So, I was sitting in the office tonight, quickly catching up on e-mail, trying desperately to get out before my 12 hour day somehow turned into a 13 hour monstrosity. Behind me, I heard my friends Jake and Celina talking about get together for next Saturday night. Something about selling people. Something about what people should wear. I turned to Jake and he handed me the invite that had apparently just been made.
Two things about this invite:
1. It is a remake of the famous Grant Wood painting "American Gothic." I fucking love making homages to "American Gothic."
2. It is this Saturday night at a familiar locale in Koreatown.
When I asked what was going on, Celina said that there was going to be a date auction, but that I already knew that. Which was news to me. Because I hadn't heard anything. But she continued, "Yeah, it's going to be Joe, Amanda, Will, and you, so far. Richard said he talked to you." We both turned to look at Richard, who was sitting across the room, staring at a computer. He didn't say anything, and Celina just looked away and rolled her eyes.
"This is the first you're hearing about it."
"Yeah. That's about the size of it."
"We're having a date auction to support the arts. Don't you like the arts?"
What sort of question is that? Loaded, for sure. "So, will you do it?" Only in my time in LA have I been asked to be an item at an auction after it was already announced on Facebook that I'd be there. I have such a weird life and such crazy inventive friends.
"Sure, why not?"
The thing is, date auctions always make me a little sad when they're taken too seriously, so I hope this one is light-hearted (I plan to show up dressed like my thug life roommate, so there you go). Plus, I've done date auctions before Improv, and even though I hated them (and always could find a reason to push it further back in the calendar), it isn't the end of the world. It just all boils down to my very human fear that no one will pick me or that I will be picked last. Which is dumb and probably won't happen and even if it does, who gives a fuck? It's for charity, and it didn't cost me a damn thing. And I'm doing a friend of favor.
God, there better be free booze there.
Week in Review
Things that happened this week:
-Spelling Bee was done to great success.
-I got an intervention group in my third grade class that means I'm going to rock literacy for the coming months.
-Participated in an IJ group for the first time ever.
-Almost fell asleep at work on Friday because the crafts I was researching were dumb. What do you do with kids from these neighborhoods who aren't easily impressed or impressible?
-Made an ass of myself Saturday night.
-Started writing again tonight.
-Spelling Bee was done to great success.
-I got an intervention group in my third grade class that means I'm going to rock literacy for the coming months.
-Participated in an IJ group for the first time ever.
-Almost fell asleep at work on Friday because the crafts I was researching were dumb. What do you do with kids from these neighborhoods who aren't easily impressed or impressible?
-Made an ass of myself Saturday night.
-Started writing again tonight.
I Thought I Didn't Care
There are days when I have to tell myself that teaching elementary school does not and will not fulfill me as a person and, as such, I should not think about where to go to school to get a master's in it.
It all started with this kid, right. It always does. He's in the third grade class I tutor in. He's behind the rest of the class, functioning a few grade levels behind (by my supposition). He's a behavior issue, but I've started to develop a rapport with him and we get work done almost every single day. Today, I found out that they might be testing him for special ed.
And it pissed me off. And it hurt me.
And I know why: I've invested a lot of time into this student already. To have him get away from me now would be awful. But, at the same time, if he needs the help he should get it. But then again, I'm not sure that he is special ed. But I also know that the people making these decisions know a lot more about it than I do. Then again, I'm really exhausted and it was raining when I was thinking about this, so maybe that's what was making me sad.
So, I actually toyed with the notion of becoming a special ed teacher. Not for long...maybe half an hour or so. And then I was done. Now, I'm going to go to bed since I feel like a truck hit me today even though it wasn't that bad.
I staffed all of the Watts Camp...hooray for that!
It all started with this kid, right. It always does. He's in the third grade class I tutor in. He's behind the rest of the class, functioning a few grade levels behind (by my supposition). He's a behavior issue, but I've started to develop a rapport with him and we get work done almost every single day. Today, I found out that they might be testing him for special ed.
And it pissed me off. And it hurt me.
And I know why: I've invested a lot of time into this student already. To have him get away from me now would be awful. But, at the same time, if he needs the help he should get it. But then again, I'm not sure that he is special ed. But I also know that the people making these decisions know a lot more about it than I do. Then again, I'm really exhausted and it was raining when I was thinking about this, so maybe that's what was making me sad.
So, I actually toyed with the notion of becoming a special ed teacher. Not for long...maybe half an hour or so. And then I was done. Now, I'm going to go to bed since I feel like a truck hit me today even though it wasn't that bad.
I staffed all of the Watts Camp...hooray for that!
4,000 Word Update (or, I uploaded some pictures)
This is what last week looked like:
This is what LA looks like in a storm...like you're approaching the final boss in a bad rip-off of Final Fantasy.
My mural washed off the wall. Sad day.
The new 112th recruit: Sara with no H. I am either going to start calling her Noh after the Japanese theatre or No-H. Haven't decided yet.
My mural washed off the wall. Sad day.The new 112th recruit: Sara with no H. I am either going to start calling her Noh after the Japanese theatre or No-H. Haven't decided yet.
Beat-Up Words
So, I realize that over time, I am changing. The pictures that once embodied my soul no longer describe me the best. Instead, new shots off a more serious young man ring truer, except in my moments of unbridled joy. But, that's not really what I want to talk about.
Instead, I want to talk Jack Kerouac. Well, not really Kerouac per say (sp?), but the whole idea of the Beat Generation. For anyone who knows my literary tastes, it comes as little surprise that I love the Beat poets. I love the idea that you can say whatever the hell comes into your head, put it on paper, and it doesn't matter if it makes sense or if it brings insight or if its vulgar, it's just part of you. You need to say what you need to say and screw all the rest of it. I love these ideas, and I tend to live my mental life by these rules.
However, I realized today...realized, perhaps not being the best word...I admitted to myself today that I don't really like to read most of the Beat writers. I mean, Kerouac is okay in On the Road and Dharma Bums; I love Ginsberg as a poet, though sometimes it gets a little dull, but Burroughs is just bizarre. And I enjoy their works on an entirely cerebral level, but my soul doesn't really get into it. I feel the idea, but the story doesn't connect to me. And who knows, I'm not a Beat expert, maybe that's the point.
But trying to get through Visions of Cody made my brain hurt, and I can't really be in any state but complete focus when I try to get through this kind of literature. And, since that is so rarely the state that I'm allowed to be in when I'm reading, it doesn't really work for me.
I read someone who wrote about the stupidity behind the idea of a "guilty pleasure." I think it was John Waters in one of his essay collections. Regardless, it said that the idea of feeling bad that something perfectly legal and acceptable felt good was ridiculous.
I think that a lot of times, we don't choose what brings us pleasure. It's something that is a culmination of the things in your past, your education, and what you've been trained to like. Then, some things are just simply good to all people. But, there's no accounting for taste, there is no perfect piece of entertainment, so we all have to find our own way.
Thus, even though I want to be a literature snob, I really enjoy reading Stephen King novels (especially Lisey's Story, Duma Key, The Dark Tower series, and Under the Dome - A supernatural take on real life phenomena). Augusten Burroughs, a self-described "trashy memoirist" speaks to me in a way that few others do.
Ideas don't make a good read, but a good read can give you all kinds of new ideas.
Instead, I want to talk Jack Kerouac. Well, not really Kerouac per say (sp?), but the whole idea of the Beat Generation. For anyone who knows my literary tastes, it comes as little surprise that I love the Beat poets. I love the idea that you can say whatever the hell comes into your head, put it on paper, and it doesn't matter if it makes sense or if it brings insight or if its vulgar, it's just part of you. You need to say what you need to say and screw all the rest of it. I love these ideas, and I tend to live my mental life by these rules.
However, I realized today...realized, perhaps not being the best word...I admitted to myself today that I don't really like to read most of the Beat writers. I mean, Kerouac is okay in On the Road and Dharma Bums; I love Ginsberg as a poet, though sometimes it gets a little dull, but Burroughs is just bizarre. And I enjoy their works on an entirely cerebral level, but my soul doesn't really get into it. I feel the idea, but the story doesn't connect to me. And who knows, I'm not a Beat expert, maybe that's the point.
But trying to get through Visions of Cody made my brain hurt, and I can't really be in any state but complete focus when I try to get through this kind of literature. And, since that is so rarely the state that I'm allowed to be in when I'm reading, it doesn't really work for me.
I read someone who wrote about the stupidity behind the idea of a "guilty pleasure." I think it was John Waters in one of his essay collections. Regardless, it said that the idea of feeling bad that something perfectly legal and acceptable felt good was ridiculous.
I think that a lot of times, we don't choose what brings us pleasure. It's something that is a culmination of the things in your past, your education, and what you've been trained to like. Then, some things are just simply good to all people. But, there's no accounting for taste, there is no perfect piece of entertainment, so we all have to find our own way.
Thus, even though I want to be a literature snob, I really enjoy reading Stephen King novels (especially Lisey's Story, Duma Key, The Dark Tower series, and Under the Dome - A supernatural take on real life phenomena). Augusten Burroughs, a self-described "trashy memoirist" speaks to me in a way that few others do.
Ideas don't make a good read, but a good read can give you all kinds of new ideas.
Picture Perfect
We change over time. Yes we do, oh yes we do. We change over time.
There are pictures that we see of ourselves, and we say
"that shit's iconic.
That's me
on that page, and
everyone
will recognize that that is me."
We keep it for a while,
in truth,
we keep it far too long.
And, then, we look at it anew.
And something about it has changed.
Not the lighting. The smile, the sarcastic expression.
Not the location or the clothes. Not the
million details that made us who we thought we are.
Instead, those background people all have gone away (for to stay a little while)
and you don't wear that coat anymore.
You've gotten a haircut
and an earring
and flipping off the camera seems less counter-culture than
completely futile.
And today's iconic picture looks so much the same but
so much older.
Invisible lines play across your face,
and he joy of trash talk isn't as sweet and
all time in the past is stolen stolen stolen.
The perfect picture changes, and we click update without thinking
what is it we're covering up.
There are pictures that we see of ourselves, and we say
"that shit's iconic.
That's me
on that page, and
everyone
will recognize that that is me."
We keep it for a while,
in truth,
we keep it far too long.
And, then, we look at it anew.
And something about it has changed.
Not the lighting. The smile, the sarcastic expression.
Not the location or the clothes. Not the
million details that made us who we thought we are.
Instead, those background people all have gone away (for to stay a little while)
and you don't wear that coat anymore.
You've gotten a haircut
and an earring
and flipping off the camera seems less counter-culture than
completely futile.
And today's iconic picture looks so much the same but
so much older.
Invisible lines play across your face,
and he joy of trash talk isn't as sweet and
all time in the past is stolen stolen stolen.
The perfect picture changes, and we click update without thinking
what is it we're covering up.
Mental Exhaustion
Anytime someone asks me about my blog, I feel guilty about updating so spottily. So, here's something new:
I feel like over the last year I have become a lot less politically motivated. For instance, I care about healthcare from a wider, ethical perspective. I believe everyone should have access to care that can save their lives and improve the quality of existence for those with medical conditions. However, policy-wise, I don't really give a shit, and it kind of makes me cranky when people start talking about it. And I feel this way about a lot of things: the Copenhagen debate and accords, economic stimulus, congressional races in 2010...the list grows and grows. But, my thoughts on things haven't stagnated and it's not like I stopped thinking.
Once upon a time, like high school, I would have engaged this issues straight on. Arguing with people, telling them they were wrong, and generally getting all up in arms about the whole thing. Feeling superior, playing the devil's advocate (because even the Devil deserves an advocate), and just generally being a smarmy asshole. But, the older I get, the harder that gets. There are progressively fewer black and white issues. Everything fades to shades of tan with every day that I walk and every new person I meet. I know this is such a stereotypical thing to say, and I feel like I've said it before. But, this time, I swear it feels different.
This amount of ambivalence, case-by-case analysis, love despite choices, understanding and helping, disapproving but being there, and having to rethink the entire world burns mental calories worse than the LSAT. But, it makes me a better person, I guess.
Catie once told me that the moderates didn't have very much to say because they were too busy getting shit done. Because I'm getting shit done for America and for the world right now, I think that all the posturing of the non-idealists is exhausting. And those of us in the trenches fight with something more substantial than words.
I feel like over the last year I have become a lot less politically motivated. For instance, I care about healthcare from a wider, ethical perspective. I believe everyone should have access to care that can save their lives and improve the quality of existence for those with medical conditions. However, policy-wise, I don't really give a shit, and it kind of makes me cranky when people start talking about it. And I feel this way about a lot of things: the Copenhagen debate and accords, economic stimulus, congressional races in 2010...the list grows and grows. But, my thoughts on things haven't stagnated and it's not like I stopped thinking.
Once upon a time, like high school, I would have engaged this issues straight on. Arguing with people, telling them they were wrong, and generally getting all up in arms about the whole thing. Feeling superior, playing the devil's advocate (because even the Devil deserves an advocate), and just generally being a smarmy asshole. But, the older I get, the harder that gets. There are progressively fewer black and white issues. Everything fades to shades of tan with every day that I walk and every new person I meet. I know this is such a stereotypical thing to say, and I feel like I've said it before. But, this time, I swear it feels different.
This amount of ambivalence, case-by-case analysis, love despite choices, understanding and helping, disapproving but being there, and having to rethink the entire world burns mental calories worse than the LSAT. But, it makes me a better person, I guess.
Catie once told me that the moderates didn't have very much to say because they were too busy getting shit done. Because I'm getting shit done for America and for the world right now, I think that all the posturing of the non-idealists is exhausting. And those of us in the trenches fight with something more substantial than words.
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