Thursday, September 28, 2017

What a piece of work is blog

Between rustiness, lack of time, and a frustration with the tedious nature of it, the cartooning aspect of this blog has grown increasingly hard for me to do.

This is part of the reason I go months without posting.

Some things just work so much better when there are pictures with them, but I sit down to draw and suddenly feel like a flat sack of flatty flat flatness.
Even now, I can barely manage to eke out these doodles on the most basic of Paint programs.

Writing is just so much faster, and easier.

It takes me two seconds to tell you that one of my new students is like a nearly blind, always angry J.J. from Good Times.

But it takes five hours to draw it:
Anyways, JJ can't seem to remember my name.

First he called me "Bro", then "Dog". He tried "Rob" for awhile, but he could tell something wasn't quite right. 

At last he settled on "Brob", which is not even a name.

It just seems kind of forced, with pictures for no reason. Are you trying to be funny? 

I don't know. I want to get the mania back, the rapid fire creative thinking that inspired my posts from four years ago. It's been gone so long and I miss it. Now I barely manage to post twice a year.

The smaller the grape, the sweeter the wine, as they say. 

I don't want to be a sweet little grape. I want to be a giant disgusting watermelon that leaves a puddle of red water all over the kitchen counter.

Hmmm. You can't make these things happen, but you can be ready and waiting, primed for the lightning strike of a creative thought. Have you primed for the lightning?

Well, I started a journal with ideas for things to post on Twitter. Because Twitter is the home of witty banter and clever discourse. 

I think you need to search your wheelhouse for another kind of jam.

Argh. I tried really hard. But the only tool in my toolbox is a very round knife made specifically for playdoh and people who can't be trusted.

We need to stop using management metaphors we hear in teacher inservices.

Help me! How do I get funny again?

You must go back to first principles. Has anyone around you farted recently? 

I accidentally farted while walking around the block with JJ.


And he did something really strange. He bent down behind me and vigorously swirled my buttocks with his hand. I got the impression that he was trying to get the fart back in there.

He also said, "You nasty, Brob."

That's kind of funny, I guess. Anything else happen?

Not much. We passed a really big loading dock for like truck deliveries or something, and he got all excited, saying "Damn, that's a big garage. I gotta get my stuff over there and have me a garage sale."

See, now that vignette I would think of as mildly amusing, not really "funny" funny. Tell me more about JJ. Maybe once I have a better contextual understanding of the subject, I can appreciate your little stories a bit better.

Ok, let's see. 

"Though he frequently gets angry, JJ is actually very good natured, and presents a child-like curiosity about the world around him."

That's how his paperwork describes him, anyways.

When we get new students, all we learn about them beforehand comes in the form of a few pieces of paper.

These "reports" are often vague, inaccurate, or from twenty years earlier, when the student in question was a toddler.

We must rely on our own experiences to fill in the blanks.

What the report on Ezra neglected to tell me was that, within the My Little Pony fan community, there are several subsets, one of which took a good hard look at the ponies and decided, Damn, you all horses is fine.

They fetishized elements of their horsiness; gave them heavy, swinging breasts and a cavalcade of genitalia.

The act of self-husbandry that invariably culminates the viewing of these saucy horses is referred to as "clopping".

Ezra is a devout clopper, an observation I will be adding to his paperwork. Then I'll write, see below, and include this picture:

Did you draw all that horse anatomy from memory?


Her cleavage doesn't line up with her udders.

They're not udders; they're teats. Horses have teats.

JJ's paperwork left out some important details, too.

Like the fact that he compulsively steals objects of marginal value.

I was on my way to the bathroom, whistling and doing a little soft shoe routine like I always do before having a BM, when I came upon JJ filling his silver parachute pants with as many toothbrush holders as he could fit in there.

Before I'd said anything, he bolted. Toothbrush holders spilled out over the top of his elastic waistband and slid down the legs of his pants. They clattered onto the floor.

I blocked the doorway with my body, but JJ did not even try to get past me. Laughing maniacally, he held his hands straight up in the air and yelled


"Are you supposed to take things that aren't yours?"


JJ often does an about-face when he answers questions, usually signified by an abrupt shout of WAIT! or HOLD ON.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters, JJ?"

"Naw, man-WAIT!-yes I do. Contagia, Melanomia, Arijuana, and Ridge,"

"They live at home with  you and mom?"

"Yeah-HOLD ON-no-WAIT! Sometimes they is living there."

I explain to JJ that he cannot steal. He nods agreeably, and a few minutes later steals a business card and a bottle of whiteout. A search of his backpack reveals he has also helped himself to a pair of broken sunglasses and a small spool of dental floss.

On one of our regular walks to the nearby park, I ask JJ why he steals so much. 

"I don't know-WAIT!-I forgot." He seems lost in thought for a moment. Then he asks me if I am a good "holdhander."

"What do you mean?"

He scoffingly clicks his tongue, a reflexive reaction he has whenever he can't believe how stupid I am.

"You know what I mean, dog," he says, giggling conspiratorially. "Are you good at holding hands?"

JJ carefully enunciates each word, his voice almost at a whisper, then suddenly snatches my hand.

He has wide palms and long fingers that reach near to his knees. In order to hold hands comfortably with him, I have to cant my body to the right.

We walk along the sidewalk for awhile, thus entwined.


Monday, September 18, 2017

Fancy Nancy

I am on the bus, squeezed as close as possible to the windowside, in an effort to put a little space between myself and our substitute teacher for the day.

Nancy, the sub in question, is in her early 60s; long in the limbs, gray yellow in the hair, straight in the teeth. An old-timey lech might dub her a "tall glass of water" or some other euphemism involving liquids and large but slender containers for them, then loudly suck his front teeth.

When God handed out personal space perimeters, He bestowed upon me one with ample circumference. To Nancy, He gave none.

She leans close enough to butterfly kiss my ear with her charcoal clotted lashes.

"Now here's another story for you that is do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do." 

All that do-do is the theme from the old television show The Twilight Zone. She uses it to preface stories from her life that contain elements of the supernatural. 

Do-do, I had a dream where I wore a wide-brimmed hat, and a week later, I found myself wearing that exact wide-brimmed hat. Do-do, there is man in Brazil that lets entities speak through him, and I cannot buy Starbucks like you are doing because I am saving my money to go see him Do-do.

"What are you going to see him for?" I ask, sipping my 28 oz steaming cup of spiritual lack.

Nancy gets a far away look in her watery blue eyes and sighs heavily.

"For peace, I think. And comfort."

I picture a sweaty brown buddha of a man on a bamboo platform, spinning a rainstick and palming a turkey giblet in preparation for his next psychic surgery.

The image seems cliche to me, and possibly racist.

I wipe off my mental whiteboard and put up instead a list of pros and cons, circling and then underlining words and concepts that people mention twice. I take a picture of it with my Iphone and present my findings at the next meeting of school administrators, where I am rewarded a consultant fee of two hundred thousand dollars. Since I am now rich, I no longer have to sit next to Nancy on this bus. I pull the stop cord and get off alone, while all the other riders cheer and chant my name. I make a prudent amount of dollars rain upon them.

"So then I was in New York," Nancy continues, "Working for a lawyer with the last name of Birnbaum. So, you know...." 

Here she smiles at me, squinting, almost winking. She does this constantly, trailing off her sentences and expecting me to fill in the blanks, often with nothing to go on, no context or overarching theme from which to infer a likely denouement. 

I cannot finish the thought for you, madame, I know not whenst it came.

"We all had apples, so you can just imagine...."  

What, in god's name? You made pies with them? Juice? Some sort of hard cider???

"The floors were diarrhea, so obviously we couldn't...."  

WHAT? STEP ON THEM?? I need hard facts, information. My understanding of human communication is very limited, and when you don't finish your sentences, I get very nervous and I want to throw up. In this void you leave, do I nod knowingly? Politely chuckle? Hang head and shake jowls? Fart and blame others?

"....obviously, I was the wrong religion," she finishes.

"Oh. He was Jewish?" 

She puts a long, bony finger to her nose and winks. 

I want to tell her that she left out all the in between parts that would differentiate a "story" from what she just did, but she has already moved on to the next thing, and I need to be prepared for when she dangles another participial over my head.

Besides her fingers, the rest of Nancy is quite long as well. In fact, she used to be a fashion model, she says. Back in the day. 

"I went to Studio 54, you know, in it's prime."

"Oh." My toes curl in social agony, but I do my part. "What was that like?" The question ekes out like a death rattle.

"In the bathrooms there, it was...." She tilts her head away and looks at me out of the sides of her eyes. I wonder if my breath is bad.

Most of the time when people talk to me, that is all I am thinking. 

Occasionally I will think, ooh their breath is bad, but this is usually only a lead-in to a consideration of the fear is mine worse? Or, is that my own breath reflecting off their face and coming back to me in terrible waves?

"...well, I was only going in there to wee-wee, but some of those ladies...." 

Wee-wee is Nancy's code word for urination.

She has already gone wee-wee several times since we left the school, and each time, she whispers it and makes a gesture with her thumb and forefinger that looks like she is indicating a unit of measurement. 

It could be that she means she only has to go a little bit of wee-wee, or go wee-wee for a brief amount of time, but I am not sure.

When I ask her questions about her life as a model, Nancy brightens up considerably. 

But it becomes all too clear that her name dropping is lost on me.

"We were doing a show for Dior..."
"What's that?" I ask loudly, swinging my little legs and eating my graham crackers with my mouth wide open.
" you know Vera Wang?"
"Nope." Rub nose on sleeve.
"Coco Chanel?"
"Uh-uh." I miss my mommy.

"Well anyways, I found myself in England, where you can just imagine...." 
And this soft-spoken woman, whose whispery voice I have till now had to strain to hear, suddenly shouts "DO YOU KNOW JOHN WAYNE???" in a broad Cockney accent.

My students look back at me, seeking reassurance. I give them a nod, just a slight bob to say, it's cool, but keep your heads on a swivel, because shit might be getting real up in this bus.

Nancy remembers people by what they wore, recalling fashion in exacting detail.

"And Greta was there, wearing a mint blazer tied in a French twist over a lovely cream taffeta wrap pinned by an heirloom whalebone brooch. Her heels were Monsanto and her clutch, Verboten, in that summer's shade of decadent mauve."

"I used to wear long socks with shorts, but people told me not to do it anymore," I reply. 

An hour later, we return to the classroom.

With despair I realize no one else is around, no other staff present to buffer me from Nancy's relentless half sentences and nostalgic tours of style.

For people like me, being talked at for endless hours is physically painful. I'm not exaggerating. We become fragile eggshells incapable of withstanding another poke; one more tale of house hunting in England or list of the best trade shows for models in the fall of 1983, and there will be yolk all over the floor. 

The yolk is a metaphor for an introvert's wee-wee.

"Do you know what this is?" Nancy asks me slyly, pulling a baggie of something small and brown from her lunch.

"A bag of chocolate chips?" 

"This," she says, as she makes an awkward attempt to lean towards me over the table, "is Vitamin CH."

She waits, watching me, the baggie suspended between us by a shaking hand. Nancy is patient, letting the meaning of her words wash over me.

"Oh," I whisper back. "The CH stands for chocolate."

"Hm," she says, conspiratorially. I am pretty sure I have just been told a secret. 

But being told a secret, and understanding why something is a secret, are two very different things.

"Have you liked the other classrooms you've worked in?" I ask her.

Nancy carefully chews one of the chocolate chips. It leaves a brown stain on her front teeth.

"It's been an adjustment." She lifts her hand to half cover her mouth and hisses, "especially with the toileting."

I hurry to change the subject but she won't let me.

"You know? Like when there's grass on the field," she says, and makes a retching face.

The salami sandwich in my hands feels dry and heavy. I lay it back down on the plastic tray.

"But at least it's meaningful work, right?" Nancy continues. "Not like-" 

She stands up and pantomimes holding something out next to her. Her face stretched into a pained camera smile, she turns the invisible item in her hands to show it from a different angle. 

Then, she starts to walk fiercely down an imaginary catwalk. 

But on the crucial pivot at the runway's end, her knee suddenly gives out. Nancy screams for mercy, stumbles, and falls against the back of her chair.

"Are you okay???" 

The students at the lunch table are watching in horror. One of them has half risen from his seat, still clutching his carton of chocolate milk.

Nancy waves me off, and stiffly, proudly, manages to slide into a seated position.

It takes her a moment to regain composure. When she does, she goes back to nibbling her vitamin CH.

Things are quiet then, blessedly quiet. I return to my sandwich and take a moment to enjoy the solitary sounds of my own chewing.