When Life Gives You the Shaft

“Mrs. Ryan! Mrs. Ryan!” the boy in the back of the cafeteria space bellowed during sixth period study hall.  I walked to where he was seated with little enthusiasm.  These are high school students, so why were they beckoning for me like brown-nosing tattle tale first graders? 

“What’s the problem Evan?” I asked, with my hands firmly planted on my hips and an expression that revealed I really didn’t give a shit.  I know how it sounds to say I didn’t care what the problem was.  However, once you’ve been in secondary education for some time, you can tell when there’s a real issue and when students are just being immature and irritating.  This was definitely a case of the latter.

The boy in the nearly thread bare black Hane’s tee shirt looked up at me with a strange little smirk on his face.  Clearly, he was more amused by the expectant reply than I was likely to be.  “Mrs. Ryan, Jake touched my nipple.”

 

Really? Really? Are you fucking kidding me?  This is the issue I was called over here for?  Did they think this would amuse me?  Did he consider it a serious violation of his body?  No, he did not, as both boys chuckled at this comment, but then looked quickly ashamed when they read the expression on my face.  I just stood there giving them a snarky look that spoke, without any oral expression necessary, “Why are you acting like fucking morons? Knock this shit off.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” both boys spoke in unison.  I walked away and continued to generate about the study hall space, ensuring students were on task and checking in with others to see if they needed any help.  Every student seemed to be relatively on task.  Yes, some of them were just doodling or checking their texts in between solving Algebra equations.  But, everyone was in their correct seats, no one was cursing, and everyone was awake.  Therefore, I went behind the desk to quickly check my e-mail as all was under control.

Then Evan was out of his seat, back on his feet, laughing hysterically, and kicking some object that I could not identify from my distance. I returned to his seat, but with a bit more rapidity this time.

“Evan.  What are you doing now?  You need to stay on task.   Study Hall is here so you can complete your homework.  Not jump and kick stuff around.  What was that?”

“It was just a pen,” he replied.  He then continued at an attempt to justify his jumping and kicking during a time when the students are expected to be studious, quiet, and on task.  “Well, Mark stole my pen Mrs. Ryan.  And then he hid it under his butt.  It was under his butt, so I was trying to pick it up with my feet instead of my hands because that’s gross.”

Again, I gave him a look that made any actual words unnecessary.  This look shut him up immediately, but the other boy seated at the table must not have read my face.  This is when Nick inserted, “Yeah, he used the pen like a dildo.”

I was silent again.  This time, however, it was not because my facial expressions spoke for me.  I was quiet because I didn’t know how to respond to this.  Me – the woman who has shit to say in almost every situation.  There was a few seconds of awkward silence.  I finally spoke to question, “Why in the world would you say such a thing?  And, to me?  I’m your teacher.  I’m an adult. What’s wrong with you?”

I didn’t wait for a response.  I don’t believe I was about to receive one either as the student who called a pen a dildo just sat creepily chuckling, his heavy shoulders bobbing up and down.  He continued to snicker as I walked slowly away.  The situation didn’t call for a detention or office referral.  It wasn’t one of those “teaching moments” that emerges and we must embrace.  It was just some dumb-ass shit to say because that is the way the mind of a teenage boy often works. 

When the sixth period bell rang a few minutes later, I was relieved to have a group of students that I genuinely hoped and believed would behave better as I have more upper classmen in my seventh period. 

I thought I was right.  Everything was going so much better.  The students were on task; they didn’t disturb me with ridiculous situations.  As I milled about the room, I saw students studying Economics, World Literature, and Calculus.  Calculators were out and pencils were busily inscribing notes and short answer responses to assigned texts. 

And then, with less than ten minutes left in the period, I heard “Hey!” and went to the table where one young teenage male was yelling at another and pulling his textbook swiftly out of the hands of the same student he addressed.  The textbook was properly covered in a grocery store bag and had “US History” written neatly in black Sharpie upon this paper covering.  The course identification had been the only writing on that book cover, until the moment that led to the yelling.  When I arrived at the scene of this incident, I was informed, “Mrs. Ryan, he just drew balls on my book cover.”

Indeed, there they were: a long cylindered shaft with two round circles above it.  I didn’t overreact and respond with anger.  Instead, I said nothing at first.  I simply picked up a pen, added two circles inside the “balls,” filling them in completely with ink, and then added an upturned smile below the sketch of a shaft.  “There,” I said. 

“Oh, now it’s just a guy with a really long nose smiling at me,” said the student whose textbook had been crudely victimized. “Okay, thanks.  It kind of looks like a cartoon.  I’m going to draw some hair on him.”

Good. You do that, now, you go ahead and do that.  The lesson here: When life gives you the shaft, turn it into a smiling face. Also, teenagers are just fucking weird sometimes, and you have to listen to McCartney and Lennon and just “let it be.”


Author's Note: All student names have been changed to protect individual rights.

Keeping it Real with DMX

Recently, a student and I had a discussion about DMX and the illuminati.  I later discovered that DMX was performing at an event I was attending.  The organizers must have desired an artist whose career was “dead” to headline the Zombie Pub Crawl.  Oddly, I was excited to see this hard-core rapper. One would have thought I was DMX’s biggest fan, hands in the air “like I just don’t care,” singing “y’all can suck my dick.” 

But, DMX disappointed a lot of folks.  Many were ready to tell DMX to suck their undead dicks for showing up 90 minutes late and performing only a 30 minute set. 

Screw DMX.

TOTAL BULL-SHIT.

WTF?

Fuck DMX – that washed –up drug addict.

Who does he think he is?

The above is  a sampling of hundreds of irate comments from the zpc stream.  Yes --someone asked, “Who does he think he is?”  I would reply with another question, “Who do you think he is?  He’s mother fucking DMX; he’s not exactly the most upstanding citizen in the world.    Are you not aware of his reputation?“

Here’s a quick lesson: DMX was charged with animal cruelty, disorderly conduct, and possession, after officers found a loaded pistol, 13 pit bulls, and six crack pipes in his home.  Later, he was arrested for stealing a vehicle, and identifying himself as an FBI agent.  So, really, you’re surprised? 

DMX lacked proper manners on stage; there’s another shocker.  He announced, “Boy – you all  a bunch of ugly mother fuckers.  I wouldn’t fuck her, I wouldn’t fuck her, oooh … I definitely wouldn’t fuck you girl.”  In his defense, we were all dressed like zombies so it probably would have been fucked up if he did have a hard-on.

I pulled my friends closer to the stage. “C’mon, guys,” I yelled, “Let’s get  up in there! DMX wants to see me!”  At that point in the evening, I fully believed this with all my heart. 
 

Then someone in the crowd threw something on stage. To this, DMX stated, “Another one of you fuckers wants to throw something  and I’m gonna come down there and kick your ass, faggot.”  My friend and I looked at one another, shaking our heads in disapproval of this homophobic slur.

His performance soon ended, but my time with DMX was not over. “I gotta go talk to DMX,” I announced to my friend.  “No, no, you don’t,” she adamantly tried to convince me otherwise.  I snuck past the gates and approached the back of the stage.  A large security guard stopped me and told me to turn around.  I told him DMX wanted to talk to me.  I was so sincere in this and honestly believed what I was saying.

DMX made his way off the stage, and I winked and pointed at him,  “Hey, DMX, you wanna see me, right?” 

The guard was shaking his head negatively and trying to push me back, but DMX said, “Get on over here honey.”  I don’t know why this made me immensely happy, but I beamed and bounced over in my red tutu, visible black panties, and “Zombie Bitch from Hell” tee. This apparel probably helped because truth is I have an ass that is quite popular with the African American male community.

So, DMX invited me over and embraced me in a warm hug. 

“Hey DMX," I said, “I gotta tell you why we need to talk.  See, I lost my teaching job due to fucking Scott Walker.”

“Scott Walker? Who’s Scott Walker?” DMX questioned.  I know you’re wildly surprised that DMX is not educated enough in politics to recognize this name.

One of the security guards answered,  “He’s the governor of Wisconsin.  He’s an ass."

I gave that guy a high-five, and  continued, “Yeah, he’s the governor, but he didn’t even graduate from college.”

“Dude didn’t graduate from college and he wants to run a state?” questioned DMX in genuine disbelief and disgust.

“He is running it,” I replied, “He even won a recall election.”

“Well, that shit ain’t right,” DMX said, shaking his head.  I had underestimated DMX, judging him on his reputation, but even DMX knew that education should be valued.

“Anyway, we’re gonna get off track here, DMX,” I continued, “So, you see, because I lost my job I work part-time now as a para and my new students told me you never committed any of those crimes you’ve been convicted of, and the illuminati is framing you.”

Fuck. I have big balls.  Also – what is wrong with me?

“Oh, I don’t know nothing about no illuminati.  I don’t want to talk about no illuminati.”

I did, so I went on to tell DMX everything I had recently learned. He endured this for a while, and then interrupted,  “You want a hug, sweetie?  You a sweet girl.”  He gave me another big hug, and kissed me on the cheek.

Then, DMX asked me if I loved the Lord.  I said I surely do.  He showed me the “Jesus Saves” tattoo on his wrist.  Then I got to it – the reason I felt most compelled to talk to DMX .  “This brings me to the point I wanted to make.  I  need to tell you one more thing. You're telling me you love Jesus, and Jesus wants you to love everyone, and we shouldn't judge others, so it’s not cool to use the word ‘faggot.’”

“Well, see, now you judging me!” he said, his voice slightly rising in anger.  “I don’t mean ‘faggot’ like you gay; I mean ‘faggot’ like you an asshole.  You know? I got no problem with the gays! I got an uncle that’s straight gay!”

After this, there was more hugging before I returned to my friends.  I got high-fives from everyone we met as my friend bragged about my exchange with DMX, but the police officer we spoke with asked, “Why did you  talk to that dude? He’s an egotistical prick.”  Again, he’s mother fucking DMX.  What did you expect?  

 

 

<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/79-open"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/challenge79.png"></a>

 

Resources: http://crime.about.com/od/famousdiduno/ig/mugshots_rap_hip_rb/DMX-Mugshot.htm

Hank Speaks of Hunter

Greetings friends and followers! It's time for another round of Blogger Idol. This week's challenge was to pair up with another blogger playing from home and conduct an interview of one another.  You will find my results below. Enjoy!

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We arranged a meeting at a small bar on the south side of town.  He told me one of his friends had recommended the place – said the bartender was quite the character and told really interesting tales.  I walked in and wondered just where the hell I had agreed to meet.  The bar was far seedier than either of us expected – dirty old wood paneling, dim lighting, the odor of stale cigarettes lingering in the air.  I took a seat as I waited for him.  I asked the man behind the bar if he had any wine.  He opened the cooler to reveal a cardboard box with a spigot on it.  I passed and settled for a bottle of beer – nothing on tap here. 

Then he walked in.  I knew it was him because the bar was otherwise empty and I couldn’t imagine who else would be coming here of all the places.  His physical appearance is not important, because it was his words and compelling outpouring of real, raw emotion that had intrigued me and led to my request for an interview.

I introduced myself.  He shook my hand and said hello, and quickly began scanning the back of the bar, disappointment appearing on his face as well.  He would have to settle for the rail, and so he ordered a glass of Kessler’s on the rocks. 

I indicated my bottle of beer in a show of commiseration regarding the lack of any quality alcohol.  He sipped at his whiskey, and I asked what drink he had been looking for.  He appreciated my astute observational skills.  All good writers must possess the ability to read emotion and pay attention to details.

“Jameson’s,” he replied.  “But, this will have to do. You can’t always get what you want.”

What great truth was held in these last lines reminiscent of Jagger’s lyrics of lamentation.  We both had known such truths – that life isn’t sunshine and rainbows.  I felt akin to him knowing that we both suffered from diagnosed mental illness, and I applauded his ability to write about his pain with such abandon.  One of the most powerful phrases I had encountered while researching his blog in advance of our interview was “unless you can describe the flavor of the barrel of a gun, you cannot possibly understand.”  Shit. That got me.  He had me hooked right there; I trembled in my seat as I read this post because I could relate to all too many of the terrible emotions he had artfully transcribed. 

I skipped a light, congenial beginning to our interview.  “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”  “How many siblings do you have?”  Who gives a shit.  I wanted to get to the heart of this man – to reveal a bit more beyond what he had already bravely exposed on his blog. I asked him to talk a bit about his depression.  When had he been first diagnosed? How did he attempt to manage his illness? 

He replied, “I was officially diagnosed about four years ago.  Now I know that it’s really there, but I suspect it was always there.  When I was a kid, nobody medicated their children, so I was never diagnosed.  I’ve been seeing therapists since I was a child for one reason or another.  I don’t trust them, and I am usually able to find their personal line of ulterior bullshit within a couple visits.  You know what I mean?”

Having myself been diagnosed with bipolar disorder approximately fifteen years ago and rotating through a myriad of therapists in that time, I did know what he meant. 

He continued, “I don’t see therapists anymore, and I never will again.  Now that I am writing, I am never going to give it away for free again.”

This statement quite naturally led into an easy and rich discussion about the cathartic power of writing.  Many authors have used their texts as a means of moving beyond their misery.  He admitted that he had undoubtedly had his own cathartic writing moments.  But to this admission, he added, “Having said that, I find there are definitely times where no matter how much I need or want to work through something, it just is not going to happen.  Those sessions are usually heavily edited and hopefully turned into something useful later.  If not, they become hate mail.  They are then stamped and sent out.  It is just one of the ways I can be old fashioned.  I use our postal system to deliver my hate mail.”

He took another large gulp of his whiskey and crunched on a few ice cubes that had also drifted in his mouth along with the liquid.  I could tell that as his teeth mashed down heavy upon the ice cubes he was silently ruing some other wrong that had been done to him, probably crafting sentences most definitely designed to have a sting.  If you hold any doubt about his words becoming hate mail, you should rush to his site right now and read “Go Fuck Yourself.”  This post was sent to a former employer as a resignation letter.  This guy definitely has some big balls. I think there’s another post discussing his testicles too.

As we sat in momentary silence, it suddenly occurred to me that I had yet to learn this man’s name.  I asked, and he replied, “Call me Hank.”  I can’t tell you if this is actually his name, or just what he wanted to be called.  He spoke these three words with an odd little smirk, but the interview carried on nonetheless.

Being as he seemed relatively private in the way he presented himself, I then questioned what it was that initially prompted him to begin sharing his writing with a public audience via his blog. 

“I’ve been maintaining blogs for years,” he quickly offered.  “I wrote for a blog in law school, which allowed me to work out my personal shit with the school in a public ways.  I want to be a writer, and the only way to do that is to write, so I write. I will never get better without feedback, so the internet seemed like the best place to get brutal and honest advice from strangers who are also writers.”

Hank mentioned his time at law school, and his profession is also noted at many points in his blog posts.  As a practicing lawyer, there is a certain level of professionalism typically associated with said occupation.  Therefore, I prodded him to find out if he had any fears or concerns about the language and content of his blog. 

“I’ve been through this over and over again in my head,” he said.  It was easy to believe those words as it was immediately evident that his mind was constantly running laps, thinking, tottering with theory, contemplating life and literature.  He continued, “over and over trying to find a hole in my security.  Very few people know I maintain that blog, and there is nothing that can lead back to me. It takes a high level of vigilance and editing, but I think I am pretty good about redacting any information that could point to me.”

This was indeed true.  It was a level of vigilance and editing that I lacked.  My own blog, full of similar “inappropriate” language and content could be linked to me with minimal effort.  As an educator, this did concern me.  But, I have grown a great love for sharing my writing through my blog, and said love has only been enriched by the opportunity to share my written expression with such intelligent and insightful individuals as the man who I currently shared drinks with.

He had written many posts that intrigued me as I perused through them prior to our meeting, but I wanted to know which of his posts was his personal favorite.  His answer was a bit of a surprise, but a very sweet and endearing one.

“It’s a post about playing Candyland with my daughter.  I am a cynical, bitter asshole about most things.  But that piece reminds me of her, and thinking of her makes me keep my cynicism, anger, and hate in check.  I can’t let her be me; she’s too perfect.” 

As the focus shifted more exclusively to discussion of blogs, I asked if there were any other bloggers that he followed and admired. He informed me that he once was a follower of Palaniuk before he became a pay site.  He confessed that he rarely read blogs, rather devoting his time to literature.  We both came to the conclusion that blogs get a bad reputation, but bloggers are truly writers at heart and that stigma should be abolished. Being a literature lover myself and literary teacher, we discussed some of our favorites.  It can be immediately concluded from perusing his blog that Hunter S. Thompson has influenced Hank. He shared, “I feel a certain kinship with misunderstood outcasts.”  Hank further praised his literary idol, continuing, “The man was brilliant on so many different levels.  Most people just know him for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but he was so much more than that.  He was a keen political analyst, and had a highly successful prediction rate. He learned to write by typing Hemingway books over and over.”  There was far more to the conversation as he applauded Thompson on many different levels. 

Hank allowed me to praise my own literary idols like Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen.  This conversation digressed for three more bottles of Miller Lite and I don’t know how many more whiskeys he had ordered.  I wasn’t really keeping track of that when the conversation was so interesting and sincere.

Finally, we returned to the primary focus of this interview – to build a bigger audience for our respective blogs.  I concluded with one last question: why should new readers bother with your blog?

Hank thought a bit and then offered, “I think I have a decent perspective on life, in an unhinged and damaged sort of way.  I think I have the ability to write decent fiction, and some of that is mixed into my blog.  I want criticism.  I think other writers visiting my page will be able to provide a level of criticism the general public will not.  Honestly, no writer celebrates the success of another writer without internally hating them.  Or is that just me?”

I left his final question lingering, paid my bar tab, and thanked Hank for his time, assuring him that I would be a returning reader of his work. If you want to answer this question for Hank, or offer his invited concrit, please visit him at ibloggedyourmom.  Yeah, that’s the title.  That tells you all you really need to know about the guy. 

 

 

Same Shit, Bigger Balls

After taking the entire weekend off to take care of important business like getting shit-faced and puking my brains out, I’m back with my entry into the Blogger Idol play at home challenge.  For this week’s challenge, we were to write about a typical day in our life – but here’s the twist: this had to be done while imagining you were of the opposite sex.  Well, when I tried to get into the male mindset, I just kept coming back to testicles.  All guys talk about their testicles constantly, right?  I know whenever my girlfriends and I get together there’s cosmopolitans and deep discussions revolving around our vaginas (again, universal sarcasm font desperately needs to be established) . 

 

I wake up groggily still tired from the night before, sitting up watching reruns of Sports Center while trying to get my two month old son to go the fuck to bed.  He decided to remain restless and resist sleep.  I kept wishing my wife’s estrogen would take domination over her and propel her into pulling an all-nighter with the boy, but no such luck.   I am so tired.  Don’t get me wrong here folks; I am a very proud father and love the children I brought into this world.  I love those kids like nobody’s business, but I’m also a fucking exhausted father.

I got big balls, y'all

I yawn, scratch at my balls, and tug down my bunched up boxers as I stumble slowly into the bathroom.  The kid just woke up again, crying and ready to meet the day far before I would prefer.  “Time to make a bottle,” I say aloud attempting to amuse myself with this lame Dunkin’ Donuts allusion.  The children totally dictate what time my day begins.  I would really love to stay under the covers for an hour or so more.  But, I’m up and so I now gently lift my son from his bassinet, declaring, “It’s okay, buddy.  Daddy’s up and he’s going to make you a bottle little dude.”  I then mix up the formula and water and place the prepared bottle into my child’s expectant mouth.  He begins sucking furiously at the plastic nipple.  Watching while he attacks that bottle with his tiny lips and gums, tugging at it as though he’s been deprived of meals for days, I thank God that I am not a woman.

I recall how chapped and deeply reddened my wife’s nipples would become while breastfeeding.  I think I get it now when she told me she felt like a “damn feedbag.”  I admit I was selfish though, and mostly thought about how much her sore breasts sucked for me.  Her breasts got even bigger with this child than the first.  During the pregnancy and while breastfeeding, those breasts were two absolutely glorious mounds of flesh.  Now, they have sadly retaken the appearance of tiny anthills that I could squish right down with just the palm of my hand.  When they were wonderful though, I never got to enjoy their true greatness because she whined and said my frantic grappling just hurt too damn much.  What a fucking awful paradox.

So, I’m feeding my son when I hear my daughter begin to cry from her bed.  I wake her fully up, change her diapers, get her dressed, grab her some milk and cereal and then turn on Dora the Explorer to offer a little assistance in this child rearing.  I know.  Father of the year.  I don’t want to hear it.  Don’t you judge me; you don’t fucking know my life. I love these kids, but I’m tired.  I’m just so tired.

Despite my sleepy state, I do still manage to enjoy the moments I get to share with my children in the early morning.  Then, it’s time to rush and get ready for my part-time job at the high school.  I remember before children when I could be ready and out the door for work in under ten minutes.  I still constantly underestimate the time actually required to ready the entire family.  Therefore, my daughter had to bypass her bath once again and I just comb through her hair with the green apple detangling spray – some shit my wife made me pick up at the grocery store.  I attempt to pull her light blonde hair back into a quick ponytail, but she screams and cries like she’s being scalped.  How is it my daughter cringes when I must comb through her hair, yet my wife will somehow manage to waste an entire hour styling hers?

When do carefree little girls become hypercritical women that must compare themselves to every other female they see?  My own wife will frequently make statements, when witnessing couples of nonequivalent attraction, such as, “He’s with her?  (tone of disgust) What the fuck?  My ass is so much hotter than that! Right, honey?”  I nod my head, but wonder what it matters anyway.  She’s married to me, so who cares who the random hot guy at Applebee’s is dining with?

At any rate, then I drop the kids off at day care and arrive at work.  After being laid off from my full-time teaching job this past spring (don’t even get me started on that bullshit), I currently supervise study hall in the afternoon.  Essentially, it’s my job to tell kids to keep their mouths shut, quit texting, stop using curse words, and just do some damn homework already – for fuck’s sake. 

I pick up the kids, go home, eat supper – usually something four star and super healthy like Kraft macaroni and cheese or Tyson chicken nuggets.  I already told you not to judge me; piss off – I know I’m not perfect.  I then spend time playing on the floor with my children building blocks or singing silly songs.  My former classmates would barely believe I’m the same guy who was captain of the football team, once kicking ass on the field and now singing “itsty bitsy spider” with my daughter.

I try to get laid, but that’s usually a fail.  I swear I’m about to get some serious blue balls.  Whenever I actually convince my wife to engage in sexual activity, this is the exact moment that my toddler chooses to have a bawling fit.  Ain’t that just the shit; these babies are the worst cock blockers ever.

Ah; such is life.  You do the best you can and give all the love you have to those around you.  You put on that smile and be a good parent and act like a professional even when you’re tired or angry, or both.  You go to bed, get up the next day, and do it all again always believing tomorrow will be a better day. It really isn't so bad because I got big balls.