch out the Joker.

You’d think after earning $101 billion, being made an honorary knight of the British Empire, the Order of the Aztec Eagle and awarded the Silver Buffalo medal (the highest award the boy scouts can give an adult) Gates would stop. But Gates doesn’t just want the now - Bill Gates wants the future. He doesn’t just want to change the way people interact with technology; he wants to change how people think.

About seven years ago he initiated the small school movement, believing that smaller schools would help struggling children. Gates believed that children were getting lost in giant, monolithic school systems, and the best way for them to begin to achieve was to put them in a smaller school setting. Gates had no evidence that this was true, only his intuition, his personal belief system, and his gut. He was half right, smaller class sizes do improve student performance, but smaller schools are irrelevant. Smaller class sizes, unfortunately, require hiring new teachers. Creating small schools by dividing up big ones is much more cost effective.

Donating billions, Gates managed to break up schools around the country, splitting up campuses, chopping up large campuses into smaller ones, each with its own principle, time schedule, grading system, and discipline policy.

At one LA school they decided to break up a three-story building into three separate schools, each school on a different floor. Kids now roamed the hallways at will, claiming to be from a different school thanks to the conflicting bell schedules which confused everyone. After the first year it was so hopeless most of the staff quit. Another failing LAUSD school was broken into two separate campuses, one for the college bound, the other for the kids going nowhere, creating a permanent rivalry and mini-war zone within the school itself. At South East, where I teach, the school was transitioned from academies into small schools, which enabled LAUSD to rift teachers based upon their seniority in the small school, not the overall campus. In an instant, dozens of veteran teachers were displaced, a decision based not on scientific validity or public opinion, but solely on Gates’ intuition.

Seven years later, test scores remain low, and small schools show no improvement. Gates however, is Superman. Bureaucratic kryptonite isn’t about to stop him.

His second foray into education was an attempt not to change the schools, but the rules the schools follow. Hiring a private foundation to create new national standards, Gates invented the Common Core curriculum. By law the U.S. Department of Education is legally prohibited from exercising any influence or control over curriculum or instruction in the schools, but a private foundation, well that’s a different story. Diane Ravitch, national education historian, summed it up best:

“So The Gates Foundation stepped in and assumed that responsibility. It gave millions to the National Governors Association, to the Council of Chief School Officers, to Achieve and to Student Achievement Partners. Once the standards were written, Gates gave millions more to almost every think tank and education advocacy group in Washington to evaluate the standards—even to some that had no experience evaluating standards—and to promote and help to implement the standards. Even the two major teachers’ unions accepted millions of dollars to help advance the Common Core standards. Altogether, the Gates Foundation has expended nearly $200 million to pay for the development, evaluation, implementation, and promotion of the Common Core standards. And the money tap is still open, with millions more awarded this past fall to promote the Common Core standards.

Some states—like Kentucky–adopted the Common Core standards sight unseen. Some—like Texas—refused to adopt them sight unseen. Some—like Massachusetts—adopted them even though their own standards were demonstrably better and had been proven over time."

Never mind the fact that the last time we imposed national standards with No Child Left Behind, they were an unmitigated disaster. Students performed terribly, teachers were demoralized, schools were denied funds for factors they had no control over, and the education gap between African American and White students grew even larger. Bill Gates isn’t an educator, has never taught in the classroom, and has no experience running a school, but it hardly matters. His money speaks for him. He is a massive blue whale, and the teachers are hapless kelp, pushed through the water from a thoughtless shrug of his bumpy fins. His small school ideology had a direct impact on my life; I lost some of my friends and co-workers when they were displaced. When my school decided to accept the money from the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation, they locked us, and the students, into staying an extra hour at the end of the day. As a result, our school has lost 600 students in the past two years, it turns out most students would rather go to a school that gets out an hour earlier. When forty-five governors decided to accept the Common Core curriculum in order to earn Obama’s Race to the Top funds, I was suddenly subjected to dozens of hours of professional development in Common Core; I also lost two Saturday’s and a Spring Break.

Never mind that no one is really sure what Common Core is. Common Core hasn’t been tested, peer reviewed, studied or examined with any meaningful critical analysis. Common Core was not passed by any of the 50 state legislatures or the Federal government, it was not voted on by any ballot measure or voter initiative, and it was not imposed by a judge or court in an effort to improve schools.

It was created and made compulsory by one of the Super-Wealthy.

Bill Gates will now not only be in your home, he’ll be teaching your children, molding them to the standards he thinks they need to learn. Of course, much of the Common Core curriculum also relies heavily on digital technology because all of the testing will be done online, a financial windfall for the tech industry. While it does not say where schools have to buy their technology, Microsoft remains the largest supplier of software on the planet. Bill Gates’ push for Common Core helped convince LAUSD they needed to spend a billion dollars on new iPad’s instead of spending money on raises, hiring new teachers, school maintenance, or vocational programs. Like a Tyrannosaurus Rex, Bill Gates inadvertently stamped out art, music, woodshop, mechanics, and band. Computers cost money.

When the iPads break or their batteries inevitably stop holding a charge, most of them will have to be replaced. The warranty is only good for three years. Maybe next time LAUSD will replace the iPads with Microsoft tablets. That might only cost $500 million.

Although Bill Gates is not solely responsible for my lack of a raise, he is paying me an extra hour to stay at school. (I voted no, but the staff couldn’t pass up the money.) His foundation also inadvertently provided money to get every teacher at my school an iPad mini. I didn’t ask for one, I didn’t even need one, but what the hell, I love it.

As one of the millions of kelp I can either get swallowed or get carried along for the ride, in the wake of Bill Gate’s passing I caught a flight to Portland for a Common Core seminar offered by the Discovery Channel. If it wasn’t for the Gates foundation, Discovery wouldn’t be hopping on the educational gravy train, and I wouldn’t have had an excuse to visit Portland and write the trip off my taxes.

People frequently worry about Obama and his abuse of power. Benghazi, drone strikes, NSA surveillance, illegal targeting by the IRS – pick a scandal. None of it matters because anytime Obama tries to get anything done, people oppose him.

No one opposes Bill Gates.

In a few years, Obama will be out of office and out of power. In a few decades, mostly forgotten.

In a few more years, Gates will be richer and more powerful then ever. Forbes magazine consistently ranks him as one either the fourth or fifth most powerful man on the planet. Unlike Obama, Gates won’t be a memory in your rearview mirror; he’ll be the sign in your headlights down the road, because Gates is buying up the future. That’s what it means to be one of the Super Wealthy. You get to be a modern day pharaoh and shape our civilization.

Yet the Pharaohs were more humble. They only controlled Egypt and wanted to control their lives after their deaths.

The Super Wealthy don’t just want Egypt, they want the planet. They don’t just want to control their future - they want to control yours.

They want everything.

They want more.

And some, like Bill Gates, want to control how your children think.

Random Encounter

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 03:02:00 +0000

Random Encounter

On Saturday morning, I get mugged. Like most muggings, it happened quickly and with no warning.
It’s my official last day at my old apartment. I’m moving boxes out of storage, mentally focused to getting the hell out of dodge, away from my low class neighbors, the pawn shops and liquor stores, the section 8 housing. I’m alone in the parking garage digging through a storage cabinet when two men round the corner, unmasked faces cloaked with menace. Similar to what a gazelle must feel to when it spots a lion on the Savannah, the minute I saw them I knew I was in trouble. They were not normal people, but hallowed men, empty receptacles filled with hungry avarice, souls scooped out and tossed away somewhere during childhood. They radiate rage and terror, mouths shut, demeanor and posture shouting violence.
It’s a random encounter; an unpredictable event that get hurled into life in an effort by the Creator to alleviate boredom and create excitement. In this, God functions much like a film or TV director who will toss in a bit of random “action” whenever they need to pick up the pace; Spider Man webbing a purse snatcher, Bruce Lee beating the crap out of a street gang, Arnold Schwarzengger mowing down a legion of minions in Commando. While I appreciate the “Big Man” trying to keep me on my toes, I am unfortunately not a super hero, martial artist, or indestructible action hero.

In fact, this encounter is blatantly unfair for several reasons, the first being that I’m unarmed, and the second being that I’m a dual class 8^th level teacher/3^rd level comedian. Some people choose to be soldiers, or hunters, or boxers; adventuring classes that can defend themselves. One example would be my friend George, a 3^rd level marine corp sniper. Others like Vinnie are tough just by nature of where they live, (10^th level New Yorker) armed with a protective aura of attitude.

So when God rolls invisible cosmic dice, determining that is time for one Brian Leiken, 8^th level teacher/3^rd level comedian to be robbed by a pair of 4^th level thugs, I’m not prepared to handle it. A moment before the robbery I’m mentally focused on moving out of my old apartment, returning early Saturday morning to collect the last of my belongings, most of which remain stashed away in a small parking garage storage unit. (This is the exact same spot where my car was stolen, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised about what is going to happen next, even though it is broad daylight.) I’m digging through the storage cabinet for a box of old clothes, wondering if I should just throw them out when the dice are thrown.

The odds of getting robbed at 8 in the morning are extremely low, probably about 1%, but unbeknownst to me - God’s daily been rolling a d100, looking for that 01. Today, he rolls it. Two 4^th level thugs materialize around the corner.

It reminds me of a time I was playing in a D&D game being run by Dan Kaplan, who randomly rolled up a pack of a dozen trolls against Dave, a 4^th level thief armed with daggers. Having no chance against such fearsome enemies, Dave fled. It turns out that even against such overwhelming odds, his imaginary character had a better chance than I do.

The thug on the left is a bald Latino in white baggy t-shirt and shorts, the universal uniform of the LA cholo; he eyes me with the contempt of a schoolyard bully. His companion, eyes wild and amped, is African American, but has opted to don a gray sweater and black sweats, crack head approved drug user apparel the world over. Two feet away the pair of them stop; flanking me, bracing themselves for resistance or an attempt to escape.

Unlike Dave and the trolls, fleeing isn’t an option, I’m pinned into a corner of the parking garage, my only chance is to try and run through them. Standing over six feet tall, skin pock marked and crisscrossed with scars, they are physically intimidating. For all I know they could have weapons concealed beneath their baggy clothes.

I have no gun, no belt knife, not even a can of pepper spray. All I got is my fists – and a mouth. Perhaps I could offer to grade them, offer critical feedback on their technique by creating a four point rubric that assesses their mugging on intimidation, efficiency, risk, and professionalism. Alternatively, using my teacher powers I could lecture them about the history of crime, or use the Socratic method in an attempt to appeal to their higher reason.
Shit, as a character class teachers are more worthless than a D&D druid.

At least the Druid could turn into a bird and fly away; all I can do is grin and try not to sweat. Should have picked a modern day adventurer class, like a cop, martial artist, spy, or bounty hunter. I guess I could always try to joke my way out of it, make them laugh and hope they decide to let me go. It’s time to make a decision. Fight, run, or surrender.

Having gained the surprise round, the Latino speaks first. “You know the drill, empty your pockets.”

I attempt to make a skill roll to talk my way out of it. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I snarl angrily. That's it? You got to be kidding me? The roll fails.

Their turn, the Latino rolls for intimidation. “Do it, or you’ll get beat up.” He gets an 11 on a d20, not a great roll, but given the circumstances he only needs about a five or better. His friend assists, adding +2 to the roll by glaring menacingly. That makes it a 13. Shit! I pull out my wallet, phone, keys, and toss them to the ground.

“Is that it?” the Latino asks, rerolling his intimidation a second time. It works, but I got nothing left to give.

“That’s it!” I bite back, pissed at myself for failing my saving throw.

The Latino approaches and pats down my back pockets, but they’re empty. His friend snatches up my belongings.

I rally, roll a 15 and have the temerity to ask a question. “Can I at least keep my ID?”

Neither of them respond as they dart around the corner. I follow, suddenly afraid they might try and steal my car. At least it’s lo-jacked.

“Can I have back my keys?” I ask.

“They’re in the dumpster!” the black man shouts back. Neither of the thugs run, but they move at a brisk pace. I follow, not sure what I should do. “Hey, they’re in the dumpster,” he calls back again, “I swear.”

“Don’t follow us!” the Latino warns.

I stop to look in the dumpster. Sure enough, my keys are on the top of a pile of trash. I’ve never been more grateful to see them.

I look up, but the thugs are already a block away. I could pursue, but then what? I’m not armed; I don’t even have a phone to call the police with.

I run into the building and knock on a neighbor’s door. The apartment building I’m moving out of has turned into government housing, and not filled with the friendliest people. I can hear kids crying out from behind the door as I knock, a concerned mother’s voice telling her children not to answer it. I shout that I don’t mean to alarm her, but I’ve just been robbed and need to contact the police.

A black woman answers the door, her three kids behind her, all staring with wide eyes. I explain what has happened and she nods, dialing. I contact an operator and she tells me to sit tight while they dispatch a patrol unit.

A few minutes later a police car rolls up, I wave to them as one of the officers calls out that they’ll patrol the block to see if they can spot the thieves. I nod, hoping they’ll catch the unrepentant scum who took my belongings, the yellow bellied trash.
But in my heart I know they won’t.

The police return five minutes later, take a report; ask for a description and how much was stolen. Losing the wallet is painful, I had $120 in cash, $70 of which was going to a maid I had coming to clean out the apartment. The loss of the iPhone is near catastrophic, there is no insurance on it and it cost me $300. Because I’m in the middle of a move, I have no Internet and no way of immediately contacting anyone about what has happened.

I give the police a description, but while bald cholo’s and black crack heads might attract notice in small town USA, in Los Angeles I might as well be describing lampposts and freeway pavement. The cops are sympathetic, but there’s little they can do, expressing surprise only that I got my keys back. They call my phone number, but the thugs are smart enough not to answer.
I’m given a report and told that a detective will be in touch if they find anything. (Yeah, right.) Quivering with rage, I go back into the apartment and lock the door, waiting for my roommate to arrive to help with the rest of the move.

I play the event over and over in my head; wondering if I should have tried to fight or make a run for it. I’m not Jackie Chan, I can’t do back flips and spinning round house kicks. I didn’t have any weapons, I’m not particularly strong or massive or trained how to fight. Like a low level character being forced to fight a dragon, this wasn’t an encounter but a Kobayashi Maru, an unwinnable scenario.

But what If I had won? I would have gotten to keep my belongings, $120 in cash, my ID’s, and my phone. But if I had lost I would have lost not only my belongings, but taken a beating, possibly been hospitalized or killed. Any kind of rational analysis leaves only one correct solution: give up your belongings; it’s not worth it.

Then why do I feel like such a coward?

I log onto my laptop and piggy-back on someone else’s internet, leaving a message on Facebook that I’ve been robbed. My sister (10^th level producer) arrives about an hour later with her husband (12^th level entrepreneur); both are supportive and concerned. “You made the right move.” She exclaims, worried. “Things can be replaced, you can’t.”

I nod dumbly. All I really want to do is take a bat to the mugger’s heads and split them open until the red runs out like ice cream sherry. Friends and family alike contact me, are you okay, is everything alright? I tell them I’m fine. Really. Other then wanting to bury a couple of fools, I’m fine. I daydream in my head if I had just had one good friend with me, this might have worked out differently.

I decide to Skype Harry, a 10^th level grad student/5^th level professor. He tells me I did the right thing. I complain bitterly about being a teacher and feeling so helpless.

“You’re not a teacher,” Harry responds, “your a bard.”

“I should have fought back!”

“Fight?” Harry scoffs. “Over what? Some cash and a phone? Street trash like that is a dime a dozen, bards are rare. As a criminologist I can tell you that eventually they’ll be caught, or robbed by other thieves, or end up murdered in a crack house or a ditch. You did make one mistake though.”

“What’s that?”

“You should have called out that you’d pray for them!” Harry laughs.

The next day I get an email from my father, and although I’m still pissed about what has happened, he somehow still makes me feel better.

Remember these two assholes do not and never will have 1/100th of what you have. They are still losers and you are Brian Leiken, teacher, writer, and world traveler who is loved by hundreds of people you have touched.

Thank you for that Dad.

Old Man Rivers

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 03:40:00 +0000

“But you didn't prove that vanilla was the best.”

“I didn't have to. I proved that you're wrong, and if you're wrong I'm right.”

“But you still didn't convince me”

“It’s that I'm not after you. I'm after them.”

- Thank You For Smoking

The Philippines, dusk. Sitting at the hotel bar with my father, enjoying a San Miguel Light, the official (and only) light beer of the Philippines. We’re discussing immigration, and both being of the liberal persuasion are expressing a point of view Democrats would readily agree with. It’s a lazy conversation, the kind people have when they aren’t really debating but more interested in agreeing with one another; many men use sports to bond with their father, but I use politics.

Drinking alone at a nearby table, an older man drinks by himself. The weather is humid and sticky, almost unlivable to anyone familiar with the comforts of air conditioning but like a stoic hero, he sweats in silence. Grizzled and weathered, the man wears a dark T-shirt and black jeans.

Face darkening, he rises from his table. “I once hired a crew to fix the roof of my house,” he barks, interrupting our conversation. “Other than the foreman, not one of them was white, all of them were Mexican.”

“How much money did that save you?” I crack.

“Probably a lot, but you interrupted me!”

I blink. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, continue.”

“I was making a point! He should have hired Americans to do it!”

My father decides to leap in. “Hey, take it easy. There’s no need to be rude.”

But Old Man Rivers is already walking away, irritated. “You expats are all the same, you all think you know it all! Can’t talk to you people about anything!”

I’m surprised, but decide Old Man Rivers is just a crotchety real life version of a cartoon villain from a Scooby Doo cartoon. I let it go, but the next day I see him, and the day after that I see him again. Old Man Rivers scowls in my general direction, but I ignore him, which considering the small size of the hotel is not so easy to do.

Every day, Old Man Rivers comes to the bar to flirt with the serving girls, expounding about his life to anyone who will listen. A loner, he’s been retired for the past 13 years, hasn’t been married in thirty, and has no children, a man fond of bitterly focusing on his failures. When not reflecting on his life, Old Man Rivers spends the rest of his time complaining angrily about the decline of America, which is falling apart for any number of reasons, namely:

1. The federal government

2. Obama

3. Minorities

4. Immigrants

5. Bankers

6. The Chinese

7. Liberals

I like to think I'm a patient, kind person - that there is little, if anything, that gets under my skin. I listen with half an ear, trying to ignore the words that pour from his mouth, opinions based not on fact but Fox News. But hey, he’s entitled to his opinion – it’s not my place to judge.

But there are times some people take it a step too far.

A few days later Old Man Rivers is talking with a retired firefighter named Bob, as good natured and cheerful as anyone you'll ever meet. I walk out to the bar to get reception on my computer when Bob tells me that he heard on CNN that all teachers are losing their summer vacation. I politely laugh.

“He’s a teacher,” Bob explains, looking over to Old Man Rivers. “So is my daughter.”

"Well," Old Man Rivers begins, "I'll tell you one thing, I hate those teachers unions."

I close my eyes. Do I let this go? Old Man Rivers is just a crotchety old codger who speaks piss and vinegar, spouting words so sour lemons seem sweet in comparison. I should let it go, who cares what he thinks? But not this time. He might have been attacking “teacher’s unions”, but I can read the subtext.

He’s attacking me.

"Are you trying to start a fight?" I call out.

"What, I don't know what your talking about!"

"Are you trying to start a fight?” I say again, repeating myself. “When you make a statement about teachers unions after hearing I'm a teacher, I'm assuming you want to start an argument."

"You think you know me, eh?" Old Man Rivers snarls. "You deduced that I don't like you from one statement. You are so smart, I didn't know you were such a genius."

"No, I deduced it from your earlier behavior. You snapped at me, I apologized, and then you stormed off. Now I'm assuming you want to pick up where you left off."

"I don't remember any of that."

"Well I do," I continue. "And yes, you are looking to start something. Because you could have said anything, you could have said: "You know, you teachers do hard work," or "I don't know why anyone would want to be a teacher," or "I know there are some good teachers, but I don't like the teacher's unions," or you could have commented about the weather or said nothing at all. But you deliberately made a provocative statement."

"You don't know what you’re talking about," Old Man Rivers snaps. "You don't know the first thing about me."

"You're right! Have you worked in an inner school district, or as an administrator, or had a kid threaten to shoot you in the head, or threaten to rip out your teeth? Ever had a kid dribble spit all over your desk?” I snap back. “I have! If you haven’t taught, I don't think you have the right to be so critical."

"All you teachers are the same." Old Man Rivers responds. "That's what you all say, you think you are so much better than the rest of us, but your not. I guess then you don't have the right to criticize Viet Nam because you weren't there."

Viet Nam? Where the hell did that come from? "No, I don't have the right to be critical of the soldiers because I wasn't there - unlike how you are criticizing my profession."

Bob interjects, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry I started something, I didn't know this was..."

"Don't apologize," Old Man Rivers interrupts, jerking a thumb at me. "This guy doesn't have good manners."

I rise from my seat and move over to Old Man River's table, sitting across from him. "I want to hear your opinion, but in return you have to listen to mine. But unless you've really experienced what is like to be a teacher, you can't understand the importance of the union and how it protects my wages and my benefits."

"So now we know the price of your soul." Old Man River's huffs. "A few benefits and wages."

The bar has grown quiet, both Filipino's and expats watching with wide eyes amazement. Evidently I'm not just a teacher, according to Old Man River's, I'm some sort of priest that's supposed to sacrifice everything for my students. From this point on the conversation revolves around refuting his half-baked facts while he counters with anecdotal evidence (probably from Fox news) about how teachers unions protect bad teachers. I tell him that a few bad teachers aren't the reason why kids fail, kids fail because of indifferent parents and byzantine regulations that make it impossible to enforce consequences.

Old Man Rivers changes topic to how the federal government has taken control of local schools, I inform that the majority of school funds come locally from the State, and that other than Title One and other limited programs, the Federal government has little influence how states run their schools. Old Man Rivers expounds that teacher's unions make it impossible to fire teachers, I tell him that we just lost 25% of our staff at my school, and that three other schools fired 50% of their teachers in my district.

"Well I don't know the case of your school, but I don't know why you are wasting your time talking to me, because I'm not going to change your mind and you aren't going to change mine." I spare a glance over to Bob and the Filipino's behind the counter. He's right, I'm not going to change his mind, but I have an audience, and he's played his part of the old fool to the hilt. Bob pays his bill, but approaches me, muttering. "You are a lot more patient than I am, after he cut me off I was ready to hit him."

It's rare to meet someone who really dislikes teachers and thinks we're spoiled, overpaid, crybabies, but it's clear to me that Old Man Rivers really hates my profession. Of course, I think he hates most people.

Why is it that if soldiers lose a war, no one calls them lazy or cowards? Why is it when crime rises in a city or district, hardly anyone says it’s because the police were eating too many doughnuts? But teachers are different. We’re supposed to give everything – even our own wages and benefits for the public good, and when we don’t we’re often labeled as greedy and selfish.

Maybe it’s not because people hate teachers, but it’s because when you badmouth a teacher, they don’t have any real power to hurt you. Badmouth a cop or a soldier, and you might get punched in the face.

I think as a profession we should start carrying nightsticks.

Slut Walk

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 14:09:00 +0000

Feminism: Organized activity on behalf of women’s rights and interests

SlutWalk first started in Toronto.

In January of 2011 Toronto police constable Michael Sanguinetti was invited to New York University to lecture to a group of young co-ed’s about safety and personal security. During the class Sanguinetti told the students who had gathered that: "Women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized."

Local feminists Sonya Barnett and Heather Jarvis were outraged: Sanguinetti's blame the victim mentality infuriated them along with the insinuation that women who are sexually assaulted are somehow responsible for their own rape. True, neither Barnett or Jarvis were at the event where Sanguinetti made his comment, but this didn’t stop them from deciding to do something about it. Sanguinetti and the Toronto police department apologized, but Barnett and Jarvis still weren't satisfied, and a week later both they and three of their friends organized a five woman march - or SlutWalk, to protest victim blaming, sexual profiling, and to reclaim the word “slut”.

A Facebook page was created, and via Twitter a social movement was born. SlutWalk didn’t have the "official" support of NOW (National Organization of Women) or other major feminist organizations, but that hardly mattered. The movement went viral and within weeks dozens of protests were organized throughout the United States and Canada, including Australia and South Africa. Although the movement started small, some marches have already gathered thousands of protesters, many of whom dress in corsets, stiletto high heels and fish net stockings in an effort to attract attention. For the first time in twenty years the feminist movement was no longer on the defensive. SlutWalk had given feminism a much needed shot of adrenaline.

In 1999 I was a part time substitute teacher who had recently completed my MA in U.S. history, but with no job prospects I’d leap at any chance to earn a little extra cash. I was contacted by Barbara Drake, editor of the Peoria Journal Star, who was on an assignment for the paper to interview famous people who had grown up in Peoria, Illinois. Drake was going to be in Washington D.C. to interview Betty Friedan, author of the Feminine Mystique and the official founder of the post World War II feminist movement. Drake informed me that my job was to make sure the tape cassettes ran smoothly and ensure the interview wasn’t interrupted – Friedan had a reputation for being difficult and Drake didn’t want anything to break up the flow of the interview. After Richard Pryor, Friedan was probably the 2nd most famous person to ever hail from Peoria, a city with just over 100,000 people surrounded by farmland in the heart of the Mid-West. I was curious to meet Friedan, who for me wasn’t so much a person but a piece of living history, for over 40 years a woman endlessly referenced in text books and articles by scholars and academics. Just as you can’t talk about the Theory of Evolution without invoking Darwin, or discuss the Communist Manifesto without referencing Marx, you can’t have any legitimate understanding of modern Feminism without discussing Betty Friedan.

And I was going to get to meet her!

Although Friedan was an intellectual and an activist who had successfully founded NOW and staged a victorious campaign to help legalize abortion, increase women’s wages and fight for paid maternity leave, Drake was more interested in interviewing her about her childhood and what it was like to grow up in Peoria. In other words, it was a “fluff” piece; Drake wasn’t interested in being adversarial, all she wanted to know was what it was like to have been born and raised in Peoria. The interview, if you’re interested, can be accessed here:

http://books.google.com/books?id=JXYStj1VHSoC&pg=PA181&lpg=PA181&dq=betty+friedan+peoria+journal+star&source=bl&ots=s22YiBL743&sig=0E47SvmehRLb9GXx9WByMKkhIKo&hl=en&ei=18D7TfiHHczRiAKC1eXsBA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=6&ved=0CDQQ6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q=betty%20friedan%20peoria%20journal%20star&f=false

Located in North West D.C., Friedan’s apartment was decorated in awards and honorary plaques, including a political cartoon of her dressed as a 19th century maid sweeping away playboy bunnies and Hugh Hefner, the caption reading: SWEEPING OUT THE TRASH! Friedan herself was frail but her mind was still sharp, eyes glittering in a weathered face. I set up the tape recorders as Drake introduced herself, asking Friedan questions about her childhood and what it was like to attend school in Peoria in the 1930’s.

At one point Friedan’s phone rang, disrupting the interview. I looked at Drake, afraid to ask if I should answer it. “Damn it! Friedan snapped, “Isn’t someone going to get that!” I nearly leapt out of my chair, scrambling to reach the phone which was in the kitchen, but as I grabbed for the receiver the caller hung up. “That’s it, this interview is over!” Friedan exploded as she pounded her couch in fury. “I can’t believe you didn’t get that for me!”

Drake and I tried to hide our astonishment, but Drake recovered quickly, calming Friedan down. After several minutes of coaxing, Friedan relented and allowed Drake to finish the interview. But something had changed; Friedan was angrier now, more sullen, more bitter. No matter how easy the question, Friedan’s remarks become more biting and cynical. She was angry at younger women for not appreciating what they have, for all that she and other feminists fought for. She was enraged at NOW for turning feminism into a gender issue and steering it away from equality, “Normal women don’t want to be associated with a group of lesbians.” Friedan fumed about masculine culture and its unfair standards of beauty; she complained about ageism, sexism, and the glass ceiling which no matter how hard women push against it, always seems to remain just out of reach.

She was a revolutionary, and like Patrick Henry after the American Revolution had found herself put out to pasture. Friedan’s victory for women’s rights was so complete that her brand of feminism is passé, even the most die hard misogynist would have a difficult time arguing that women should get paid less than men for doing the same work. Certainly there is still sexism, but the basic privileges that Friedan wanted have been obtained. To survive as a movement, feminism had to change, veering further and further to the left until it entered the territory of the absurd. Early feminists objected to being portrayed as sexual objects, campaigned hard against the abuse of sex workers; they burned bras and pornography and refused to wear nylons, heels, use hair products or cosmetics.

How far we’ve come; from the glory days where millions of activists marched for the Equal Rights Amendment, now handfuls of thousands march for the right to reclaim the word “slut.” Known as third wave feminism, post-modern feminists no longer abhor lingerie; they relish in it, and are completely unapologetic about what they wear or how they should behave. Like libertarians who claim they have no fiscal or social responsibility to anyone, post-feminists feel they shouldn’t be held accountable for how they dress; they are women who insist they not be sexually objectified even if they dress like sex objects. They demand the right to wear whatever they want wherever they want whenever they want without being labeled, insisting that their clothing, or lack of it, should have no effect on the viewer – but then wear sexy apparel that deliberately incites the viewer into labeling them “sluts.”

There is a SlutWalk being held at West Hollywood Park just off of Santa Monica , in an area of the city typically referred to as “Boy’s Town.” Boys Town is tasteful, full of trendy restaurants that serve delightful servings of what a friend of mine refers to as “gay-cuisine.” It’s a Saturday afternoon, and there are perhaps two hundred people in attendance, the majority of whom are young women holding signs and shouting slogans while a handful of men chant along half-heartedly.

“No matter what I wear or how I wear it!” a woman at the mike shouts.

“YOU MAY NOT TOUCH ME!”

“2, 4. 6, 8, stop the violence stop the rape!”

“YOU MAY NOT TOUCH ME!”

“Not the church, not the state, women must control their fate!”

“YOU MAY NOT TOUCH ME!”

“Whatever we wear, wherever we go, yes means yes, but no means no!”

“YOU MAY NOT TOUCH ME!”

Most of the women are dressed in sweats and jeans, but a handful wear bras and fishnet stockings, including a cougar in a black latex corset with thigh high boots. Other girls wear black T-shirts with the word SLUT emboldened across them: I would stare but most of them don’t have bodies worth staring at. A pasty skinned rape survivor takes to the podium and speaks about surviving rape; a feminist professor in blue shorts, knee high black socks and hiking boots informs the crowd two women are sexually assaulted every minute in the United States. I do a quick calculation and estimate that’s roughly a million American women every year.

While a few in the crowd appear to be true believers, the majority look like they’re attending just to be a “part” of an event. For them, SlutWalk might as well be Halloween, it’s an excuse to dress up like “sluts” and party. One full figured alternative girl in a black T-shirt wearing fifties rimmed glasses informs a news crew that at least for her, it’s all about reclaiming the word “slut” and making it good again, similar to what “stud” means for men.

If you want to see SlutwWalks around the world, click below:

http://www.ibtimes.com/articles/166482/20110621/slutwalk-capitol-hill-neighborhood-in-seattle-women-in-provocative-outfits-capitol-hill-neighborhood.htm

I should stay, but truthfully, I’m bored. After the speeches there is going to be a march around the streets of Hollywood, culminating at the gayest Hamburger joint in West Hollywood, Hamburger Mary's. Normally I’d stay, but something about the combination of feminist dogma and unattractive women wanting to dress slutty acts like a repellent bug spray, and after fifteen minutes I find myself beating a hasty exit. The next speaker drones on about the patriarchy and how it must be overthrown if women are ever to be free from the reign of men, the crowd claps appropriately - I wonder how many of these young women are attending for "college" credit. No one misses me, and I'm glad I'm ignored - by nature of my gender and skin color I symbolize the "dominant-patriarchy" and there is no place for me here.

Post Modern Feminism isn't about gender equality, it's a hate group.

Not even 6 years past Friedan’s death, and the feminist movement which she started has become an almost unrecognizable parody of itself, a mockery of the values she fought to change. As long as post modern feminism continues to bash men and promote women as victims, is it any wonder why so few women want to identify themselves as feminists?

Perhaps all social movements are destined to become corrupted; would Jesus even remotely recognize the religion Christianity has become? Ancient Christians identified themselves through drawings of fish, the cross was not a holy symbol, but an image of pain and terror until it was co-opted by the Catholic church in the 11th century. Whereas Jesus was outspoken against usury and the excesses of the wealthy, Calvinism actively cherishes the pursuit of wealth as an act of divine grace.

Today, more women attend college and earn college degrees then men, while the wage gap has shrunk and almost disappeared. Divorce and abortions, which at one time were virtually unobtainable, are now everyday rights. Each year, more women enter the male dominated fields of law, medicine and science; the most popular candidate in the Republican party is ironically, a woman. (True she's not "officially" running and she is an idiot, but she draws massive crowds.)

But instead of continuing to push for equal rights, modern feminists tell women they should be proud to dress like "sluts". Instead of being embarrassed for dressing like a skank, they should "own" it, flaunt it, and actively parade their sexuality in open public space. Instead of promoting individual responsibility, the message of SlutWalk seems to be that you're free to act however you want and if something "bad" happens to you, well that's the fault of the man who assaults you.

If men were to organize a "PimpWalk," dressed in ghetto fabulous street wear in an effort to promote soliciting prostitutes to live off their earnings and reclaim the word "pimp", would anyone take a PimpWalk seriously? That feminists would have to resort to shock tactics to garner attention does not bode well for the future of the movement - perhaps feminism, having accomplished what it initially set out to do, is past its due date and should be tossed into the ideological trash bin. It's one thing to promote awareness, rape is a horrific crime, but its another to do it while wearing bunny ears and lingerie as it reduces sexual assault to the level of a surrealist joke.

And yet SlutWalk resonates, especially with younger women. Friedan was right, younger women don't appreciate the sacrifices that earlier generations made. SlutWalk isn't a protest movement, it's a costume party, a chance to be simultaneously risque and yet be socially "aware". The majority of these girls aren't protesting for social change, they're protesting to get attention. They want the privileges of equality, but not the responsibilities. Just because you can dress like a "slut," doesn't mean you should.

Feminist – An opinionated woman with a strong dislike of men: see Feminazi

Exit Through the MOCA

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 14:06:00 +0000

I don't like modern art.

Modern art doesn't have to be explained, it doesn't have to follow any rules or guidelines; modern art can be formless, shapeless, messy, non-sensical, even ridiculous. If I were to write a blog with no paragraphs, no sentence structure and no standardized spelling it would be unreadable garbage, literate trash not worth the encrypted bits of data it's written on. But splatter some paint on canvas, cover a painting in abstract geometric shapes, take a picture of a soup can, and suddenly it's "art".

I despise modern artists - these new age con-men that hide behind their pseudo scientific etymology that criticizes the viewer for not understanding their post-modern, post-minimalist, conceptual-realist, impressionist via post-impressionist, neo-expressionist movement. The modern artist does not have to be "great", only to have others perceive them as "great"; their art requires no study or great skill - it's meant to be mass produced, copied, emulated. Modern art requires nothing on the part of the artist or the viewer; technique, style, and form are irrelevant, all that matters is how the art makes you "feel".

An eight year old by the name of Autumn de Forest began producing art pieces when she was five - she's already raked in $200,000. Doesn't matter if she's a child prodigy or if she's just lucky - people like her work because buying an 8-year old's art makes them feel "good."

Not even war has managed to escape the touchy-feely modern day art movement. In the early days of operation "Iraq Freedom" bomber crews would write epithet's on the sides of their bombs; "Take that Camel Jockey!" or "Hope you've got 72 virgins waiting on the other side, Mohammad!" Reporters took photographs, there was an uproar, and the Air Force apologized, promising a quick stop to the practice of writing insults on bombs. It was evidently okay to blow someone up, just not to call them a name while doing it.

Better to hit me with sticks and stones and break my bones because y'know, names can really hurt me.

One of the newest movements in modern art is "Street Art", an art movement that started about twenty years ago off the streets of New York and LA. Street artists are modern day surrealists that create guerrilla style art by placing their images on unsanctioned public space. Many don't consider them artists at all, but unlicensed vandals who should be fined and jailed for spraying "graffiti" on public buildings. Growing up with '70's and '80's pop culture, street artists don't appear to be interested in redefining art, but simply questioning its meaning by stating it doesn't have any meaning.

In other words, they delight in thumbing their nose at the establishment, especially the post modern art movement.

Last year, Banksy, the Andy Warhol of the street art movement, made a documentary entitled Exit Through The Giftshop. The movie was supposed to be a documentary about Banksy until he takes over the film and spins the cameras on filmmaker Thierry Guetta. Although Thierry Guetta has no discernible talent, Banksy lends him credibility, transforming Thierry into Mr. Brainwash, a non-talented overhyped genius sensation. A couple testimonials, a write up in the LA Weekly, and Thierry's Brainwash originals transform into priceless gems worth thousands of dollars.

Bat Papi is my favorite.

Starting this weekend the LA museum of contemporary art (MOCA) put on the first major museum "Street Art" exhibition - Art in the Streets. Like a mid-westerner avoiding a vegan restaurant, the MOCA is the kind of museum I would never enter unless I wanted to make myself irrationally angry watching people ogle over puddles of dripping ooze, but for Street Art I'll make an exception.

Street Art doesn't pretend to be anything, it is just as devoid of meaning as any other kind of modern art, except Street Art is both an incessant celebration of pop-culture and never ending mockery of the modern art movement.

My uncle Bernard is in town, so I decide to take him and my cousin Arlie to the exhibit. We park and Arlie pops for the tickets, $10 a piece. After nearly running a couple of pedestrians over, we discover we're at the wrong part of the museum, we'll have to take a shuttle to the exhibit which is being held in another part of the MOCA downtown. Ironically this was the best thing we could have done because the line for tickets outside the actual event looks to be about an hour long.

Inside we are greeted by a mural of dead animals covered in doors that function like a macabre pop up book, when the doors are flipped "open" they reveal the animals interior organs. Brains, guts, the digestive system. People open the doors then scurry away in revulsion.

Looking out over the museum the entire building strikes me as a carnival. The MOCA's interior is covered in graffiti, stencil art, and posters with videos playing in the background. It's packed with Hollywood hipsters wearing ironic T-shirts and coiffed hair, faces masked under thick McNamara glasses, bodies decorated with sleeves of tattoos, wrapped in so many lairs of irony one wonders if there is a person beneath the "look".

The crowd is an exhibit unto itself, young MILF's with adorable children who function not as kids but as fashion accessories, manicured metrosexuals, 5'1 lesbian couples with matching chain tattoos, unshaven intellectuals wearing leather jackets and sneakers, dolled up Asian girls being towed by their dopey white boy boyfriends, Echo Park Bohemians and vogue Westsiders who look like they rarely cross East of the 110, teenage taggers who drool over the cholo graffiti with wonder and envy.

As they say in LA, it's not an event, it's a "happening."

The art is as varied as it is bizarre; some of it I recognize because I've already seen it decorating the streets of LA for years; Shepard Fairey's Andre the Giant entitled "Obey" (he's also done the blue and red Obama poster), Invader's trademark Space Invader coming down to Earth, Lady Pink's Buff Monster - and of course Banksy.

Banksy's "I Hate Mondays!

There are ceilings hung with paper fighter jets riding skateboards above armored shogun warriors, disembodied arms spray painting buildings, cars pimped out with blue and pink chrome, a 3-D replica of an interior subway car two feet wide, a drum set just sitting out in the open waiting for anyone to play it, murals of cholo's drinking 40's and chola's wielding uzi's dressed as angels. It takes me a moment to realize that much of the art isn't even on canvas, but spray painted or stenciled into the walls of the MOCA itself - someone is going to have a time cleaning this all up.

"I like it," Bernie declares grandly, "I like it because it's an act of free will. I just can't tell if they are doing it to make a statement or make a buck."

"Probably both."

"I normally hate museums," Arlie adds, "but this doesn't feel like a museum at all."

She's right, it doesn't feel like a museum. The exhibit isn't confined to the art on display, but is a part of the walls themselves, even the crowd feels like a part of the show. This is art not for the elite, but for the masses; subversive, irreverent, flippant - it requires no "specialized" training to appreciate; Street Art is both a celebration and inditement of the billboards and advertisements that have become such a part of our architecture we can no longer imagine life without them.

I don't like Modern Art, but for Street Art, I'll make an exception.

Banksy's Police Beating Pinata

Dana's Thirtysomethingish Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 13:45:00 +0000

Birthdays.

For most of us, our birthday is an excuse to get together with family and friends, have a good meal, open a few gifts and blow out some candles on a cake. After turning 21, I became indifferent to birthdays, all I had left to look forward to was may auto insurance dropping at age 25 and I just didn't see any point to celebrating getting older. Sometimes I've woken up and actually forgotten it's my day of birth until I get a call from my mother wishing me a "Happy Birthday."

Dana is my diametrical birthday opposite; my sister will often begin planning her birthday party weeks in advance, sending out evites to hundreds of potential attendees. Her birthday is not commemorated by a single party, but a week long event of exquisite dinners starting usually around the 4th of April which culminates on her "official" birthday in either a swank Hollywood hotel or trendy club on April 10th.

Last year Easter fell on the 4th.

Dana upstaged Jesus.

This year I get an email from Tracina, Dana's co-producer, that they are holding a birthday party for my sister at the Hudson, one of those versatile bars that simultaneously appeals to both men and women. The Hudson may look like a converted train box car on the outside, but on the inside it's a meeting place for the society of good looking white people with great cheek bones; a pit stop for hipsters before they head out to the even trendier and swankier clubs in West Hollywood.

In addition to celebrating Dana's birthday, they'll also be watching a live broadcast of her latest TV show, Marcel's Quantum Kitchen, with both the cast and crew in attendance. Given the last minute invitation, Dana isn't expecting a big crowd, but then this is just the opening birthday event.

Phil's got an invitation, he lives nearby so I stop by his place and we walk over. Like most trendy Hollywood bars, at the Hudson you've got to pay for valet or spend 15 minutes in a vain attempt looking for free parking before finally giving up and paying the $6 for the valet. The Midwesterner in me would rather walk, so we decide to hike the distance, it would be a pleasant stroll except for the deluge of white people walking their dogs.

We pass by a pair of dog owners making small talk about their breeds, and Phil unsuccessfully tries to hide his disgust. "I swear to God the worst part about owning a dog is all the banal questions you have to suffer through. How old is your dog? What breed is your pup? Where do you have him groomed? It's the worst."

I nod in sympathy. Freaking white people and their small talk.

Phil and I have got better things to discuss, like the press release for his new novel, Ass Eyes in a Sea of Spec. http://bit.ly/iamxum As we debate the content of the press release we pass a dog owner walking his poodle; he fires off a withering glare. We're not Weho material walking pampered dogs that spend their days in doggie day care, we're writers.

There goes the neighborhood.

We get to the Hudson early to enjoy the last vestiges of happy hour. Fifteen minutes and two drinks later, both of us are in a better mood. I ask Phil if he were a drink, what kind of drink would he be?

"Probably a beer. Hoppy. Takes some getting used to, but after a while you'll love it."

"Rum and coke." I reply. "Sweet, easy going, piratey."

Marcel and the cast from his show arrive but Dana's nowhere in site. It's after seven but Dana will never be on time for her own party - in LA that's simply not done. I walk over and say hello to the cast, it's the third time I've met Marcel, the first being my 39th birthday where I made a request to my sister to have him cook me a dinner at Bazaar. (http://leiken.blogspot.com/2009/09/birthday-bazaar.html)

Calling Marcel a "cook" is like naming Einstein a "mathematician"; Marcel is a gastronomic force of nature, his kitchen a culinary laboratory. Marcel's Quantum Kitchen (MQK) is a reality TV show ostensibly about a Hollywood catering business, but the heart of the program is observing Marcel in his kitchen concoct dishes that defy the laws of culinary physics; noodles created out of blended wine, foie gras wrapped around cotton candy, desserts cooked with liquid nitrogen that cause smoke to billow forth from the mouth and nose - it's not cooking but science, or what Marcel refers to as "molecular gastronomy".

Originally a contestant on Top Chef, Marcel had developed a reputation for having an "attitude"; for being a vicious perfectionist with no empathy or pity for "lesser" cooks.

But I've tasted his cooking; its like eating a Picasso. I shake his hand, Marcel beams.

Chef, buddy, and fellow cast member Jarrid is sitting next to him. Covered in tattoos and wearing a leather jacket, Jarrid looks like he belongs in the Hell's Angels. He exudes almost manic energy, I bet he was pegged with ADHD as a kid.

I sidle up next to him. "I heard that while you were working as a bus boy at Bazaar you stole a prep chef uniform and showed up the next day pretending to be one of the cooks, is that true?"

Jarrid laughs. "Yeah, I wanted to learn how to cook, and it wasn't happening fast enough, so I just took one of the uniforms that had gotten back from the cleaners and showed up early the next day. I started prepping and it was like a month before anyone figured out that I wasn't a cook, I just wanted to learn. Marcel knew, but he didn't care. After the boss found out Marcel just took me in and now I work for him."

"That's amazing."

Jarrid shrugs. "Anytime I've wanted to do something, I just went out and did it. That's how I learned how to be a circus performer, fire eater, and trapeze artist."

I try not to gape. He was a circus performer? "Isn't that scary?"

"Anytime you do something new it's scary, everything's scary. But you just go out and do it."

My sister arrives, she's just had her hair and make up done and she looks like a movie star. "Would you believe that the guy who was doing my make-up was a former contestant on NEXT?" she exclaims. "I remember producing him and he was quite the prize, I mean they all wanted him. I was just afraid he was going to make me look like a drag queen."

"You look great, Dana," I reply. I'm a little surprised she isn't wearing a tiara, but then it is early. "Where's Christos?"

"He's up in San Francisco, but he had me bring wine." Dana withdraws a couple of bottles from a small winery located in Napa valley. We uncork it and it's delicious.

"If you were a drink, what kind of drink would you be?" I ask.

"Champagne," my sister answers.

I nod, my sister probably would be a bottle of champagne, sophisticated and sparkly. We order food and I devour a burger and sweet potato fries. It's one of the best burgers I've ever had, but then I'm really hungry and I am a burger whore.

A willowy woman with great cheek bones arrives, she looks like a model. Phil asks who it is, I'm not sure but I think its Marcel's super hot model girlfriend. I ask Dana.

"Oh, that's Shannon. She's Marcel's girlfriend, they met while she was modeling for the show."

I love it when I'm right. To get a woman like Shannon you'd have to be some kind of culinary genius with his own TV show. My sister didn't settle for anything less than 007; I'd date Christos and I'm not even gay.

"I was expecting a blog about the last party, but instead you wrote about your car!" Dana exclaims. "I still think you should name it "Teacher's Pet!"

"I'll write about this party next, I just need a couple of photos as proof I was here."

You need proof?" Marcel calls out, waving me over. "C'mon then, let's take a photo." We pose and I give my patented "thumbs up and wink" - Arrggh! Marcel picks up on it immediately and mimics it.

Dana begins opening gifts. I haven't gotten her anything yet because I've learned its better just to ask what she wants. Phil has brought her a Buddha board, a stylus that you paint with water that creates images, then over time disappear allowing you to use it over and over again. Dana claps her hands in excitement. "Where's your gift, brother unit?"

"I decided to wait."

"Phil got it right. Good job Phil."

I try not to glare. "Yeah, good job Phil."

More people arrive, many of them people Dana has worked with on other shows. My sister has a vast network of reality TV show contacts, its one of the reasons she is so successful at both finding work and getting shows produced. The Tonight Show, Howie Mandel, Beyond Chance, The Best Damn Sports Show, Christopher Lowell, NEXT, Ace of Cakes - there's more but I can't remember them all. Dana's birthday's are more than just a celebration, they provide her an opportunity to network, it's one of the reasons why it takes a week for her to get through her birthday.

Other than Facebook how else is she supposed to keep up with all these people?

The staff changes the channel on a big screen TV over to MQK but there's a Laker game on and the bar is packed, I can't hear a thing. As soon as the show starts the cast and crew cheers; I try listening for half a minute before giving up.

Dana arches an eyebrow in my direction, annoyed I'm not watching the show, but then hardly anyone is. The Lakers are playing the Utah Jazz and are on the verge of making a come back; the bar is filled with jubilant cries of exultation that drowns out any conversation more than two feet away.

At least until Kobe drops the ball with two seconds left and loses the game (I love it when the Lakers lose) but by this time MQK is almost over. I find my attention diverted between watching Marcel on screen, then switching back to glance at him in the bar; which one do I watch? TV Marcel, or flesh and blood Marcel? The same goes for the rest of the cast: Jarrid, Robyn, and Kevin; watching someone on TV while being able to simultaneously talk to them creates dissonance in the brain, how do I know which one is real?

We sing Dana happy birthday, there are cupcakes and she blows out a pair of candles. She's completely in her element, laughing, working the room as her friends and co-workers pay homage to the young woman who has become a celebrity in the nebulous world of production. The only thing better than being a star is being a star maker; and my sister has the contacts, experience, and creativity to make it happen.

If most people in Hollywood are talk, Dana is one of those rare few who can actually make it happen. Breast cancer didn't stop her, it wasn't even a yield sign, just a speed bump that barely slowed her down, she managed to produce MQK while going through chemotherapy. Like a gambler rolling straight 7's at the craps table, people surround my sister in the hopes that some of her luck will rub off on them.

Beautiful, fearless, exuberant, Dana is a phenomenon, a Hollywood singularity that continues to beat the odds because successful people like my sister generate their own luck.

If I had a motto it would be something like, "It's kind of crappy, but it's free," or "Send those squabs to Davy Jones' locker!"

But my sister only has one motto: Make it happen!

Before I head out I kiss her on the cheek. "I better still get a call on my birthday," Dana warns.

I nod. Woe unto those who forget my sister's birthday. D-day is not June 6th.

D-day is April 10th.

Happy Birthday, Dana.

Make it happen!

The Death of Orifice

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 22:37:00 +0000

It took three seconds.

I'm pulling out of school, feeling good about heading home, when a 1999 Chevy Cavalier emerges like a white demon from behind a eighteen wheeler, colliding into my 2002 Honda Civic, ripping off the front of my car in an instant.

This is the same 2002 Honda Civic into which I had just poured a total of $3500 in a vain attempt to fix a continuously overheating engine; first a new radiator, but six weeks later almost a completely new cooling system: valve covers, thermostat, water pump hoses and starter after the car overheated on the highway. Three days later, the engine began to overheat again; a second mechanic informs me the first mechanic neglected to test for leaky valves; it's another $1500 just to fix what should have been fixed the first time.

A week after my Honda Civic is up and running I wake up to find "Orifice" missing; stolen out of my apartment car port by a pair of junkies who shatter a window and proceed to rip out the radio and collect a handful of change. The police find Orifice three blocks away with a valet key still in the ignition; I'm embarrassed but grateful my car has been found.

But truthfully, I no longer trust Orifice, she can break down for any reason and will open up her doors for anyone who wishes to take her for a spin.

Whore.

Three seconds, three lousy seconds of delay and I would never have been hit. After the accident I find myself wishing over and over how I wish I could replay the same three seconds, just set back the reality clock and take back what has just happened. The only good news is that I'm only a block away from the school, and teachers stop to help.

Owens offers me the use of her AAA membership to pay for a tow, I'm grateful because with all the mechanical problems I've had in the past four months I've used up my AAA membership limit for the year.

I have the car towed back to Orozco's. The head mechanic comes out and shakes his head, sad for my loss but happy for my business. I place a call to Seabourne and ask again if I can borrow her Toyota Corolla for a week until the insurance can come out and give me an estimate on the Honda.

Seabourne says I can borrow it for two. Give it up for Seabourne!

A few days later a State Farm Insurance agent contacts me, and given the age of my car and the damage it's a toss up - I can either pay the $1000 deductible, or they'll buy me out and total the vehicle.

"Just fix it." I respond, resigned.

"You haven't even heard our offer yet!"

Great. I've already looked up the blue book value of a 2002 Honda Civic, it's about $5000 in excellent condition. Given Orifice's history and with the deductible, I'm looking at possibly 3, hopefully 4 grand. "How much to total?" I ask.

"Minus your deductible, we're looking at $8,100."

What? 8,100, how is that possible?

I thank him and call my sister for a second opinion. She's just as shocked as I am, but tells me to take the money. Her husband seconds the motion.

I call back five minutes later and accept the offer to total the car. The next day an envelope arrives from Fed Ex with the necessary paper work. I fill it out and include the car title. Two days later I receive a check for $8,100.

For years I've thought about canceling with State Farm and going with different, less expensive insurance. Geico, Mercury, Progressive. Now I'm glad I've stuck with them.

The only question is what am I going to buy to replace Orifice? Normally, I'd just buy another Honda, for your money you won't find a better used car on the market, but they're also more expensive. Truthfully, I'm starting to think they're cursed.

I begin looking into alternatives. Something practical and inexpensive. I'd like a BMW mini, because it looks cool, but it's also tiny, practically a girly car. The Jetta, too gay. The Mazda 3, it's got some zip and power, but if it breaks the parts are more expensive. A friend out in Phoenix who buys and fixes up used cars for a living offers to sell me a Toyota Prius with 120,000 miles for eight grand, but the mileage makes me hesitate.

I consult with Parrish at work. "You got to be careful with the Prius," she argues, "that's a lesbian's car. Remember that cop movie, the one with Wil Ferrell and Mark Wahlburg?"

"The Other Guys."

"Right. The Other Guys. When they have to drive around in Ferrell's Prius Wahlburg keeps complaining it's like cruising in a vagina. What color is the Prius out in Phoenix?"

"Deep red. Scarlet."

"Brian," Parrish exclaims, leveling a stare at me. "Do not buy that car!"

The Ford Focus? Sorry, I know it makes me dangerously un-American but I'm not buying an American car, mostly because I believe them to be crap. The Nissan Sentra? Maybe...

Varga suggests I take a look at Hyundai's. "They're good cars."

"I always thought they were crap."

"They used to be crap, but over the past ten years I don't think that's true anymore. Plus they come with that crazy 10 year 100,000 mile warranty. Other than Kia no one offers that kind of warranty. No one. Take a look at the Hyundai Sonata, they're a sweet ride." The next day I drive up to Keyes on Van Nuys, it's that LA dealership that advertises like mad on the radio. "Keyes, Keyes, Keyes - Keyes on Van Nuys." The fact that they have ten different automaker dealerships within a half mile of one another cements my decision; I can test drive a bunch of different cars without having to drive half way around the city.

I go to the Hyundai dealership first, introduce myself to a young salesman and tell him I'm not thinking about buying, but I do want to test drive a Sonota. He asks how much I'm looking to spend. I tell him 14k and he offers up a black Elantra for 15,999.

I pull out my iPhone and do some quick research. The Elantra gets a 4.7 out of 5 on Edmunds. Consumer reports has picked the Elantra as one of the top six cars three years in a row. I check out Carfax - the Elantra has had one previous owner, who is returning it on a lease. No accidents.

Two hours later I'm buying a 2010 Elantra with 25,000 miles for 14k with the crazy 10 year 100,000 mile warranty at 4.9% financing. I get the low jack for an extra $500 - I've already had two car's stolen, if nothing else I want the piece of mind.

Piece of mind. I can't remember the last time I've driven in a vehicle and not been nagged by the ever present worry of having a mechanical failure or a break in. I've put in my time driving beaters and nags past their prime; I'm out of that game, I'm done. In the past I've always attempted to get away with driving cheaper cars, looking for a bargain, but in the end I always lose.

No more. Goodbye Orifice. Goodbye Pandora. It's only a matter of time before I get hit or have my car broken into or suffer a mechanical failure, but this time, I'll be ready. I've had the Hyundai a week now, and it's ride is smooth. It looks and feels like a modern, luxury vehicle.

Now it just needs a name? Suggestions?

Man on Fire

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 16:18:00 +0000

"A man can be an artist...in anything, food, whatever. It depends on how good he is at it. Creasy's art is death. He is about to paint his masterpiece. I have nothing else to say. - Rayburn, Man on Fire

My art is teaching. Like most men with delusions of grandeur, I'd like to think I'm something other than I am; a writer, a comedian, a pirate - the Indiana Jones of South East Asia. But my true craft, my genuine talent, lies withing the realm of teaching. It's a skill that's been honed through thousands of hours of practice in the heart of darkness, the inner city classroom, strengthened by teaching the inherently "unteachable" - Special Ed. Anyone can teach AP, but not anyone can teach those who choose to be wilfully stupid, the students who hate everything and everyone because secretly, they despise themselves.

If you can teach Special Ed in the inner city, you can teach anything.

I used to think I was ineffective, a fraud, a fake. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many times I explained and re-explained, no matter how many hours I spent in review or helping kids with their homework, my students just didn't "get it".

But give me a class full of general ed students, and I transform - metamorphosing from a crude hockey player into an elegant figure skater, gliding through concepts with lectures and discussion that borders on high performance art.

Give me a class of honors and AP, and I am no longer a figure skater, but a God.

You are what you teach.

One of the tricks to teaching is learning not to take things personally, to quell your feelings and your emotional frustration: apprehension, rage, angst - gone. Like a bemused comedian in the middle of a routine, you are no longer an individual but an act, a persona that oscillates between unflappable royalty and Buddhist monk because no matter how good you are, you have to accept that some things are beyond your control.

No matter how hard you try, your students still have to be willing to learn and listen.

Sometimes you receive a question in class that is so far out in left field it came from the bleachers. I'm co-teaching in Duran's economics class, explaining how property values can decline in crime ridden areas when a question is tossed from outside the stadium.

"Mister," Fluffy asks, "What happens if a house is haunted? Does the property go down?"

Sigh, it's Fluffy. Duran takes to the plate first. "Well, then you have to call in the Ghost Busters."

The class laughs. "Ha ha ha, Mr. Duran." Fluffy says loudly. "Very funny. I know there is no such thing as the Ghost Busters."

Shrugging, I return to the board. A small interruption, no big thing.

"But seriously," Fluffy interjects, "what happens when a house is haunted?"

My turn. "Normally after the police ascertain a house is haunted, they call in the Bureau of Paranormal Activity."

The entire class looks up. Bureau of Paranormal Activity! What's that? "Seriously, none of you have heard of the Bureau of Paranormal Activity? Section 13?"

Fluffy sits forward. "Section 13! What do they do?"

"They investigate and solve paranormal crimes; hauntings, aliens, that sort of thing."

"How do you get into it!"

"You study to be a para-psychologist. They're specifically trained to handle ghosts. One of the ways they identify ghosts is by the ectoplasm they leave behind." I state offhandedly.

"How does one get to be one of those!" Fluffy pants, leaning forward.

The class is riveted. Time to crush Fluffy's imaginary dream. "Well, you have to go to college and get a degree in para-psychology."

Fluffy deflates. College. I might as well have told him he had to jump to the moon. "How come I've never heard of Section 13?"

"Talk to me after class."

Twenty minutes later, the bell rings and Fluffy's out the door, question and answer forgotten as he heads out to lunch, but the next day he approaches me with yet another question. "Mr. Leiken, I tried looking up Section 13 on Google, and I couldn't find anything."

"Well it's not like they are going to have Section 13 on the Internet!" I snort. "They don't want the public knowing about it."

"Oh." Fluffy replies, heading back to his seat.

It's probably the first time Fluffy has ever shown initiative when attempting to research a topic.

Later that week I show an English class one of my blogs; Top 10 Movies: 2010. Working with Castaneda, we've decided to dedicate one day a week to blog writing in an attempt to get the class to write creatively and work on self expression. On Friday I give them their first assignment, write one page about a movie or TV show they either loved or hated and explain why they either loved or hated the show or film.

On Monday I ask them to hand the assignment in. Out of forty kids, only eighteen turn in their work, and five of the eighteen turned in not papers but three sentence paragraphs. Curiously, the three Special Ed kids in the class have all completed the assignment.

"Can't we turn it in late, Mister?"

"Sorry, I don't accept late work."

"But you can't expect us to do work on the weekend!"

"Oh no, not the WEEKEND!" I exclaim, throwing up my hands. "Oh my God, the teacher assigned homework on the weekend. We're doomed, DOOMED!" I fall down to my knees, head raised as I beseech the heavens, sobbing. "Why, God, why? Why have you forsaken us? I can't believe you expect us to do homework on the WEEKEND! Why not just kill us now!"

The class is stupefied, not sure whether to laugh or look ashamed. I pop back up to my feet, grinning. "So, what can anyone tell me about constructive criticism?"

The next time I give an assignment, thirty kids turn it in. That's progress, I guess.

Good teaching is like telling a good joke; anyone can tell a joke, but not anyone can tell a joke effectively. Cracking jokes is not about the words, it's about the timing; a good joke is not just a set up and a punch line, but a story infused with personality. Teaching is the same way, anyone can recite facts and present information, but not everyone has the passion, the personality, the inner fire. A great teacher has a heart of flame, a soul animated not with a bonfire but an inferno, a tornado of enthusiasm that tears away the listless and mundane, a whirlwind that rips through the insipid red tape and brainless bureaucracy of standardized testing and meaningless rules.

Without the fire, you won't make it, there's a reason why teachers who have given up are referred to as burn outs. As the refrain goes from Damn Yankees, "You got to have heart, miles and miles and miles of heart." Hopefully, your flame catches a spark in those you teach and inspires them to be more than they are, not diploma approved CST automatons, but free willed thinkers who refuse to live in the cave of cultural conformity.

Writer, comedian, pirate; I am all of those things. But I am also, and always will be, a teacher. Everyday I teach in the inner city, I continue to create my masterpiece.

I am the man on fire.

Luck of the Irish

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Sat, 26 Feb 2011 03:22:00 +0000

Orifice has been found!

My menopausal, 107,000 mile silver chromed Honda Civic, the car which recently cost $3,000 dollars worth of repairs has been found!

At this point I should probably thank God or something, but if God was responsible for me getting my car back, God also had to be responsible for sending a thief to steal my car. No, I'm chalking this up to dumb, Irish luck, the kind that gets you into trouble but also gets you out.

True, I'm not Irish, but there is no such thing as Jewish luck.

Turns out the thieves drove the car three blocks away and parked it at a more secluded parking complex to rip out the radio and rustle through my belongings. The police arrive at my doorstep to inform me of the good news; when the landlord of the other apartment building called the police to inform that my car was parked illegally and needed to be towed, they ran the plates and noted that it had been stolen.

"We tried calling you but you didn't answer your phone," the officer says in a monotone voice. (I was cleaning up a spill of fruit juice in the kitchen.) "You're lucky we stopped by your apartment, otherwise we would have impounded the car."

"Well, I'm glad you did!" I exclaim brightly.

The police offer to give me a ride in their squad car. The back seat of the squad car has no cushions, just hardened black, uncomfortable plastic with a bullet proof shield between me and the police sitting in front. Probably a lot easier to wipe up blood and vomit when you don't have upholstery to worry about.

We get Orifice and she appears to be in good shape, all except for the triangular shaped rear window on the passenger side, broken into a thousand tiny pieces; held in place by a thick, viscous black tape.

"What's the tape for?"

"It muffles the sound of the breaking of the window. It also prevents glass from scattering everywhere," the officer replies.

I open up the car door to find all of my change (approximately $4.50) my radio and my cell phone charger gone. A pirate hat lies in the passenger seat, along with a copy of Kavalier and Clay I've borrowed from Phil. I rifle through some papers scattered on the floor and find a Barnes and Noble's gift card I had forgotten in the glove compartment for $20.

Thieves never steal books; trust me on this. If you ever want to thief "proof" your house, just put all your valuables in books. Better yet, line books around the walls, they'll form an educational barrier of spiritual energy that no thief will dare to cross. A gift card from Target or Wal-Mart would have been snatched in a second, but a card from Barnes and Noble in ghetto world is foreign currency - worthless.

The police check my ID. "Sir, did you let anyone borrow your keys?"

"No."

"Well, we found a key in the ignition." The officer hands me my valet key, the one I had forgotten I had left in the car. "Were these in your glove compartment?"

I don't answer. Maybe? I feel stupid as a strange feeling creeps over me, unable to look the police in the eye. What is this strange sense of humiliation, I wonder? Oh that's right, I remember this sensations now, embarrassment! Not an emotion I'm accustomed to.

"Sir, you shouldn't leave your keys in the car," the officer drones on. "When you do that, you make it easy for people to steal your car." His partner smirks, but the subtext is clear.

Why are you being such a dumb ass?

They inform me I can drive the car home, but I should wait an hour before going on the road just to make sure the license plates have been taken out of the police system, otherwise I might get pulled over because another cop might think I've stolen the car.

I thank them and drive the car home. I call work to tell them the good news. Let slip about the keys - they crack up.

Hardy, har, har. Laugh it up, Parrish.

I call a mobile window repair shop. They come out a few hours later and replace the broken window in about a half hour. I marvel at the economic efficiency of it; in the span of a day I've had my car stolen, re-discovered through a computerized system, and repaired by a mechanic from a shop which specializes in fixing broken windows by driving out to peoples homes.

Car theft in LA isn't just a crime.

It's an economy.

Cursed

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 17:15:00 +0000

My car has been stolen.

The silver colored Honda Civic, the chrome coated "Orifice" on wheels, my 107,000 mile menopausal vehicle that has just cost me $3000 in repairs, is gone. Vanished into the ether, disappeared into the urban void, in a single night transformed from my single most valuable possession into a few tiny particles of broken glass left behind from a broken window. Mr. Leiken presents his magnificent, magical, mysterious teleporting car; WATCH him effortlessly make it vanish.....

....now only if he knew where it had been "vanished" too.

I've mentioned how much I dislike cars, my sneering tolerance held in check by the apprehension of having to live without one. Like a doomed victim in a horror movie, I live under a geas, an automobile curse that torments me from the moment I purchase a vehicle through a series of endless repairs, costly upkeep, fender bender accidents and petty tickets; a bottomless pit of angst that ends in an orgasmic crescendo of horror the moment I discover my car is GONE.

When you have a car stolen it takes a moment for the facts of the situation to fit in; like a computer warming up it takes several seconds for the brain to register the empirical data presented before it, for the facts to become reality. Here's the sequence:

1. SURPRISE - Where is my car? I know I parked it here.

2. DENIAL - Someone must have moved it. I know it can't be STOLEN.

3. ANGER - Some Mutherf---r just took my car!

4. RAGE - I'm going to kill that Mutherf----r who took my car!

5. WHINING - This is so unfair!!!

6. BITTERNESS - I hate the world and all the lucky fools who still have their cars.

7. ACCEPTANCE - Time to write a blog about it.

I've gotten semi-accustomed to having my car being broken into and stolen over the years, possess an immune system toughened through a series of vehicular fiascos that enables me to process the emotional aspects expediently. I file a police report, call my insurance, walk out onto the street just to make sure the thief didn't take the car on a joy ride and leave it parked nearby.

Nope.

Not much I can do now, just have to suck this up and move on. The police officer informs me that a Honda Civic was stolen yesterday not more than a mile from where I live, that Honda's are the most widely stolen car in America.

Thanks for that, Chief.

He's right though, as great as they are, Honda's are a magnet for thieves, I can't afford to drive one because inevitably one day you won't have one to drive. What do I drive next? Do I buy a clunker and drive it until dies, or do I go to a dealership that's offering a low interest rate and no money down? Should I just forgo thinking about owning a car and lease? Perhaps I can work out a deal with a student and buy a car from one of their parents, almost every kid at my school has at least a parent or uncle who is a mechanic.

Except they all drive Hondas.

Perhaps I should just hoof it and try to take the bus...

No, not really an option. Not in LA. Not unless you want to completely give up your lifestyle and freedom.

Just because the horror movie ends, doesn't mean that you can't have a sequel - have to keep the franchise going. If my cars were horror movies they would have been titled:

PANDORA'S BOX

It looked like a good car, it was boon - a gift from father to son. Little did they know what lurked beneath the engine.

THE CAR THAT WAS TOWED

It was supposed to be a casual tow for a parking violation - but it ended in a total loss.

CABALLERO'S END

It was the car that was driven a thousand miles through Mexico and back without the protection of Mexican auto insurance. But the car Christened in Mexico was no match for the daily horror's of LA.

ORIFICE'S WHEELS

Lavished with money in upkeep and repairs, it was the car that was supposed to last, until one day it just simply disappeared.

And currently in development...

CAR FIVE (working title)

The story of a man who had suffered through a lifetime of bad relationships with his vehicles as he seeks a new vehicle.

My car was stolen.

I'm going to kill that MUTHERF----R!!!

Orifice on Wheels

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 04:00:00 +0000

Car overheating,
Title just received in mail,
Four wheeled whore....

Cars are like relationships, there is never a good time for them to break down. In the United States, trying to live without a personal vehicle consigns you to public transportation, to living among the poor, to becoming a second class citizen. Sure you don't have to have one, but by not owning a car you'll be sacrificing both mobility and that most important of all American commodities, time.

Unlike most people, I don't like cars. I don't derive pleasure from driving them, I don't care what they look like, they don't validate my existence. The axiom: I own a Porsche, therefore I exist stands outside my spiritual frame of reference. In my world view a car must have two qualities, otherwise it is worthless.

1. It must get me from point A to point B.
2. It must be dependable and be low maintenance.

(Curiously, these are the same criteria I have for girlfriends.)

So when it comes to owning a car, my money has always been on a Honda, the Timex of the vehicular world. I have ten levels of experience of driving beaters; a lifetime of popped clutches, non-working breaks, dying alternators, dead batteries, overheated radiators, electrical shorts, failing transmissions, and blown fuses.

I have had one car stolen, five different radios ripped from three different dash boards, and a third car driven all the way from the East coast only to have it crumpled like an accordion while parked on the street in a hit and run my second week in LA. (Whereupon it was pushed into a red zone and towed without my knowledge for being parked illegally.)

Every altercation I ever had with the police or the authorities has been a direct or indirect result of owning a car. I've been harassed at least a half dozen times by police looking for DUI's. I have received tickets for speeding, a ticket for failing to yield at a stop sign, a ticket for running a red light, a ticket for a failed tail light, and a ticket for a missing front license plate. I have received more parking tickets then I have fingers and toes; tickets for expired meters, tickets for being parked the "wrong" way on the street, tickets for being parked during street cleaning, tickets for not reading the street signs properly.

No, I do not like cars. I have probably spent at least two years of my life long salary buying, repairing and maintaining vehicles, all for the privilege of owning a car.

In 2008 I bought a used Honda Civic with 65,000 miles for ten grand. My old Honda was on its last legs, and it was time to move on. For the past three years, the Civic has been good to me, or as good as any car can be to any owner. I had the breaks redone, a battery replaced, your standard oil checks, but the car appeared to be fine.

Until Thanksgiving. While driving up Escondido canyon to my sister's, the car began to overheat. I eventually had it towed to an auto shop near my house. The mechanic told me the radiator was shot and the thermostat fused to the engine, but for a mere $500, he could fix it.

For the next two months the car appeared to be fine.

Until last week. I was driving back from Riverside when I noticed the engine overheating. Worried, I got off at the next exit only to have the car die as I pulled into the gas station. Once again I took it back to the same mechanic, figuring since he already had experience with the car he would know what was wrong with it.

Instead he figured he should replace everything, including the plastic valve covers which had melted on the top of the engine. This time there is a new timing belt, a new water pump, and a new camshaft pulley and camshaft sensor, both of which had been causing the engine to vibrate. For $1400, I would have the privilege of being able to drive again.

For three days. But then the car overheated. Again.

This time the car overheated when I turned the heat on. Yup, you read that right. Overheated with the heater on. I turned the heater off and the car appeared to cool down. But while sitting still in traffic the engine began to overheat, again.

I've either just been ripped off by a mechanic, or at 107,000 miles my car has just officially hit menopause.

This time I'm at work when I call the tow truck. Ms. Seabourne, a fellow teacher at school, recommends a mechanic in Long Beach who is supposed to be fantastic. She even offers me the use of her car, a Toyota Corolla, while mine is in the shop. She has a second car she can use as a spare.

Most tow truck drivers in Los Angeles are Latino, so I'm a little surprised when the guy who arrives to pick up my car is African American. His name is Victor Jones, and he's a former NFL running back who played for eight years before shattering his knees. I ask him why he's driving a truck.

"Groupies, man. Groupies."

"You should come and speak to my students."

"I used to do that, man. Used to. But the most important thing you can tell your students, STAY IN SCHOOL."

When we arrive at the auto shop the second mechanic strides forward to shake my hand. I explain what has happened and that this time I want him to look over everything and whether or not the car is salvageable. He nods, telling me what he'll check, explaining that he wants to perform three different tests.

He starts by placing a blue tube of liquid over the radiator. "If this turns green," he explains, "that means there is a problem with your coolant."

We turn the car on and the liquid appears to remain blue, but then it begins to shift, turning bluish jade, before transforming into a rich shade of aquamarine . The mechanic whistles. "That took longer than it should, normally it turns green right away."

"Well, what does that mean?"

The mechanic begins to explain the inner workings of the engine. I'm lost within twenty seconds. I ask for a more simple explanation.

"It means that there is one of four things wrong with your engine. Three I can fix easily, but if it is a bad valve then I will have to replace a cap and that is expensive. I'm going to run some other tests, I need to make sure. I want to run the tests early in the morning when the car is really cold."

I thank him. He asks if I want anything from the refrigerator, a diet coke, water. "Do you need a ride anywhere? I'll have one of my men drive you."

I thank him but the teacher who is letting me borrow her car is picking me up. (Give it up for Seabourne!)

The next day the mechanic calls. It's a bad valve. It's going to cost me about $1600. I begin to silently swear, as I am now faced with the ultimate modern dilemma.

When an older car begins to break down, does one spend the money to fix it, or does one cut their losses and get a new car?

And I just made the last payment in December.

Son of a Bitch.

I'm about ready to say screw it, but then what? If I walk way I've thrown away not only a car but all the work I've already had done on the car. At least if I get it working again I can resell the vehicle and get something back for it, or keep it and hope that the car is fine for years to come.

The mechanic tries to reassure me. He tells me if I don't have the money, I can pay him in installments with no interest. He further claims that he'll stand by his work for 20,000 miles or two years, and that if anything goes wrong with the engine he'll fix it for free.

I double down.

I tell him to go ahead and fix it. I should get it back Monday.

I can live without a mate, I can live without a house, I can even live without a TV. But no matter how much I hate them and fear them, I can't live without the god damn car.

A car isn't freedom, its purified angst. Angst on wheels.

Snooki and the book signing

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 16:39:00 +0000

Snooki isn't a name. It's slang, a colloquialism of informal speech best used for stuffed animals and cute pets, a name befitting puggles and hamsters.

(My first pet was a hamster with a name ironically similar to "Snooki", I named him Snoochi - until he died of wet tail. There was a Snoochi II, III, and IV - they died of wet tail too. Don't ever name your hamster Snoochi unless you want them to die of wet tail.)

Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi, better known as Snooki, is a reality TV star from the hit show Jersey Shore, an MTV show about eight Italian roommates from New York pretending to be from New Jersey having to share a house together. There's Jenni "JWowww" Farley, Paul "Pauly D"DelVecchio, and of course Michael "The Situation" Sorrentino; Jersey Shore is a mash-up of MTV's the Real World blended with HBO's the Soprano's.

Four foot nine with poufed hair, fake tan, big boobs and enough mascara to rival a raccoon, Snooki is one of the more popular characters from the show. Snooki isn't pretty, most men wouldn't give her a second glance, but what Snooki doesn't have in looks she makes up for in humor. Girls adore Snooki because of all the cast members on Jersey Shore, she's the one most of them would like to hang out with.

She even has a book, A Shore Thing. Written by Snooki's ghost writer Valerie Frankel, A Shore Thing is a novel about a girl named "Gia" who resembles Snooki and has lots of hot sex with a beefy Italian firefighter named Frank. Valerie Frankel may have written the book, but Snooki gave her lots of ideas, and Snooki's face is on the cover and on the back, so it's almost like Snooki wrote the entire thing all by herself.

So why am I writing about Snooki, you ask? Good question. I'm writing about Snooki because I went to her book signing at the Grove.

When I saw the sign at Barnes and Noble promoting the book signing I immediately texted Parrish, who is a huge fan of Jersey Shore. I didn't think Parrish would want to go, but she texted me back almost instantly. "Let's Go!!"

What the hell, at least I'll get a blog out of it.

When you attend a book signing, most stores will demand you purchase a copy of the book from the store for the author to sign. Because Snooki is a high profile reality TV celebrity, Barnes and Noble is handing out alphabetized wrist bands along with brand new copies of the book for $26.95. Grumbling, I pay it. They won't let me stand in line with Parrish if I don't have my own book. We are given a flyer with a number of guidelines and rules:

. Posed photography WILL NOT be allowed. Photographs may be taken from the signing line only.

. Other memorabilia WILL NOT be allowed.

. Personalization WILL NOT be available.

It's only four o'clock, we've got some time to kill. We hit the Cafe Moza and people watch.

Two and a half hours later after eating a feast of fine french cheeses and bread and beer, we trek back into the store. People are already lining up, but I cut through to the front and find that because we purchased our wrist bands early, we can move past the majority of the people waiting. I estimate there is probably about three hundred people here, most of them young women with their mothers and a handful of hapless boyfriends.

A trio of teenage girls behind us begin giggling and screaming uncontrollably as soon as Snooki appears. "Snooki!" one of them screams. Snooki waves, escorted by an entourage of security guards, managers, agents, photographers and book store staff. She's short, tiny, would be forgettable except she is surrounded by the aura of celebrity, and that makes her the most envied person in the room.

"Oh my God!" one of the girls behind us gushes. "She is so short!"

"Quiet!" another girl admonishes her friend. "She'll hear you!"

"Are you girls from LA?" I ask.

"No, we're from Newport." (That's the OC.)

"Have you met anyone famous?"

"Well, we met the cast of Jack Ass!" the prettiest one titters. "But I'd really like to meet Justin Bieber."

"If I met Justin Bieber I'd pee my pants," another girl cuts in. "Why are you here?"

"I'm writing a story for my blog."

Her eyes go round. "You have a blog! Are you someone famous?"

Parrish gives me the eye, trying to hide her smirk. I sigh, oh the lies I could spin, the lies I could spin. "No, I'm not famous. Only in my own head."

Snooki comes back out and girls at random begin screaming, WE LOVE YOU SNOOKI! A member of the staff opens up a copy of the book, instructing us to have the novel open to the front page for Snooki to sign. I pull out my iPhone, attempting to figure out how to zoom in the camera. Should have checked that out earlier, because the line is moving forward like a water slide at the park, people being processed in groups as Snooki signs her name over and over again in book after book in a bright pink pen.

There must have be at least fifty people in front of us, but the store crew has them filed past Snooki in under ten minutes. Books primed, we hand them to a store clerk who passes the books to Snooki. I try to get in close to take a picture on my phone, but security stops me.

"Sir, you'll need to turn off that phone. No camera's past the line."

I shut it off. Risking my phone to get a close up of Snooki just ain't worth it.

As I walk up for a brief moment Snooki and I glance at one another. I permit myself a polite smile, and give her a small nod. To her credit, Snooki doesn't pretend that I'm some super fan who has been just dying to get a chance to meet her. Beneath the make up, the tan, and the poufed up hair, she looks tired, weary, a five minute celebrity running a marathon because the moment she quits, it's over.

She signs the book, and I move on.

As we exit a member of the staff cuts off and collects our wristbands, preventing us from selling or giving them away to other people.

"Wow, I can't believe we met Snooki!" Parrish exclaims. "I can't wait to read this ghost written book! What are you going to do with yours?"

"Not sure yet," I reply. Tax write off maybe?

The inanity of fame; how could someone like Snooki, a girl with no talent, accomplishments, or beauty, become an instant celebrity? Snooki is a celebrity precisely because she has no talent, accomplishments, or beauty - she's the young woman many identify with because they all think they could be the next Snooki.

You don't need skill, or intelligence, or looks to be famous; just timing and luck. Who wants to be the next lottery winner, step right up and get a chance to meet Snooki, buy her book! Maybe some of her fame will rub off on you!

Snooki. Like everything else in this country, she's instant and effortless, even her name is disposable. Cultural fast food to be consumed and forgotten. But hey, at the end of the day she's $26.95 ahead, because I still ended up buying her book...

Definitely a tax write off.

Top 10 Movies: 2010

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 05:20:00 +0000

Like so many other years, film goers found themselves under a deluge of crappy films throughout the beginning of 2010. It was an eclectic year for film, but beside the mediocre sequels and brainless comedies, there were a few gems scattered throughout the year.

I haven't seen everything, so there may be films that deserve to be on the list that I've missed - but overall I felt 2010 had a lot to offer. (And a lot that should never have been offered.)

Top 10 films of 2010:

1. Social Network - Aaron Sorkin and David Fincher make a potent combination; the dialogue crackles with raw energy, and there is nothing more topical at the moment than Time's person of the year Mark Zuckerburg and the advent of Facebook.

2. A Prophet - Technically released in 2009, this modern day (and more realistic) Scarface story about a no name's rise to prison kingpin is compelling, brutal, and so freaking cool! Yeah, it may be from France, but don't hold that against this gem of a film.

3. True Grit - D. H. Lawrence once wrote that the essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic and a killer, and no one seems to understand that better than the Coen Brothers. True Grit isn't just a film, it's an homage to the Western and the legends of the Silver Screen.

4. The Town - Ben Affleck's second directorial debut about a Boston gang of bank robbers is taut, cunning, and full of brutal action. But the scene where Jeremy Remner goes down in a hail of gun fire surrounded by police is praise worthy of James Cagney in White Heat.

5. Toy Story 3 - Lovingly crafted, Pixar has made a film that is by turns sweet, funny, and full of danger. It's a shame that many adults dismiss animation, because no one should feel they need to have a kid in tow to watch this delightful and brilliant film.

6. The Fighter - Down on his luck fighter finds girlfriend who helps him learn to believe in himself and gives him the heart of a champion. Yeah, we've seen this before, but the performances by both Amy Adams and Christian Bale are terrific, the fight scenes are tense, and Melissa Leo and the six sisters are unforgettable.

7. Inception - Christopher Nolan's movie about stealing ideas from people's dreams is a time piece of intricate writing, pace, and action that makes his former film Memento look like a wind up watch. Never pandering to the audience, Inception is cinematic surrealism of revolving stairs, there is no one correct way to interpret this film.

8. The Ghost Writer - Yeah, it's directed by Roman Polanski, but this old school Hitchcockian thriller is an ominous web of film noir that spirals Ewan McGregor into further and further peril. Pure suspense at its best, this film is a treat for anyone who has an attention span longer than sixty seconds.

9. The King's Speech - Think the Madness of King George III meets the Miracle Worker, this showcase for Colin Firth as a stammering prince terrified at the thought of having to give a speech is a masterpiece of acting. Geoffery Rush ain't too shabby either.

10. Easy A - A tribute to eighties comedies, Emma Stone hits one out of the park in a break out role that could easily land her on the "A" list. Witty and delightful, its always a blessing when there is a film about teenagers that doesn't view adults as perennially clueless and stupid.

Films that were pretty good, but didn't make the list: Iron Man 2, The Other Guys, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Megamind, Date Night, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, SALT, Kick-Ass, The Expendables...

Films that shouldn't have been made...

(I can't include Sex and The City 2 because I didn't see it, but I bet if I did it would be on this list.)

5. Knight and Day - Here's an idea, let's throw Cameron Diaz and Tom Cruise into some mish mash spy adventure and hope it all works out. Well, it didn't.

4. Robin Hood - Hey, let's tell the story of Robin Hood but cast Russell Crowe, one of the most serious and stoic of all actors as one of the most jolly and flippant of all heroes. There aren't any merry men to be found in this monstrosity that is only colossal in it's dullness.

3. Alice in Wonderland - I like Tim Burton, I do. I like Johnny Depp, I like Helena Bonham Carter - but this bizarre, goth faerie tale is Alice in name only. Someone needs to reign Tim Burton in, first Willy Wonka, and now this. Burton's remakes are defacing classic art.

2. Jonah Hex - I knew it wouldn't be good, but I had no idea it would be so bad either. How does a film like this happen? I blame the terrorists.

1. The Last Airbender - I loved the cartoon series, which is why watching this boring, ponderous, piece of crap was all the more painful because the crap was flying into my eyes because it was 3-D . M. Night Shymalongadingdong - the jig is up. Quit!

Merry Christmas, Mr. Leiken

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 17:42:00 +0000

The last week before Christmas vacation is a strange time at a public high school. In the LA school system, we get a three week break before heading back for the long three month slog towards Easter. With nearly everyone looking forward to the holidays, the school takes on a festive atmosphere, akin to the last week of school without the disruption - the kids know they have to come back.

During the final week before the break, the worst students disappear, the school puts up its decorations, and everyone: teachers, administrators, and students are more relaxed. By unwritten agreement a truce is declared; chill man, it's Christmas - relax.

I'm just miffed I can't find my funky Dr. Suess Santa hat, the only hat I've ever owned that glorifies the spirit of Christmas while simultaneously promoting the fashion of the ghetto.

Bah, Humbug!

One of the best teachers at the school gives me a gift card to Starbucks. I'm so surprised I'm at a loss of words. She's had a rough year, but that hasn't stopped her from being a great teacher. This year she is particularly frustrated with her honors class of Seniors, "They think they know it all," she complains, "and when they don't do their work, I turn into a real bitch."

We're still talking about them when her seniors file into the room; it's Friday, the last class of the day and everyone just wants to go home and leave. One of the students has a guitar, but when I ask him to play something he freezes up, embarrassed.

The teacher calls him out on it. "Why won't you play for Mr. Leiken? You had no problem playing for me yesterday."

The students eyes go wide, "Because that's Mr. Leiken."

I don't remember him. "I had you for another class?"

"U.S. History with Mr. Duran; don't you remember?"

Concentrating, I vaguely remember him. "Well, I hope you learned something."

The bell rings as the students take their seats. "Hell yeah!" he replies, putting the guitar away. Suddenly the seniors rise out of their seats and walk out of the room.

The teacher is stunned. "What is going on!" she calls out. "Where are you going?"

"Sorry Miss," one of the seniors answers, standing guard in the doorway. "You can't come outside." He pauses for a second, "But you can come out, Mr. Leiken."

I walk outside to find the seniors in the hallway formed into a group for a photo. Two in front are holding a fruit basket while another holds flowers. "Okay, you can come out now Miss!" The students standing guard at the door allow her into the hallway, her class breaks into applause.

The teacher's eyes grow red. "They may not know it all," I whisper, "but they do know you are a great teacher."

As the day ends, I'm in my room, preparing to leave when two young men call out to me. "Mr. Leiken, we've been looking for you!" For a second, I don't recognize them, they look too old to be in high school when I realize they are too old to be in high school - they are seniors who graduated last year. Neither was in special ed, or on my case load. They were regular general ed kids who were in a history class with Ms. Martinez.

I had them for one semester for one class, and even then I was the secondary teacher, but they remember me. We shake hands, "We've been looking for you all day, Mr. Leiken. How have you been?"

I invite them into my room and we talk. One of them is attending Northridge College; the other plans to attend college in the spring but is busy making his own film. We talk about classes, work, life after high school, and of course girls. One of boys has a line he likes to use when he meets new girls.

"I ask them if their hair is real, or if it's a weave."

I raise an eyebrow. "Well that's either going to flatter them or leave them really offended."

"It's the only way, Mr. Leiken. You can't let girls get too full of themselves."

"I never did hear back from your cousin," the other breaks in. "The one who works in casting."

"I forwarded your profile, but you have to remember she sees hundreds and hundreds of actor photos. I'm sorry she didn't get back to you."

"That's okay, Mister. You told me never to give up, so I'm not."

We talk for over an hour. I ask them who else they wanted to see. "Mr. Adams, because he encouraged us to get into college, and of course you Mr. Leiken."

This surprises me. I never tutored them, I never helped them with college applications, never met their parents - from my point of view they were just two more faces in the crowd.

Yet here they are, wanting to tell me how much I helped them.

I look at the clock. It's time to go home. I shake their hands and bid them goodbye, chuckling to myself as I head towards my car.

Thanks for the gift, kids. Thank you.

Merry Christmas.

Write it, and you will offend...

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Can you write a blog without being offensive?

The answer to that is a qualified yes, provided you are willing to stick to the following topics: product reviews, cooking, art, feel good memoirs, travel and shopping. In order to be inoffensive, a potential blog must be devoid of colorful language, personality, opinion, and humor.

It's the difference between Cormac McCarthy and J.K Rowling; No Country for Old Men might be a great book, but it will never capture the imagination quite like Harry Potter battling Voldemort. The more thought provoking and evocative an idea, the greater the chance of stirring controversy and angering the reader. Religion, politics, crime, ethnicity, education, celebrities, medicine, war, sports; all guaranteed to piss somebody off.

Especially if you are trying to be funny.

My profession is full of controversy; I had no idea that teacher's invited so much hullaballo until after I became one. Even though most people have never taught in a public school, everyone has an opinion on what's wrong with education, and the #1 target: teachers.

When America loses a war, we don't blame the soldiers for being cowardly.

When crime goes up in a neighborhood, we don't blame the police for eating too many donuts.

But when public schools fail, the first people we go looking to blame are teachers - usually for being lazy.

So for all our detractors, haters, and critics, I'd like to hear from you on how you would fix the following situation.

Let's take the following kid: we'll call her Maria.

Age: Going on 17

Years in School: 3

Days absent: 112

High School Credits: 20

Credits needed to graduate: 240

Learning Disabled: Yes (Reading disabled)

Maria's been pulled out to make up an inter-coordinated science test. Inter-coordinated science is the class students get after they've failed biology at least twice. Heavy set and wearing thick mascara, Maria wears a black hoodie and black jeans, ghetto wear 101.

The instant I enter the room to collect some paperwork, Maria's looks up, distracted, ignoring her teacher as she puts down her test, waving.

Two years ago I spent two hours trying to get her to write two paragraphs. When she refused to cooperate, I refused to give up, when she deflected my attempts to help her, I deflected her excuses - all of her whining, complaining, and attempts to wheedle her way out of work fell on deaf ears.

Two hours later, I'd failed.

The next day we tried again, but Maria refused to give in. She refused to bring paper, she refused to bring a pen, she refused to study, to bring her books, she refused even to copy what I wrote down on the board. It was a siege, who would break first, the teacher, or the student?

In the end, Maria won. I had other concerns, other students that needed my time and help. Students who wouldn't fight me every step of the way - students who wanted to pass and graduate.

Two years later, and she is on a different teacher's case load. She waves to me like she is greeting an old friend. "Hey, Mr. Leiken!" Maria calls out cheerily. "How are you doing?"

I grunt. "What test are you taking?"

"I don't know, some intercourse test."

"That's inter-coordinated, Maria," the other teacher corrects.

"I know what intercourse is," Maria replies, waving her arms. "Yah-ah!"

I glance around my room, except for another kid quietly taking a test in the corner, its empty. I pull up a chair, sitting down across from her. It's time for the "talk".

"Maria," I ask, "what are you going to do after high school?"

"What you mean, do?" Maria answers, rolling her eyes. "Get a job, duh!"

"Doing what?"

"I don't know Mister, a job. I'll work for my family or something."

"Well, what do they do?"

"I don't know."

"So let me get this straight, you are going to get a job working for your family but you have no idea what it is you'll be doing."

Maria sneers, "I know what's up Mister. You don't need to worry about me."

"So what are you going to do about money?"

"You can just get money from EBT. (Electronic Benefits Transfer - or Welfare) That's what my Mom does. If you have kids they give you food stamps."

"So you are planning to have kids just to get food stamps?"

"No!" Maria scoffs. "I'll just lie or something." She glances at both me and the other teacher. "Don't the two of you get food stamps?"

"No, Maria," the other teacher answers, "we work for a living. We've never been on welfare."

"Well that's stupid," Maria scoffs. "You should both go down there and tell them you need food, they'll give you some."

I refuse to let her change the subject. "Maria, what are you going to do for a living?"

Maria picks up her test. "I need to take this test, Mister Leiken."

"After you answer my question. How old are you?"

Maria thrusts the test down. "I'm 17 in January. But in my head, I'm already 17."

"So what happens when you turn 18? If you've got it all figured out, why waste your time in school?"

"I have to stay in school or I get in trouble with my Mom! If I'm not in school she doesn't get food stamps."

"But what happens after you are 18? They won't be giving her food stamps anymore because you'll be an adult. Is your Mom going to let you hang out around the house? Won't she expect you to go get a job?"

"Psshhh, I'll just live in the garage." Maria snatches up her test. "I really need to take this test Mr. Leiken."

"Why? You are just going to fail it."

"You can't say that!" Maria snaps angrily. "You don't know that."

"Have you been in class? Have you studied? Have you done any of the homework?" I look at the test, its empty of answers. "The entire time you've been down here you haven't even answered one question, and now you want to take the test because I'm putting you on the spot. What are you going to do after you turn 18?"

Silence. Maria and I stare at one another, a class of wills, but this time I win the siege and she breaks away. "I'll just go to adult school. Then I'll get a job at McDonald's."

"Maria, I believe you don't do the work not because you are lazy, but because you don't believe you can do it, so you give up before you even try."

"I think you're right, Mister."

"You can retake classes, but you can't make up time. Even if you passed every class from now on you wouldn't be able to graduate until you are 20." I rise from my seat. "If you don't want to learn, fine. But if you don't want to be here, you need to think about what you are going to do, and you need to figure it out soon."

I leave the room. I have ten more just like her on my case load, it's not the learning disability that impairs her ability to succeed, it's the attitude. There are at a minimum five hundred kids at my school just like her - who treat school like a social playground, a place to "kickback" and get away from home.

At least five hundred kids who refuse to bring their books, to come on time, to bring a pen or a pencil, to turn in homework. Five hundred? It could be a thousand. A thousand kids who don't try and fail, but fail to even try. Is it any wonder the graduation rate is only 50%, that my district ranks lowest academically across all of California but is first in teenage pregnancies?

Yep, it's clearly all because we're lazy, shiftless, money grubbing, union protected teachers.

And Charter schools are the answer!

Funk

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Tue, 09 Nov 2010 15:15:00 +0000

I'm in a funk.

We're not talking about a mild case of the Mondays, but a full out thunderstorm of gloom pierced through by bolts of apathetic rage, draping the sunnier parts of my personality in a light coat of annoyed frustration. This funk is bulletproof, unreceptive to the simple charms of Glee, impervious to sharing a cold one with friends; I don't even feel like celebrating Halloween, and typically I find nothing more enjoyable than having any excuse to dress up like a pirate and terrorize the school.

But this year, I don't even hand out candy. The blues has been ringing in my ears for the better part of two weeks, and I'm starting to wish the band would just shut the hell up.

It's hard to pinpoint when exactly the funk started, professionally I'm kicking more ass then I ever have, when I stop lecturing more often then not the class lets out a giant "awwww." But for all my success, I find myself dissatisfied with both my performance and my impact as a teacher.

Seniors I have worked with for years, bright kids who should be applying to Cal States, won't fill out college applications or take their SAT's. Four years of coaxing them, teaching them, encouraging them to believe in themselves, and they won't take the final steps towards higher matriculation. If they don't get in their college applications by Thanksgiving, they've missed the deadline for next year.

If the entire goal of high school is to prepare students for college, but they won't even bother to apply, what is the point of this entire exercise? I tell them to stop by my room, that I'll help them with their applications and proofread their essays during my planning period or after school.

No one ever comes.

Then there are the troublesome students, the kids who are killing time until they turn 18. As a point of pride, I believe I should be able to manage any troublesome student, no matter how belligerent, obnoxious, or disruptive - I think I can handle it. Wrong, Leiken, wrong. Some things are out of your control. I push a student too hard, and I find myself almost getting hit.

Master teacher, indeed...

But hey, at least I'm not in jail. Unlike my friend Carlee who has been ordered to do eight months for her second DUI.

She’s in a funk as well, one caused by being locked in a small cell and being unable to see sunlight. She writes they only let the inmates outside once every two weeks to play basketball in a court covered by a thick wire mesh, intentionally designed to prevent the prisoners from fully enjoying the outdoors, to glimpse only slivers of blue sky between steel cords of cold metal.

Carlee’s been a friend for years, I know her through her ex-husband whom I met in the teachers intern program. Before her DUI, Carlee worked as a teacher on an Indian reservation, dedicating her life to trying to improve the lives of those who are less fortunate. A graduate from UCLA, Carlee has no criminal record and no history of violence, she would blend into any college campus.

But the moment that Carlee was declared a felon was the moment she ceased to be a person.

All societies require sacrifices - we may not plunge daggers into a victim’s chest cavity to pull out a beating heart, but declaring someone a felon destroys the individual all the same. Hester could move to a new town and remove her scarlet letter, but with computers Carlee’s brand will follow her no matter what she does or where she goes. Her freedom to travel, her ability to get a job, to vote, even to volunteer to work with children – gone.

My father explained that the more savage district attorney's are to drunk drivers, the more popular they become. When it comes to drunk driving, no amount of punishment is excessive, the more drunks DA's lock up, the better their chances of getting reelected. Drunk driving isn't just a crime, in the eyes of American society, it's a sin.

And like all sinners, Carlee can’t be redeemed without first being purged. The DA isn’t out for justice, the DA is out for Carlee’s blood - with a 96% conviction rate, Carlee’s fate is sealed.

For breaking her boyfriend’s arm in a car crash, Carlee is charged with a felony. The boyfriend doesn't want to press charges, but to the DA, that’s immaterial. He hands Carlee the standard eight months, but will let her out in four with good behavior. Carlee is charged for the cost of cleaning up the crash, her DUI classes, and is given three years probation which she has pay for her out of her own pocket in addition to thousands of dollars in fines.

The Indian reservation, with its strict child protection policies, fires her. She's a felon - she'll probably never teach again. How she’ll find work without a driver’s license or start a career with a felony on her record is not the state’s problem. As far as society is concerned, she screwed up, and now she has to pay for it – forever.

Two weeks ago I made the trip out to Riverside to visit Carlee in the county jail. Dressed in prison blues, Carlee’s hair is a tangled mess, skin ghoulish and pale, eyes bloodshot and riddled with pain. I pick up the black receiver and we talk. Separated by two inches of bulletproof glass, I press my hand up against the pane. Carlee counters by raising her hand up as well, and for a moment, there is no conversation; nothing is said, nothing is spoken, for there are no words in English or any other language that can fully express our mutual sorrow.

By the time I leave I’m angrier and more disappointed then ever before – disappointed at the system for locking up good people, disappointed for not being able to do more to help my friend, disappointed at feeling powerless to prevent injustice.

But mostly, I’m just disappointed in myself. I can’t save my students, I can’t save Carlee, I can't stop the war in Afghanistan - I can’t seem to do much of anything.

But the worst part is that after visiting Carlee, I can’t even indulge in one of my favorite pastimes.

I can’t even feel sorry for myself...

...I'm in a funk.

Master Teacher

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 15:27:00 +0000

Year seven.

Among teachers, year seven is an unofficial "turning point" - your time and experience has transformed you from a neophyte into a battle hardened veteran. You've survived the first year trial by fire and weathered years of bureaucratic indifference; against the limitless hordes of wild, hormone driven teenage larvae you've proved yourself to be more durable, more resilient, more seasoned. Almost nothing surprises you, even the most obnoxious and difficult student leaves you unfazed.

Wannabe gangsters, hyperactive adolescents, outraged rebels, attention starved hecklers, the emo who wish they were vampires - come one, come all - their classroom antics mean nothing. A sharp glare, a stinging rebuke, the no nonsense frown - one by one they fall into line.

By year seven the art of teaching has been programmed into your neural hard drive, you operate not on conscious thought but instinct. You are a psychic savant, intuitively predicting outcomes and neutralizing trouble with an enchanted sixth sense. Like a magician fooling an audience, you are seven steps ahead, you know where to push and when to pull back - you are the foreman, the manager, the drill sergeant, the boss - except you don't have the authority to "fire" anyone. Nor can you write a "ticket" or make an arrest, you have no badge and you have no gun.

All you've got is a mouth and attitude.

On the second floor of the B building I spot two semi-circles of students standing idly in the hallway. Like a sea captain who can spot a typhoon on the horizon, I tack into the midst of the crowd, stopping between a pair of boys glaring at one another.

"Boys," I state calmly, eyes squinting, "I need you two to move along. You can't fight here."

There is a long pause, the onlookers holding their breath in anticipation. A second later one of the boys shuffles down the hallway, glowering fiercely at his rival. The crowd begins to dissipate, the typhoon has been averted.

"Awww...Leiken, you ruin all the fun."

"Aye," I reply, "That be true."

In U.S. history I give a brief lecture about individual rights versus state rights. I radiate energy, pulsating with enthusiasm and humor as I hook the class into the lecture, seizing their attention like a virtuoso performer who cannot be ignored.

At lecture's end, they applaud.

I give a guest lecture to a World History class about colonization and slavery - they're riveted. By the end, they applaud.

The following day I am working with a group of 11th graders, encouraging them, pushing them, expounding the importance of believing in yourself. "I don't teach you, ladies and gentleman, you teach you! You may not be the next Shakespeare, but that doesn't mean you can't graduate! Everyone can make the team!"

And they applaud.

I've paid for that applause, earned every single clap minute by sweat driven minute, crossed the River Styx on a boat of gravel and grit, my paddle an increasingly sardonic sense of humor.

No document or credential can create a "master" teacher, no amount of training or books can adequate prepare any individual who wishes to cross the River Styx to teach in an inner city school. It's a journey each teacher must take alone, an odyssey of restless evenings brimming full of nightmares followed by anxious mornings filled with silent dread; long months of being quietly petrified at the thought of having to face down class after class of unruly, mean spirited students.

The master teacher is born not out of the classroom but a journey crossing a thousand moments of uncertainty, guided not by conviction but doubt as they ask themselves the same question, over and over: "Could I have done it better? With just a little more effort, could I have nudged that student in the right direction?"

There will be no trophies, no awards, no medals, no ribbons; your reward is to inspire others.

Hey, Mr. Leiken, I just wanted to tell you I got into Polytech! Mr. Leiken, did I tell you I entered culinary school? Mr. Leiken, you're awesome, history isn't boring at all. Mr. Leiken, thanks for encouraging to save up my money and go to Hong Kong, it was like the best trip ever! Hey Leiken, you were right, I started my own moving business. Hey Leiken, are you going to run a comedy club again, we want to be funny like you. Mr. Leiken, I hope one day I can be a teacher, because you like make learning fun.

And to think that seven years ago I went into teaching for the money...

It may be true that you'll never obtain riches teaching, but its taken me seven years to learn that a master teacher is never poor.

Cap and Gown

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 14:14:00 +0000

Six years, five graduations, nine hundred school days. A relatively short period of time in the lifespan of a human, 900 days.

If all the hours I had spent teaching in school were added up into one continuous, non-stop marathon, at 6.6 hours a day I'd be only 247 days old.

Six years teaching and I'm still just a baby.

This year only two of the students on my case load are graduating, but only one will be at the ceremony, only one will walk across the stage. The other should have graduated last year, but doesn't want to "walk" when most of his senior class graduated a year earlier.

But the girl who is walking across stage is a success story. I've seen her grown from a shy, dependent girl into a slightly less shy but independent young woman. It's been a struggle: building her confidence, teaching her to believe in herself, getting her to work on her own.

"Looking forward to graduation?" I ask rhetorically.

"I'm not going to walk," she says flatly.

"Why?"

"I don't want to walk. It's stupid."

Oh no, this is not happening. "Graduation is a rite of passage, it only comes once. In life, there are no do-overs. You should go."

"No, Mister. I don't want to, it's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Everyone is walking across stage. It will be over in like a second."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to. Graduations are boring."

"Of course they're boring!" I exclaim. "Graduation is supposed to be boring! It's for your parents, and your teachers, and your family! Graduation is for everyone but you!"

The girl looks at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze.

It occurs to me there is more going on here than meets the eye; the benefit of six years, five graduations and 900 days experience. "If you don't do this," I continue, "you may live to regret it."

The girl mumbles something. I ask her to repeat herself, leaning in.

"I don't have the money, Mister."

"Money for what?"

"It's a hundred dollars for the cap and gown."

"A HUNDRED DOLLARS! Cold hard cash?"

The girl nods, quietly embarrassed.

"What about your parents?" I ask. "Don't they have the money?" The girl shakes her head. I've known that her family is poor, I once had to "loan" her and her sister money to go see Eclipse. "Do they want you to go?" The girl nods, gaze furtively darting about the room.

"I want you to go the rehearsal today at lunch. You are going to graduate."

"But I don't have the money."

"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."

"But, I don't have the money."

"I'll get you your cap and gown. Go."

I go the special ed department first, explaining the situation. Borquez and Khazani immediately start asking their students, some seniors short on credits have already bought their cap and gown but won't be needing the gown since they won't be graduating.

Nothing.

An aide who graduated two years ago says he'll bring in his blue and silver cap and gown, after all, he isn't using it. Caps and gowns don't really change, South East's 2005 graduating class would fit right in with the 2010.

But his father has already thrown the aide's cap and gown away. Turns out he didn't think his son would ever need to use it.

Ms. Owens finds a website that sells the gowns for $15, but time is short and it will cost me through the nose to have it shipped.

Eventually I go to the head of leadership and ask her if I can buy the gown at cost, or about $50. The head of leadership agrees. Khazani, Martinez and Solorio all help contribute cash.

I go back to the girl, handing her the money. I could have paid for it directly, but I want her to buy it for herself. She deserves that.

Two hours later she enters my room with a small plastic bag containing the gown, cap, a black sash embroidered 2010, and a small medal. (In today's world, graduation is worthy of a medal.)

"I have my cap and gown, Mr. Leiken."

I nod, looking up from where I am helping a student finish up a paper. "Awesome, so how was rehearsal?"

"It was okay."

The girl goes to my window, looking out over the football field, where students are lining up for the senior photo. She stares in silence, twisting the cap and gown bag in her hands in endless loops.

"Aren't you going to join the seniors for the photo?"

"No. It's too hot."

"You should go. Be a part of it."

"No, I don't want to." she answers, staring at the crowd outside.

I stop lecturing her. Sometimes you have to let people do what they want to do. Nothing is said, nothing is spoken. Neither of us is bothered by the silence, the lack of conversation.

The bell rings, and the girl turns. "Goodbye, Mister," she says, exiting the room.

It's her way of saying thanks.

Six years, five graduations, 900 days.

It never gets old.

Bridges of Destruction II

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 20:40:00 +0000

"Bridges of DESTRUCTION!" I intone over the public address system. "Twice the Bridges, Double the DESTRUCTION!"

Mind numbing in their repetitiveness, school announcements over the PA system resonate with monotone dreariness straight out of Communist Russia or George Orwell's 1984. Daily reminders to obey the dress code, to return overdue books, to gear up for summer school; all are ritually blared over the PA system only to be tossed into the bin of white noise trash we reserve for commercials and political pundits.

Then came Leiken.

"TUESDAY, TUESDAY, TUESDAY! Bridges of DESTRUCTION!" I exclaim, gesticulating wildly with my free hand, mike inches away from my mouth. "See bridges made out of mere popsicle sticks, held together with nothing but Elmer's Glue - hold hundreds of pounds of weight! Then see them - DESTROYED!"

The office stops, kids walking by halt to stare at the crazy maniac dancing behind the counter, lost to the performance. "With the winner," I continue, "winning one hundred dollars COLD HARD CASH!"

COLD HARD CASH!
ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS!
COLD HARD CASH!

It started as a joke, but already in its second year the Bridges of Destruction contest is becoming a South East High school tradition. Mr. Barrigan helps the students engineer and design the bridges, while I handle the promotion. Last year the winning bridge, the "Whopper", held 425 lbs before shattering, no mere feat for a bridge made out of popsicle sticks.

But for me it isn't about who wins or loses, it's about the joy of going crazy over the announcements. I'm not in the classrooms when the announcements hit, but I know the students are paying attention. I can hear them shout: "Bridges of Destruction!" in the hallways, sometimes stopping me to ask if I'm the guy who does the announcements and if I'll use my "promotional" voice.

"Your that Bridges of Destruction guy! Right Leiken! Do the voice."

I always smile and shrug. "Sorry, don't know who it is."

"We know it's you Mister. It's got to be you."

"It's got to be me?" I ask dryly.

"Yes! You do all those voices! You like those pirates!"
"And you wear that parrot hat!"
"Can you do the voice, please?"

I shake my head. "Sorry, no autographs, just throw money."

Bridges of Destruction isn't so much a school activity, as it is a monster truck rally with a special guest appearance of BRIDGEZILLA! At least, that's how I promote it over the announcements, ending the commercial with a fast and low disclaimer:

Twice the bridges, double the destruction, gross exaggerated hyperbole. Cash is neither hard nor cold. No popsicle sticks were harmed in the making of the bridges, all bridges made out of non-toxic Elmer's glue, the official glue of LAUSD, for all your gluing needs. Brought to you by A&E, the "unofficial" place to be.

With the promotion, unfortunately, also comes responsibility. I didn't ask for it, I didn't want it, but I've become the point person for setting the date, organizing the event, and keeping everyone in the loop. The weights to destroy the bridges, the tables, the portable sound system, it all falls on me.

It almost doesn't happen. The forms are turned in, administrators are informed, space is reserved in front of the auditorium and the event is marked in the school calender, but the day of nothing is ready. Nothing.

There is no cart to carry the weights, no one knows if the tables will be ready, no one can get additional chairs and desks, the sound system is MIA. I turn to the kids, ask for their help, explaining we've got less than an hour to get Bridges of Destruction together.

The kids make it happen. Five of them ferry the weights back and forth from the gym, carrying 45 lb dumb bells, one weight at a time. Others text their friends, and like magic the sound system is set up. Tables and chairs spring up almost on their own.

The event goes off without a hitch.

I announce the contest while Barrigan assists the students with setting up the weights. This year's winner named for its jaw like sides, is the Piranha Plant, which holds 350 lbs before cracking. Joshua and Kim, the team who worked on it, are ecstatic. The crowd cheers as they both give special shout outs to their friends.

When the event is over, the kids come and pick everything up, ferrying the weights and tables back to where they belong. Leadership materializes to collect the sound system. I might have promoted Bridges of Destruction, and Barrigan might have helped the students create the bridges, but in the end, the kids made it happen.

It's a good day to be a teacher.

Smog Check

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 18:30:00 +0000

California, land of automotive rituals, home of the smog check. Before the invention of the catalytic converter and cleaner fossil fuels, air pollution covered LA in a dusky blanket of impenetrable fumes that choked out the sky.

Brown became the new blue.

After thousands of stage 1 smog alerts and hundreds of "day-light dim outs" , hospitals filled with asthma patients and gas mask wearing commuters, California decided to incorporate the "smog check"; an emission test to ensure that vehicles no longer undermined public health.

Years of dogged regulations and shrew environmentalists have finally won the battle against smog. We no longer have pollution, but a "marine layer".

Gray is the new brown.

The price for clean air is a small bi-annual ritual: the smog check. Every other year vehicles must be inspected for emissions, tested to ensure that they are not "over-polluting" the atmosphere. Without a verified smog check, California will not allow motorists to buy license plate tags, all but guaranteeing fines from the state's legion of meter maids.

Parking violations is the one aspect of the state government that functions with optimal efficiency. If you put the meter maids in charge of finding Osama Bin Laden, they'd catch him, provided he was parked illegally.

Me being me, I forget all about my tags until after they've expired. I get a notice from the DMV stating I'm overdue, $120 for the car, $20 for a mysterious bonus tax, and another $112 fine for being late with an additional $10 processing fee. $262, plus I need a new smog check.

Ouch.

Fortunately I drive a Honda Civic, a car that excels at passing smog checks and extremely low emissions. I drive to a nearby smog center, wait patiently, playing video games on my iTouch as the mechanic hooks my car up to an emissions testing machine.

Catalytic Converter: Pass
Electrical Systems: Pass
Emissions: Pass
Maintenance Light: Fail

The mechanic apologizes. "I'm sorry, I thought your car would pass, but you have a maintenance light that's flashing on the dashboard."

"So?" I reply, trying to conceal my irritation. "It's been on for months. Probably just a short, the car is fine."

"I'm sorry, but I can't pass the car with that light on. The computer won't give your car a passing grade."

"The computer?"

"The computer checks the car, then it wires the state. If it finds anything wrong, it won't allow me to pass you."

"You are not going to certify my car because of a dash board light?"

"Bring it back tomorrow. Sometimes it goes away after you drive it for a couple days."

I swallow my anger, snarling as I restart the car. The maintenance light is not just going to go away, its been lit for two months.

Perhaps its a blown fuse? I drive the car home and check the fuse box under the hood, then the box under the driver's seat. There are dozens of fuses, but I have a fuse checker, a small hand held device that emits a green light if a fuse is operational.

The hood fuses are easy to check, but underneath the driver's seat it is cramped and difficult to manipulate the device to read the fuses. The fuse checker is an inch too long. It's like trying to screw in a nail in a three inch space with a four inch screw driver, the fuse checker just doesn't fit under the driver's seat. After several minutes of cursing, I stop, frustrated.

Harry calls, and I tell him what's happened.

"Peoples Republic of California." Harry responds, blowing smoke out a cigarette on the other end of the phone. "In Georgia we don't even have smog checks. My check engine light has been on for months. My guess: they probably just want you to bring the car into the dealership in order to change your spark plugs and oil, then charge you $600."

"Well I don't know how to fix it." I complain. "Anytime its electrical it can be expensive."

"This is just your socialist government trying to get more money out of you," Harry says, smoking. "It's just like the movie Casino, it's all about getting your money. This mechanic could have passed your car, but he isn't going to."

After a long bitch session I decide to search the world library for answers. The Internet, cornucopia of rumors, pornography, and useless information. I know I can't be the only owner of a Honda Civic who has ever had a maintenance light problem. After a minute I find an old discussion group thread, turns out hundreds, if not thousands of people have been in the exact same predicament.

Harry was right. The Honda Civic maintenance light is scheduled to flicker on every 10,000 miles in an effort to get owners to turn their car over to the dealer. There is also an easy way to shut it off: press in the travel odometer, turn the car to on, and hold the button in for twenty seconds. The light then switches off as it resets.

I go out to the car and try it. CLICK! The maintenance light vanishes.

Victory!

The next day I take the car back, just as the mechanic is finishing up with a customer. I'm delighted I don't have to wait.

The mechanic informs me he's taking his lunch.

I smile and try not to get impatient. After fifteen minutes he re-hooks the car up to the emissions equipment and reruns all the tests. The car appears to have passed. Finally! I am now cleared to pay money that I don't want to pay to the government.

"I don't know if I should pass your car."

I blink. "What?"

"Something is not right, you need to take better care of it."

I look at the computer. The computer screen reads "passing" under the half dozen state mandated criteria. I glare at the mechanic, imagine his head blowing apart, spraying gibbets of brain matter and gore as pieces of cranium shattered bone scatter over the street beneath his formless gray hat.

He lasts five seconds before passing my vehicle.

Zoolander had a look called "Blue Steel". I have a glare called the Exorcist, a laser like beam of dark psychic energy, honed to deadly glower by years of unruly students.

Turns out the Exorcist is also good for difficult mechanics and officious bureaucrats. Who knew?

Thanks kids.

Jury Duty

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Sat, 15 May 2010 21:14:00 +0000

Jury duty, a civic obligation and American tradition, a vital part of the judicial process and a privilege that should be embraced by all responsible people.

But who said I was responsible?

Since moving to LA, I've received five summons in ten years to appear before the Los Angeles Superior Court. Every other year, I receive a notice in the mail, and every other year I trek over to the court house to sit patiently until I am summarily dismissed. I've discovered through careful observation that the louder and more boisterous your opinion, the less the lawyers want you on their jury.

I've only ever served on one jury, a personal injury case. I could have gotten out of it, but I was unemployed at the time and it provided me with an excuse not to look for work.

Jury duty in LA pays $15 a day, plus 34 cents a mile (one way), and the unemployed can't afford to be picky.

So I kept my mouth shut and sat on the panel like a lemming, got selected to serve and sat through four days of mind numbing drivel as I witnessed an incompetent lawyer try to prosecute a weak case on behalf of a plaintiff who had been involved in at least fourteen other personal injury law suits.

This would not do. I made myself foreman and convinced the jury in under thirty minutes that the defendant was innocent. After the trial I told the plaintiff's lawyer that his client was a money grubbing moron, and if I could have, I would have awarded both the defendant and the court damages for wasting everybody's time.

There's a reason why I don't get picked to serve on juries. I may not be a lawyer, but my father was an attorney as was his father before him. The blood sings.

Today I walk through security, and go the 5th floor where a couple of hundred potential jurors are instructed in the finer points of court etiquette. While in court there is no reading, no use of cell phones, no computers, no talking or chewing of the gum. I pull out a book and read, ignoring the unhappy crowd. I've heard it all before.

Several hours pass before fifty of us receive a summons to the 13th floor. When we arrive a pleasant bald headed African American judge who sounds like Barack Obama informs us that we will be hearing a marijuana case, and that the defendants are being charged with trafficking and for being in violation of the California health code.

Two black men in their early twenties stare straight ahead, eyes riveted on the front of the room, either unwilling or instructed not to meet our gaze. Each of the defendants has a personal lawyer, and given that this case was not plea bargained, I speculate that both defense lawyers are private attorney's, not public defenders.

The prosecutor is a young Asian woman wearing black rimmed glasses, a diamond ring sparkles on her left hand.

The judge reads us some of the rules, and then has the court clerk read off a series of jury ID numbers. As the numbers are read off, jurors quietly walk up to the jury booth and take their seats, twelve in the "box" with an additional ten outside the booth.

"5997!"

I raise my hand and am directed to seat #21, directly in front of the jury booth. The judge instructs us to read a series of questions framed on the court room wall. We are to state where we live, our occupation, if we are married, have any children, and if we have ever served on a jury before.

"Ladies and gentleman of the jury," the judge announces, "I would just like to thank you all for all being here. May I ask, does anyone want to be here?

Juror # 7 raises his hand. "Actually your honor, I'm glad to be here. It's a privilege."

The judge looks taken aback. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. That's wonderful. The men in white lab coats will be coming for you soon."

The court room cracks up.

Each of the jurors answers the questions, being #21 I'm one of the last to state my name, occupation, and marital status. I inform the court that I'm a high school teacher and that I work for LAUSD.

"You're a teacher?" the judge asks. "What do you teach?"

"I teach history and English in the city of South Gate, your honor."

"Teaching high school kids must be tough."

"It can be challenging, but I have to admit its even more challenging to have to sit and listen. I'm the one used to doing the talking."

The court laughs.

The judge instructs us in the importance of assuming all accused our innocent until proven guilty. He asks the jury if we understand the difference between circumstantial and direct evidence, and that we are not allowed to speculate on punishment, only to deliberate the facts and follow the law with our best moral certitude.

One juror tries to pretend like she can't understand what is being said, another tries to play the "pain in the ass" card by questioning everything the judge says. He dismisses no one.

Amateurs.

The judge continues. "I know many of you may think the war on drugs is a waste of time and resources, and that many more of you may think that marijuana is not a "drug". Nevertheless, it is illegal and the law states clearly that you cannot sell it without a proper license. I need to know if anyone has a problem with drug enforcement?"

My heart tightens. I have an opening, a chance! I raise my hand along with several other jurors. The judge begins asking questions of the jurors, starting with the lowest numbered juror and working his way upward, asking them about how they feel, questioning them if they can follow the law while informing them that "juror nullification" is illegal in the state of California.

"Juror #21," the judge states. "I understand you have a problem with the drug laws."

"I do your honor. The current law is an absurdity." Calm, Leiken, calm.

"An absurdity?" the judge chuckles. "Are you claiming the law is absurd?"

"Yes, your honor, but it is even more absurd that anyone would traffic or buy pot illegally when you can get it around the city from hundreds of medical dispensaries."

The court room breaks into laughter, even both the defendant's crack a smile. Only the prosecutor looks unamused. Good, I think to myself, good.

"You understand, juror #21, that while we may disagree with the law, we have an obligation to follow it. If you want to try and start a "grass roots" campaign to try and change the law, that's one thing, but that doesn't give you the right to dismiss it."

The judge pauses for a moment. "I'd just like to note for the benefit of the court reporter that when I refer to "grass roots" I mean a political movement, not cannabis."

The court laughs again.

I smile, ignoring the fact that I'm being one upped by a judge. Fortunately, I've already heard him question several other jurors so have had time to think of a response.

"Yes, your honor, I do understand. We do not have the right to choose what rules we want to follow. If this was 1857 and a fugitive slave had escaped to the North, according to the Supreme Court's ruling in Dred Scott I would be obligated to return the slave to their master."

The silence is deafening. Both the prosecution and the defense attorney's perk up. The judge looks taken aback. "That is assuming," I continue, "that the slave owner could prove that the escaped slave was his property and I was on the jury deciding the case."

The judge stares at me for a moment, then continues. "You understand that this is not 1857 and this case has nothing to do with slavery."

"I do your honor. This is 2010 and this is a marijuana trial. It is not 1919 and I am not on a jury having to decide if a woman is guilty for trying to vote at a public poll. My duty is to follow the law, not to have an opinion on whether it is right or wrong."

The judge raises an eyebrow, but decides to let the matter drop. He hands it over to the lawyers to make opening statements. The defense attorney's ignore me, but the prosecutor decides to ask me additional questions.

"Juror #21, I understand you have some strong opinions about the drug law. You are aware that people who sell marijuana legally are licensed and sell only to people who have a legitimate medical condition. There is a matter of public health."

"Yes, ma'am. I also understand that those who are in violation of the public health code are typically either fined or have their place of business shut down or condemned. They are not charged with felonies and do not have to face the prospect of jail time."

The prosecutor cocks her head. "You aren't allowed to speculate on punishment, only on the facts of this case."

"But this is a felony case, and typically felonies involving illicit substances involve incarceration. But you are correct, I am not allowed to speculate."

"While I disagree with your opinion, I respect how you feel. We do, however, have to follow the law."

Bullshit. "The law is a flawed tool to maintain order because it is created by flawed people. To my knowledge, I have never heard of anyone who OD'd on pot, nor have I ever heard anyone turning violent or becoming abusive on pot. If marijuana is a detriment to society, then it is certainly not any worse than alcohol, which is the leading cause of DUI's, or more addictive than cigarettes which are sold in almost every gas station and drug store."

The judge should stop me, but I've launched into a diatribe and I can't stop.

"I once worked as a pharmacy clerk where I routinely handed out vicodin, percoset, oxycontin; pain killers so powerful they put some of our patients back in the hospital. We handed out methodone like candy, that's medical heroin. Every month we would have patients run out of their medication "early" and every month they would be back in the pharmacy, asking for more. If they were loud and persistent, their doctor would just refill their prescription and give them more."

"Juror #21!" the prosecutor interrupts.

I clamp my mouth shut.

"The issue is can you follow the law? If you find the defendants guilty, you must follow the law. Can you do that?"

"I will follow the law to my best moral certitude."

The prosecutor frowns, she isn't happy, but she wisely decides not to ask me any further questions.

The judge moves on, asks the last juror, juror #22 the same questions he's asked everyone else. Juror #22 is an elderly Asian woman with no opinion on anything, identical to the majority of the other jurors who sit politely like sheep. The judge looks at the time, it's 4:00.

"I'd like to thank everyone for coming, but we clearly aren't going to finish picking a jury today, I'd like to adjourn court until tomorrow at 10:30. Please be on time."

CUT TO: REALITY

The daydream ends, the fantasy evaporates.

I've sat in court for three days, playing out the above scenario in my head, rewriting the movie, reworking the court room dialogue. There are no distractions as my writer's brain is forced to sit and listen, forced to hear the same banal questions followed by the same trivial excuses, superficial arguments, and petty justifications.

Turns out not many people in LA think marijuana is a crime.

Three days to play out my response as I study the courtroom like a hawk, anticipating both the judges and lawyers potential questions, preparing to launch into a soliloquy the moment I'm called up. Three days on the bench I have sat, waiting impatiently for my number to be called so I can have my moment in the sun, and then exit stage left to freedom.

Three long days.

But I am never called. Three days of having to listen to the same rules repeated, the same questions asked, and the same tired pleas about why said juror can't serve on said jury. "I can't serve because I've done drugs, I don't like cops, my next door neighbor is a cop and I have him over for BBQ, my brother's step-nephew was arrested for drug use and we're close."

The prosecutor removes all the men she can, preferring older women with young children. The defense retaliates and dismisses all the older mothers with young children, and in five minutes both sides dismiss nearly every potential juror and the process has to start over as another batch of 22 jurors is called forth.

The court has to process 44 jurors before they can decide on a final 12 plus 3 alternates. I am one of the last 6 who is never called up. Never given a chance or the opportunity to expound on the stupidity of the law, to have an audition.

Damn.

Three days, wasted.

Not to worry, I'll get another chance in 24 months.

Friends of Proximity

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Tue, 11 May 2010 12:57:00 +0000

You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family.

It's an old adage, a cliche, wisdom served up straight from the fortune cookie factory.

But how many of our friends our already chosen for us? Friendships decided not by shared values, or similar interests, but location?

Sometimes we meet people who do share our interests, forming bonds that transcend both time and distance. We pull them into our orbit and never let go, regardless of where they have moved or what they are doing, they are eternally bound to our minds and hearts. We may not talk to them for years, but the moment we reconnect, the gap of time closes in an instant.

Time and space cannot weaken a true friendship.

Then there are friends of proximity.

Friends of proximity are friendships of shared experience, momentary attachments based not on shared interests or values, but on immediacy. Proximity friendships are short lived and transient, based an our neighborhoods, our homes, our work place and our families. Quit the job, move to a new neighborhood, and most of your friendships quietly disintegrate, dying an invisible death.

With a friend of proximity, you don't share common interests, you share common experience.

One such friend was Tom. Living beneath the heel of our tyrannical property manager, we were united in our dislike of the warden, prisoners sequestered under the same roof. A waiter at Canter's Deli and older than me by a good ten years, Tom was calm and affable, he showed me how to bet on the ponies and I helped him write a script.

We saw shows together, griped about politics, and were always unified in our hour long "bitch" sessions about the craziness of our dictator roommate and his unreasonable demands. (Like shutting off the power to my room, telling me how I should park my car in the drive way, or insisting that one of us was stealing his silverware.)

After I moved, I promised to stay in touch, but somehow I never really did. Not long after I left Tom moved out as well, and that was the last I heard from him. We no longer had our common experience, both of us had moved on to different shows, to different venues.

A week ago I walked into Canter's to have an open beef brisket. Canter's has probably 300 things on their menu, but only five of them are good. (Corn beef, matzoh soup, brisket, pastrami, and of course, the brisket - as a rule, stick to traditional Jewish food when eating here.)

I look for Tom, but don't spot him.

"Does Tom still work here?" I ask at the register.

"No," the woman replies, counting my money, "Tom passed away a year ago."

I try to hide my shock and fail. "What? What happened?"

"He had a heart attack." She answers, handing me my change.

Tom's dead? Dead? I exit the deli in a daze. I still have his number on my phone. I haven't called it in years, but I call it now.

His voice mail picks up. "This is Tom, leave a message."

For a moment I don't know what to say, maybe the woman behind the counter was wrong? Maybe she was talking about a different Tom? Don't phone companies cancel voice mail after no one pays the bill?

Or is your voice mail like MySpace or Facebook, a digitized ghost casting a pixeled shadow, remaining up on the web even after you are gone. Death is no longer marked by a mere gravestone, but electronically encrypted bits of data zipping around the world, locked into place until someone makes a conscious decision to erase your electronic thumbprint.

A week later I never hear back from him. I call a second time. Nothing.

Does it even matter? Tom vanished from my life years ago. He was a friend of proximity, a connection of convenience. The moment we stopped living under the same roof was the moment our friendship vanished into the ether.

How many friends have I met in LA? How many people have I met and formed friendships with only to never speak with them again? Thinking back I can barely remember half their names. Former roommates, people I worked with, teachers I've known, writers who moved away - so few remain friends.

But when they're gone, you don't really miss them.

They're no longer in your proximity.

Crossed Out

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 13:43:00 +0000

Kids don't read.

This statement is so overused and hackneyed it's akin to a pair of frayed shoes, scuffed and scraped to the point where the soles are falling apart from overuse. "Kids don't read" is no longer an opinion, its an unquestioned fact, passing beyond the world of cliche and into the realm of truism.

My first year I was teaching a phonetics class designed for elementary school students as part of the LANGUAGE! program. Unfortunately, the class was filled with unruly high school freshman who rebelled at the thought of having to read Dr. Seuss and Dick and Jane. One of them insisted that he read "as good" as any other student at the school.

I'd taught the class for weeks, and by this point the kids are in open revolt. It's the end of the day, they don't want to be there, and as a new teacher I'm fresh meat. I'm about to to lose my temper.

"Than let's see how a general ed student reads." I declared grandly.

Outside the bungalow I spotted a teenager wearing a black Metallica T-shirt slouching across the quad. "Hey kid!" I called out. "C'mere, I need you for something."

As the teenager approached, braces glinting in the afternoon sun, my class of special ed students began to freak out, terrified at the thought of being embarrassed in front of a student from general ed. In a school of 5000 students, there is anonymity, but there isn't a special ed student alive who isn't terrified of being "outed"; of being thought of as dumb.

My students covered their heads, raised up their hoods, retreating to the back of the room - one ran and hid in the closet. When Metallica gets to my room I handed him one of the phonetics books.

"Read this."

Metallica stared at the book, confused. A second later he made an attempt to read it.

"The....man....walk..ed...out...to...."

The class cracked up, backs straightening, terror evaporating, fear gone in an instant. My student in the closet leapt outward, bounding up to the front of the room.

"You see, Mister!" she laughs. "You see! We do read as good as all the other kids."

I shouldn't have been surprised.
Kids don't read.

By my second year I realized part of the problem was lack of reading material, what was available was either too easy or too difficult. Precious little was in the comprehension "sweet spot", easy enough to be decoded, but interesting enough to be challenging. I scoured book rooms and searched book stores in a never ending quest for stories that would spark interest.

There wasn't much. The district claims they have identified 4,700 books that are high interest, low readability material, but that is a gross exaggeration.

I put the number at less than ten. House on Mango Street, Holes, The Outsiders, A Child Called It - how many times can I teach the same novel? Animal Farm? Too abstract. To Kill a Mockingbird? Too different, the deep South might as well be science fiction and take place on Mars. For the majority of the students, even vampire goth drivel like Twilight is a challenge.

After a few years, it occurred to me that perhaps I should begin writing my own stories. After all, who knows their audience better?

Once upon a time, before I was a teacher, I was a writer.

I decided to write a survival story about a student who is afraid to come to school because he doesn't want to get "jumped" by a rival gang. Each chapter was kept to a few pages, written in 14 font with shorter margins and wide spaces to make it easier for struggling readers. Unlike most novels, I was writing in a setting that "mirrored" the students world, an inner city high school, a story that kids could immediately pick up, access, and understand.

They devoured the first chapter. What happens next, Mister! What happens next! I wrote a second chapter from the point of view of a girl who secretly has a crush on the kid hiding from the gang, then a third chapter from a "stoners" perspective. By the time I get to the goth girl in chapter 7, I was starting to realize I had a book.

And so Crossed Out: A City Tales Novel, was born.

I passed out some of the chapters to other special ed teachers, and almost instantly they wanted their own classroom sets. The book became viral, taking on a life of its own as it wound its way through the school. Soon regular ed teachers were asking about the book, eager to offer it to their own struggling readers.

Crossed Out isn't just a book for special ed, it's a book for ESL and anyone in developmental reading. It's a book for all the students who read below grade level, for every kid who has never read a novel, who doesn't have books at home, who has parents that are functionally illiterate.

Crossed Out is a book for over half the LAUSD school district.

Students approach me in the hallways now, some I know, others are strangers.

"I love your book, Mister!"
"Hey, Leiken! Good book."
"Hey teacher! Did you write that book? It's awesome!"

I acknowledge them with a smile a wave. For some students, Crossed Out is the first book they have ever finished.

A few even want to take the book home, refusing to let go, fingers glued to the pages.

"Can I take it home Mr. Leiken?" Sam says. "I promise to return it."

Normally I would say no. The copies I have keep on disappearing, but in Sam's case, a demote who should be a senior, I'll make an exception. I've never seen him excited about anything, at least anything to do with reading or school.

He returns the book the next day.

"It was excellent, Mister. Best book I've read."

Sam is a slow reader. At 180 pages, I'm a little surprised he could finish Crossed Out that quickly. "You finished it in one day?" I ask. "How long did it take you to read it?"

"It took me all night, but I couldn't put it down!"

A student reading for fun? A student reading for pleasure? It's not possible.

Because kids don't read.

Baby Sitting

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 13:30:00 +0000

Half of my students are failing.

Habitually late, continuously sick, incapable of turning in work, those who fail are all to eager to give up when confronted with a challenge, ready to avoid anything that requires thought or mental effort. Some don't try at all, because for them school is a layover, purgatory before they reach their final destination.

Prison.

Then there are the students who believe they have remained in first grade, perpetually stunned when I inform them they are failing all their classes.

"But, but I'm a good boy." a student declares, emphatic.

"Yeah," I retort, "but you don't do any work."

"Yes, yes I do!"

"Show me." I order.

The student opens up his notebook, and with the exception of a few journal entries, it's empty. No home work, no final projects, no notes. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

"Sorry kid, you need to work harder."

"But I'm a good boy."

I could tell you that students fail because of poverty, or cultural differences, or lack of parent involvement.

But I'm not in the business of making excuses. It's not their fault they are failing, it's mine. They are failing because I don't care.

A few of my colleagues don't hesitate to point this out. "You don't care anymore Leiken. What happened to you?"

"Acid reflux."

"Seriously, these kids need help. You need to be there for them. You shouldn't have put Sam in that government class. He can't handle it, he's falling apart."

I shrug, there wasn't much of a choice, all the other classes were full. Not that it matters, even if Sam came back for a 5th year and passed all his classes, he still wouldn't have enough credits to graduate. "Sam hasn't done anything for years," I counter, "he should be a senior and he only has sophomore credits."

"Well now he's trying, Leiken! You need to give him a chance."

"Not trying hard enough. He's still failing all his classes."

"That's because he's depressed. He has a bad home environment."

I shrug. I've heard it all before. What difference does it make why he fails, the fact is, he is still failing. The cop doesn't care when he pulls you over for speeding, the land lord doesn't care when you don't have money for rent. But I was late for work! I lost my job! My child is sick!

My girlfriend gave me herpes! Blah, blah, blah.

Sorry, but the world moves on.

Again and again I hear the same complaints, a cacophony of blaring horns that drowns out the ability to listen until finally, you become deaf to the pleas, the whining, the excuses...

In some cases, the students are so helpless they remind me of slugs drying up on hot pavement, unable to slither to safety. One such slug never brings a book to class, (or pencil and paper) claiming that his locker is jammed and he's unable to open it.

"Why don't you tell the office to fix it?" I ask, knowing that as I ask the question that this conversation is a waste of time.

"I did," he responds, "but like, they told me to retry the combination, and I had forgot it, so I had to pay them a dollar for the combo, and when I tried it the locker still didn't open, so like I wasted a dollar. What do you want me to do, go waste another dollar?"

Another minute of my life gone. At least if I had been sitting in traffic I would have been going somewhere.

No point arguing. I take him to the attendance office, whereby I pay a dollar to get the combination to try the locker for myself. I fumble with the lock, it's been years since I've actually had to spin a lock in place, twice to the right, once to the left, then back to the right again.

Nothing. The locker doesn't open. I try again. Nothing.

"See, Mister!" the kid crows. "I told you, waste of time."

I go find an assistant principal and ask for a key. She is glad to help, but first I have to fill out a form to have the locker opened. I make the student do it. Five more minutes, zapped away, POOF!

"How was I supposed to know to do all this!" the kid complains. "No one told me!"

The assistant principal tries the combo for herself. Nothing. Finally she gets out the key and opens it.

The locker's empty. There are no books, no pens, no paper. It looks like it's never been used.

"I don't understand," the student mutters, dumbfounded. "Where are my books?"

"If you can't find them you'll have to pay for new ones. They're expensive, $70-$100 dollars each."

"But that's not fair! You can't expect me to pay for books! Someone must have stole them!"

"How could they have stole them when the combination to the locker never worked?"

The student stares into space, silent. I've got him, one more witness nailed to the stand.

Bite me, Matlock.

But this time, I walk away. If a slug doesn't want to dry up on the sidewalk it actually has to want to move off the sidewalk.

I only have twelve students on my caseload, and six of them are failing. They don't study, don't complete assignments, don't bring their books, and for the most part can't be bothered to pay attention. Their parents are absentee, college is outside their imagination, they have no idea what they want to be when they grow up, and no idea how to get there.

Most of them have lost the ability to dream.

But I'm not in the business of making excuses. These kids are failing not because they are unmotivated, but because I refuse to dream for them.

But, hey, as I told you, it's my fault. It's my fault I don't do their homework, it's my fault I don't continuously check up on them, it's my fault I ask them to come after school, but never make them come.

It's my fault I don't want to be a babysitter.

Dating LA

noreply@blogger.com (Mister) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 16:11:00 +0000

Dating in LA is notoriously difficult. People who move here often go for years finding no one, then move away only to discover a "soul mate" and marry six months later.

It's a paradox. How can a city known for its youth and beauty, a city crammed full of party loving singles, a city like LA, be so difficult for finding love?

The problem is the nature of LA herself.

LA is not a person, but a goddess. She is the daughter of Apollo and Lilith, forever chic, eternally young, phone glued to her ear as she veers down the freeway in an SUV for one. Like all gods, she goes by many names: Hollywood and Tinseltown, she is the American Idol.

She's attractive, even beautiful, the essence of desire; to have LA laughing on your arm is to have the shadow of every aspiration fulfilled. Her silhouette covers the city in sequined glamour. People who look in the mirror do not want to see themselves - they want to see her gazing back at them with longing.

She's elusive, this woman. Her whims are fickle. She wants everything but promises nothing. Countless millions come to LA seeking her, yearning for her approval to kiss their ears or to smolder in her radiant gaze. She is mesmerizing, Narcissus reborn; those who seek her unable to tear themselves away, hoping, praying, even begging for the briefest hint of her acknowledgement.

She is terrifying, this goddess. Those lucky few who bask in her glory often get too close to her divine flames, burning up, enraptured by all that she offers. Those who lose her interest are the wash outs; has-beens who frequently debase themselves on game shows and reality TV in acts of public self-flagellation, all in the vain hope of regaining her approval.

Within six months most who come to LA realize she doesn't exist, no more real then a mirage, no more edible than a bowl of Renoir fruit.

Reach out to touch her and your hands won't come away with an apple but a bruised canvas, coated with oil and paint.

She is untouchable, but her captivating splendor remains.

It is because of this goddess, this siren of desire, that dating is impossible in LA. No one wants to date who they are with - they want her. She is the collective consciousness of the modern world's dreams, a broadcast perversion of mass marketed fantasy. LA is lust and passion, wealth and romance, ecstasy and bliss. No mere mortal can match up to the promise of LA; no one person can fulfill all the dreams and endless possibilities with which she provides.

It is only after becoming numb in the land of collagen enhanced bodies that realization dawns - not even LA can satiate all that she promises. No matter how much you are with her, LA leaves you hungry and desperate for more. More fame, more success, more praise, more self-adoration.

LA doesn't bequeath dreams, LA bestows hallucination.

Natives born in her womb are impervious to fever induced charms. Birthed with immune systems incapable of substance, LA natives accept her artificiality with a zen like Buddhism that mystifies outsiders. For the natives do not date, they "hook-up." For them, it is enough to have a look and the appearance of a relationship.

For true initiates of Hollywood the image is the person, what you look like is who you are. They accept that when you are in a relationship, you aren't just a boyfriend or a girlfriend, you're an accessory.

In most places, it's what you bring to the table. In LA, it's not what you bring, it's who you bring to the table with you. In LA, an image isn't skin deep because there is nothing beneath the skin.

Dating in LA isn't about love or commitment. It's about creating an image, all in an attempt to be closer, to be closer to her.

It's why as a broke writer I did better dating than an employed teacher - a writer has the potential of launching a career, catapulting an individual into her hands.

A teacher? A teacher might be able to add you to their PPO.

It's why people in LA can have one night stands, but are incapable of sustaining a relationship. In a relationship, your image might not be compatible with theirs.

People often say to me, "Leiken, you are too picky. You won't bend, you won't compromise. You expect too much. You don't put yourself out there enough and you get discouraged too easily. You won't change your look."

To date in LA you have to find your niche, you need to have a look.

Because when you are dating in LA, you are dating two women. The girl you are with, and LA. One I can handle, the other can never be satisfied.

That's LA.