employed hipster: now with 50% more hip.

Y Kan't Chirren Read?

Reading is fundamental.  Remember that program - RIF?  I do, though I’m not sure it exists anymore.  It was an elementary school initiative back in the day in which you read books and earned points towards the illustrious prize of a personal pan pizza from your local Pizza Hut.  It gave kids who weren’t nerdy little weirdoes like me an incentive to do something that would ultimately shape their future – in the land of the literate, the reader survives.  Though it’s often said that you use math every day, I find that I can get by without basic mathematical skills – I can barely do the homework of elementary school children.  Being a language that I never quite mastered, math was always a foreign soil onto which I tread obliquely and with unseasonably high tension.  I remember being in 4^th grade and having a teacher admonish me about my math skills, it went something like this:

Ms. L: “EH, every career on earth uses math.  How will you get a job if you refuse to learn long division?”
Little EH: “Cavemen don’t need math.”
Ms. L: “Being a caveman is not a career…”
Little EH: “Is so, I’ll do historical re-enactments.”
Ms. L: “That’s a limited field…and who will help you count your…dinosaur eggs?”
Little EH: “I’ll get a cave bitch.”

 Ok, so it didn’t quite go like that, but you get the idea.  Reading, on the other hand, was thrilling.  How else would I have known anything about cavemen and their bitches if I hadn’t read about it somewhere?  Reading is a useful skill because it allows you to fill your head with all the useless information you want without the hassle of talking to real, live people or figuring out how to carry numbers.  Numbers are impersonal and people are annoying – but words and the created people that jump out from them are exquisite.

Perhaps this is why I can’t understand half of my students – because half of them HATE reading.  Ok, hate might be too strong a word (especially since I have a hand full that bring down the hatred quotient), but they’re certainly apathetic about.  In the world of instant information, the intardnetz, and my(crack)space, kids just aren’t interested in the chronicles of anything (unless it’s a youtube video).

There was originally a pretty deep point to this whole post but I keep getting distracted by Michael Pollan – I think I’ll just drop it and go read instead.

I'm a sucker for good marketing.

This shit is not good - for srsly.

From Overheard in NY...

http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/archives/018516.html
-----
Angry parent: So what you are telling me is you know nothing about how my son's face got bruised.
Teacher: No, ma'am. Like I said, it happened at recess. I am on my lunch during their recess.
Angry parent: So you weren't there? You didn't see nothing?
Teacher: I did not see anything. I was not there. I was on my lunch.
Angry parent: So you wasn't there? You is his teacher but you's not with him all day?
Teacher: No ma'am. If I were with these students all day, I would kill myself.

--Public School, Bronx

House Guest.

Apparently a Geico commercial is being filmed at my house.

The Games Children Play

This note circulated through my fourth period the other day, inciting a bout of paranoia from yours truly as to the cause of sudden burst of cacophonous laughter.
Fourth Hour Students: 1.  Ms. EH: 0.

Memoirs of a Midget.

“I can’t wait to read the memoirs of Little Employed Hipster.”

I shudder and shake my head.

“No, in order to write a decent memoir you have to be famous.  I hate walking through the biography section of Barnes and Noble and seeing all of those stupid memoirs written by non-famous people with eye-catching fluorescent titles and old-school, Polaroid mug shots of them in the Kindergarten circus.  If I’m going to write a memoir I think something really life-altering has to happen…or something really awful…”

A pregnant pause as the grand houses of Uptown, New Orleans glide through my peripheral vision, G nods contemplatively.

“Well…I guess something awful has happened…”

A flash of blonde as she turns to watch my facial expression change into a bemused smirk.

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh huh,” I nod. “Birth.”

She laughs.

“Oh my god, you could have a one woman show EH, it would open with you in the center of a dark room wearing a black turtle neck rolled up over your head.  As you unroll the neck to reveal your face, you can righteously declare, ‘I am born’ or something.”

I laugh enthusiastically.  We’re nearing the intersection of Napoleon and St. Charles, where G lives with her brother.

“That’d be rad.  Or I can just transcribe this entire conversation as the introduction to my own protracted written struggle to be added to the array of fluorescent titled noise in the biography section for a month or two before it’s moved to the bargain rack downstairs.”

“Hey, I like the bargain rack.”

“Me too.”

“But really, people would read your book.  I would read your book.”

I turn and throw my roller skate car into park, Liz deftly bounces out the door, her blue and white patterned dress swishing artfully around her knees.

“I would read it too, so that would make two of us…”

“Your mom would read it.”

“She’d try…but if the book doesn’t involve a murder or incestuous twins locked in an attic I don’t think she’ll be too enthusiastic about it.”

Liz shakes her head and closes the door, turning to wave goodbye. 

I wave back.

I am born.

Best sonnet evar! Rawr!

Ms. EH is really freaking awesome.
She allows us to “Fwa-Pah” and use C.R.A.C.
With her in our lives we won’t turn out bums!
Nothing that comes out of her mouth is whack.
She keeps us intact and under control.
She’s really short and extremely crazy.
We’re learning really fast. We’re on a roll.
Her class is fun and she’s never lazy.
Fourth hour is the best, watch their actions.
The grades are good, the kids are amazing.
Her funny jokes are the main attraction.
Too bad Ms. EH got a wedding ring.
Shakespeare is definitely her main man.
Come on class; let’s all just give her a hand.

 

- 4th Period Student

Baby Mama Drama.

Me: Ok, so what does paraphrasing mean again?

Third period (surround sound): PUT IT IN YOUR OWN WORDS!

Me: Sweet.  So who can paraphrase the first line of sonnet 138 for me?  "When my love swears that she is made of truth..."

M.B. (jumping in seat): Oh, oh, MEEE!  I can!!

Me: Ok...rock on!

M.B.: When my baby mama say she bein' real!

Me: Mmmm...YEAH!  You're awesome! (high five)

End Scene.

Quick Hit: Inspirational.

Me: Ok, I should get going to bed - I can barely sit up straight.
The Little:  you prolly should - im going to bang out some papers that are due friday so i can drink tomorrow

because i have my priorties straight:)

Me:  seriously, that's some incredible foresight.