According to the internet, Christina Aquilera is currently collaborating with Le Tigre. This is really weird and potentially way awesome.

I feel like there was something else I wanted to tell you.

As you may know, in his 1920 presidential campaign, Warren G. Harding promised a "return to normalcy," which sparked a debate about whether or not "normalcy" was a real word, and the answer was, well yes, technically, but not really, no. And today, as he so often does, my dad one-upped Warren G. Harding, by using the word "normalacy."

My brother loves buying high-tech shit--which seems to be a common trait among dudes after going into the military--so when it came time to buy a swing for Javier, he just had to go with the Graco sweetpeace Newborn Soothing Center. Not only does it swing at six speeds, it also has a speaker to play soothing sounds. Like waves or a forest during a rainstorm. Or stomach noises. Which I find weird (not the idea behind the stomach noises, mind you, but the actual sound).

Also, it has a jack for an mp3 player. So I've been playing music to Javi and seeing how he responds. He responded well to Belle & Sebastian, by which I mean that he sat calmly. He didn't take to the Smiths as much, but he was also hungry at the time. Or pooping, I can't remember which. So it might be worth another try.

Less cute, more disgusting, we went out to lunch at a chicken place called Zaxby's today. And the food was actually really good, but then we got back in the truck and my dad kept burping disgusting chicken burps. And then the air conditioner blew them straight back into my face. It was so gross.

I met my nephew Javier for the first time today. He may only be nine weeks old, but the kid is a pro at staring contests. He never blinks first, so I only win when he gets bored and looks away.

Currently camped out at the HoJo's in West Memphis, AR, en route to Little Rock. Somethings I noticed along the way:

In Missouri, I saw a turtle crossing the freeway. That's a race he probably didn't win.

As you drive further south in Illinois, the names of places get increasingly suggestive. It starts with Dix (which I guess is really less of a suggestion and more of a statement). Then comes Lick Creek, and I don't know what exactly that suggests, but it does sound suggestive, right? Then there's Dongola, my personal favorite. And finally there's Mound City, accessible by Mounds Rd. Not to be outdone, Missouri has its own Cooter and Arkansas a Bald Knob.

Apparently I'm 12.

Goddam, I love the smell of lilacs.

Mexicans from Mexico

What can I tell you?

I got offered a management position at the sub shop. But I turned it down. Because if you're a delivery driver, when people ask what you do, you can be all, "Oh, I drive deliveries... but it's just a summer job." But if you have to say you manage a sub shop, that's like saying you're committed to selling subs. And nobody wants that. Also, I wouldn't get to deliver any more, and the only reason I can tolerate this job in the first place is because I get to leave constantly.

Speaking of which, I took a delivery today to the local TV station, only it required a signature from someone from the local newspaper who was coming over for a meeting. But I was way early and she was kind of late, so I got to sit in the lobby and watch the Price is Right. On the clock. Drew Carey is kind of awkward as the host. He has to touch people a lot, and he doesn't seem comfortable with it. And he doesn't seem to be able to pretend that the show isn't bullshit.

Anyway, getting back to work, the other day some corporate stooges came to check up on us. At one point, one of them was talking about being afraid to fly while there's swine flu out there, and specifically he expressed fears of being seated next to "some Mexicans from Mexico." He's a real shining star. This points to what seems to be the most significant effect of swine flu so far as I can tell, which is that it has increased anti-immigrant feelings, which translate more generally to anti-Latina/o feelings, because, you know, we're all immigrants or something. Anyway, any Chicana/o blog worth its beans has already written about this, so I won't retread that ground.

And speaking of Latina blogs, Guanabee just posted this article about a bull penis turned walking stick for sale on eBay. The seller had this to say:

“36″ WALKING STICK from BULL PENIS with Steel Rod No handle. This cane was made from a bull penis, shaped with, cured and given a hard epoxy finish for years for durability. My father has made these for many years and given them to friends. An unusual sort of cane that is useful but also a conversation piece.”

I imagine the conversations that ensue to go something like this:

"Dude, is that a bull penis?"
"Hell, yeah."
"Awesome."

I got a text message today from a number with a 317 area code (the Indianapolis metropolitan area, according to Wikipedia). The message was marked urgent, and it read, "Ok!" I don't know anyone from Indianapolis, but apparently things are good and they wanted to spread the word.

I haven't had anything to say in a while because other people on other blogs are always saying the things I want to say, but with better diction and funnier jokes. And I never follow up when I make a new character or feature because it's just too much effort, man. I can't be bothered.

But here are some things that've been going on in my life:

The other day I saw a turkey walking around in front of the rifle range. That's a bad place for a turkey to be.

At work on another day I was slicing a different turkey and a piece of it shot back and hit me in the neck. It was so gross. So spongy and wet. And then it fell in my shirt and I couldn't get it out because we have to tuck in our t-shirts.

The same day at work, I had to deliver to a place that distributes tanning beds. It seems so weird to me that such a place exists, but I guess everything needs to be distributed by somebody. Even the dumbest thing ever.

The thing I love about Easter is how much ham I get to eat. I love ham.

Nothing else comes to mind.

Police seized $1.2 in drugs and arrested 194 fans during Phish's three-night reunion celebration. But inviting people to a Phish reunion and then arresting them for possession just sort of feels like entrapment. It all smells a bit Phish-y to me. HA HA HA!

Also, did you see this picture of James Franco asleep in class? He's looking pretty dream-y. HA HA HA!

It's dawning on me that I need a new job, and the reasons are twofold (really, I'm sure I could come up with more folds, but there are two I'm concerned with right now).

The first, I realized that on days when I work less than four hours in a day (which is two to three times a week), I'm only making $25. Plus tips if I'm delivering, but you never know what that will yield.

Secondly, and this is the big one, our uniform consists of jeans or khakis and a company t-shirt, or, in the summer, denim or khaki shorts and a company t-shirt. And our t-shirts have to be tucked in. Which is fine in store because you're wearing an apron, but on deliveries I'll just be walking around in denim or khaki shorts with my t-shirt tucked in, and I'm going to look like such a gaytard.


In other news, you should look at this three-year-old elephant who stepped on a landmine (sad), and now has a prosthetic leg. Because she's a total super cutie.



Also, after being arrested for drunk-driving in pursuit of blowjob, Charles Barkley spent 36 hours in the jail of super-racist Phoenix sheriff Joe Arapaio. On the bright side, he spent his 36 hours trying to learn a second language, electing to read The Complete Idiot's Guide to Spanish. You see that nativists? (Arapaio, I'm looking at you.) Even Charles Barkley understands the importance of bilingualism. It's time to fall in.

FYI, McDonald's is refusing to pay workers' compensation to an employee who was shot three times after ejecting a man who attacked a female customer. Says McDonald's, preventing violence against women isn't in his job description.



If I ever ate at McDonald's I would certainly stop now. What I won't stop doing, however, is peeing in their bathrooms on road trips. If I didn't have such serious phobias about anyone ever in any way being able to tell when I'm peeing, I might even start peeing elsewhere in the store.

The strangest thing happened last night. I took a delivery to this house, and it was kind of creepy from the start because there was no porch light and there didn't seem to be any lights on in the house. So I ring the doorbell, and I can hear some voices inside, and then this lady opens the door whilst talking on the phone and smoking a cigarette, but never turning the lights on. I give her the food, and she hands me a check, and then says "Keep the rest." I mumble a thank you, and start to walk away, thinking that she was probably mocking me because she didn't leave a tip.

But then I look down and the check is made out for $30. Her order was $11. It doesn't make any sense. Why would she do that? I did keep the money, but I felt weird about it.

I'm still astounded. The only explanation I can come up with is that I think before she opened the door I heard somebody say "He's cute." So, as it turns out, I can make it on my looks alone. I always had a feeling.

I just found out I've been accepted into the University of Western Ontario's PhD in Media Studies. So it looks like I'll be spending the next four years of my life in sunny London, Ontario. Starting in September, that is.

In the meantime, I will be delivering sub sandwiches for the same chain I worked for prior to earning my MA. Except that now I'm driving to the location that's 15 or 20 miles away, rather than the one across the street. Because I went back to the one across the street and got fired in a matter of weeks. It's a pretty lame gig, but I spend most of the day in my car listening to music, and they pay me in money, so it could be worse.

Everybody there seems nice enough, but there's one dude I feel conflicted about. He used to be a marine (as the stickers on his sport utility vehicle will let you know), but now he delivers sandwiches in the morning, then proceeds to deliver pizzas in the evening. Sometimes I start to think it's sad that he went from serving his country--which is supposedly brave or heroic or whatever--to serving fast food, but then I remember that I'm a pacifist and I don't believe in the idea of nations, so the notion of fighting for your country is pretty meaningless to me. Maybe I just think it's sad that the armed forces lure people in with promises of a better life, but don't make good on those promises.

Ask a Luchador

I'd like to introduce a new feature today called "Ask a Luchador," in which a Luchador, El Frijole Mágico, answers questions about all things Mexican. Today we have an immigration-themed double feature.


Q: Dear Mr. Bean, what do you think of the U.S. Border Patrol commissioning Mexican radio stations to play songs about the dangers of illegal border crossings?
-Suspicious Mind

A: Dear Suspicious, El Frijole Mágico thinks it stinks! To start with, prior to the creation of the Border Patrol in 1924, there was no such thing as illegal immigration from Mexico. The idea of an "illegal alien" was born along with the agency. Since then, the agency has been largely ineffectual in preventing so called illegal immigration. The increased use of border fences, new technologies, and so on has only forced those who wish to cross illegally to seek out the least guarded locations, which also tend to be the most dangerous. So you could say that, in effect, the Border Patrol (henceforth, la migra) itself has created the dangerous situations immigrants face.

Then there's the fact that the CD is called Migracorridos, which is either very clever or very stupid on the part of la migra. Clever if they realize that "la migra" is a derogatory term, and so people are attracted to the album because of their hatred for the agency (and this may be the case, given that la migra is very quiet about its involvement in the project). Stupid if they don't realize this, and I can't tell whether they do or don't.

Because the rationale for the entire project is so stupid. Do these pendejos really think that immigrants don't realize the danger they face? Do they think they don't realize coyotes are trying to exploit them? A representative for la migra says the point of the corridos is to make potential immigrants "think about their families" before they risk an illegal crossing. All they're thinking about is their families, idiota. They're thinking about how they can afford to support their families, and this is why they cross in spite of the risks. Maybe these songs have been well received, but probably because people can commiserate, not because they've been convinced.


Q: A Luchador, I'm asking if you agree with the decision to allow immigrants with temporary visas to join the Army.
-That One Dude

A: Dude, El Frijole Mágico does not agree with this decision! There's nothing about this that isn't exploitative. These pinche gringo Army guys are dangling the proverbial carrot in front of immigrants seeking U.S. citizenship, saying that serving in the Army will allow them to become a citizen in as little as six months, compared to the ten years most people have to wait. But the U.S. has two wars on with no sign of an end, so before they can become citizens, they'll have to survive. And they will be sent to war. Because the Army is looking for those who can translate "languages useful in combat zones like Afghanistan and Iraq."

Of course, this isn't particularly surprising, considering that the U.S. Armed Forces have always exploited disenfranchised populations with promises of opportunities for economic advancement. Remember when the Army lured Blacks and Chicanos with promises of a college education (and didn't draft those already enrolled in college, i.e., not Blacks and Chicanos), and then Blacks and Chicanos died in disproportionately large numbers in Vietnam, WWII, and so on?

Thankfully, though, Luchadors aren't the only ones who oppose the decision. In situations like these, one can always rely on the paranoia of racist and xenophobic officers and veterans, suspicious of terrorist infiltration.

Well, that's all for today! Adios,
El Frijole Mágico

I didn't even have to use my AK.

Today was a surprisingly good day. I filled out an application at a different Jimmy John's from the one where I worked before and lined up an interview for tomorrow. The manager actually seems like a nice guy and it isn't staffed by yokels, both vast improvements over my former employ.

I then walked over to one of my favorite thrift stores in Saginaw, which is relocating, so everything was 75% off. I got a couple pretty sweet issues of National Geographic and a few classic novels all for 33 centavos.

Also, it was 60 degrees today, so I got to: 1) wear an amazing jacket I bought only days before it got too cold to wear a light jacket, and 2) drive with the windows down. And then, even better, I drove over a balloon, and the sound it made was super sweet.

Oh, and I bought a couple Tina's brand frozen burritos at the supermarket ($1 total), and they were awesome. I love Canada, but they have shit for frozen burritos.

Narwhals!

Another border-crossing rant.

I think Obama has made some positive steps toward undoing damage done during the past eight years, but when it comes to Customs and Immigration officers, these assholes still seem to be operating under the reactionary policies of the Bush regime. I don't even know where to start with today's ordeal.

I suppose the first stupid thing that happened with today's officer was, after making me shut the car off and hand him the keys, he opened the backdoor and saw my duffel bag, which I got while working for an industrial painting company and which has the logo of the company on it and is unsurprisingly covered in paint, and this conversation followed:
Him: Whoa, what's this?
Me: My luggage.
Him: Looks like paint.
Me: Nice catch, Poirot. (I didn't actually say this, but I wanted to.)

Then he found my prescription skin cream, and this conversation followed:
Him: You have a prescription?
Me: Yes. It's skin cream. I have eczema.
Him: Is it pills?
Me: No, it's a cream.

Then he spent an inordinate amount of time searching the trunk, considering there was nothing in it but a tire pump, a road side emergency kit, and a spare tire. Then he walked around to the other side, knocking on each door to make sure there was nothing hidden inside of them. This was incredibly insulting because what it really amounts to is an accusation that I'm attempting to smuggle drugs.

Then he opened the front passenger door and searched my glove box and backpack. Then he made me pop the hood. I don't know what he expected to find, but I could have told him exactly what I keep there. An engine.

Then, this conversation:
Him: You can start it up.
Me: You have my keys, dick bag. (I didn't really say the second part.)

I always wanted to think that I wasn't being profiled, but let's call a spade a spade. What I don't know is whether I'm being profiled because of my age/sex, because I'm Mexican (but maybe look a little Middle-Eastern (if you're a racist border guard)), or because I'm an academic in a field that border guards don't understand and feel threatened by.

I think it worth mentioning at this point that every border guard I've encountered coming into the states has been a white man. It should go without saying why this is a problem.

Another thing that might work against me is that I have one stamp in my passport and it happens to be from Amsterdam. Where I caught connecting flights to and from Greece, where I studied for a semester. Unfortunately for me, they don't stamp your passport when you fly from Greece to Amsterdam because you're still in the European Union.

Also, after being harassed every time I cross the border, it's come to the point where several questions in, my leg begins to shake uncontrollably, which gives away how nervous I am. But I'm not nervous because I've done anything wrong. I haven't. It's a conditioned response to the badgering, power-tripping, ignorant assholes I have to deal with every time I just want to visit the girlfriend/friends/city I didn't want to leave in the first place.

So, to recap, things border guards don't understand:
1) Cultural Studies
2) Michel Foucault
3) Eczema
4) How substitute teaching works (they always want to know how I get the time off)
5) The EU
6) Why they make people nervous when the nature of their position is to make people nervous.

It's strange how the possibility of winning $27 (minus the $3 I put in) can make me care more about football than I have in many, many years. I almost won, too, which is amazing in the way that I didn't watch a single game all year and had to look up who was even playing as I placed my bet.

Next year, god willing, a fun drinking game during the Super Bowl would be taking a drink every time John Madden says something with gay subtext (I say god willing because John Madden is looking so very old).

My favorite part of the game, though, was when the Boss meant to go into a controlled slide across the stage, but, due to a slight miscalculation, slid junk-first into the camera. He has some amazing moves for a man his age. I couldn't pull off most of them (but I do skip exercise in favor of lying in bed all day).

Watching football made me want to play football, by which I mean Madden 95 for Sega Genesis. It was difficult at first because I don't know what any of the plays mean. I don't have much of a running game because whenever I pick a play that I think will result in running, I still end up passing. I've taken to running hail marys for every play, throwing it if I can, but mostly turning them into QB sneaks, which has been surprisingly successful. I guess nobody expects the quarterback to run from a shotgun formation, so I always catch them unprepared.

The Next Episode

Here's what's wrong with the most recent episode of the Real World:

Most everyone on the show is shamelessly self-promoting. They all want to use the show to launch their careers in acting/singing/dancing (although none of them are particularly good). Most recently, Devyn met her cousin (an actual actor) for lunch, and it just happened to come up that Devyn was looking for work, so her cousin had no choice but to make with the contact.

Also, the dolphin trainer got drunk and outed Katelyn, the trans girl, to the mormon (who had surprisingly little to say on the matter). I think I hate this guy most because he keeps selling out his own.

On a more uplifting note, Sarah, who was sexually abused as a child and wants to make something positive of it, is using her time on the show to volunteer at an arts program for underprivileged children.

My grandma fell and broke her hip the other day, so my mom flew out to Washington today to help out. Which means I have the house to my myself for three days, which means... PARTAAAAAAYYYYY!!!! Which will most likely look like this:



FYI, those are supposed to be bottles, and they're supposed to say beer on them. But it's really hard to draw things in Paint, and I've had beers.

More scorn

Today I was listening to the radio as I drove my mom's car back from taking her to the airport, and I had it on 106.3 WGER (for no reason other than I couldn't find anything better). I don't even remember what they were talking about, but the DJ (that d-bag above) stated that it's "despicable" for two men to be involved in a long-term relationship. It's maddening that that kind of hate speech can be broadcast, and I'm sending an angry letter to the station today. I'm sure nobody listens to that station anyway, but if you do, don't. And if you also feel compelled to write a letter, here is the address of the station:

WGER
1795 Tittabawassee Rd.
Saginaw, MI 48604

UPDATE:
This is actually much worse than I thought. I thought this was just a local DJ, but it appears that he's actually based in Dallas and syndicated throughout the U.S. His website is here, and contact information for the Citadel corporate office is here.

So I guess a boycott would pretty much mean not listening to the radio because Citadel owns just about every station, but I won't ask you to do that. I'm going to write to the local station, anyway, because they still broadcast his show, but I'm also writing to his show and to Citadel.

Ever wonder why your nards hurt when you play the cello? Maybe because you suffer from cello scrotum, which is akin to guitar nipple, or the irritation caused by the guitar pressing against your nipple, 'cept this time with a cello and your bag.

But not really, though, because actually this condition was a hoax fabricated by Baroness Elaine Murphy. Yet another attempt to pathologize the body when sometimes dude's balls just itch.

From the Desk of R. Davila

Dave suggested my blog might be more compelling if I were to make comics of my exploits. Unfortunately, it looks as though my exploits don't make for compelling comics, as most of them involve sitting in bed looking at the internet. Here's what a typical week looks like (the text is a lot clearer if you click on the picture):

I always thought I was following Elvis Costello or Buddy Holly with my glasses, but as it turns out, they're actually a very precise replica of the frames Woody Allen wears in Manhattan. Which is a bummer because I kind of think he's a turd.

I was searching for pictures of phonographs on Flickr, but this was what turned up. The internet was meant for so much more.

My Ph.D. (and one M.A.) applications are in the mail. It's a huge weight off my shoulders, immediately replaced with another as I wait (ha) to hear back.

And now (apologies in advance), I'd like to talk about politics very briefly. What I want to say is that what bothers me most about conservative groups (I'm thinking specifically pro-lifers, but this could easily carry over to other issues) is that, whereas liberals would like people to be able to make decisions based on their own moral codes, these groups insist that everyone be governed by the group's own morals regardless of whether or not the majority of the population agrees with them. Anyway, everyone reading this probably already gets this point, and the people who need to hear this aren't going to listen.

On a related note, would it be in bad taste/appropriating to make a t-shirt that says "keep your god off my uterus?"

Unrelated, if you have five minutes, you should listen to this song by the Middle East on my music blog. It's just such a nice song.

UPDATE: I want to talk about politics one more time, quickly. I just read that residents of Nashville voted down a proposition to make English the official language of all government business in the city. This proposition, and similar propositions that have been popping up throughout the U.S. are discriminatory, xenophobic, racist, I could go on, but I won't, and I say kudos to those who voted against it. Proponents say it would be incentive to learn English, but really what it would do is deny services to people who desperately need them. I assume supporters would argue that learning English is the first step to elevating one's position in life, but this of course ignores the structural inequalities that oppress immigrant and ethnic and otherwise minority populations. Let's not forget that black people, queer people, and even women can already speak English, yet they're still marginalized.

More things I hate about the Real World:

The marine or whatever got a chance to play his (awful on so many levels) music to somebody named Machine, who can apparently get things done, so this was a big opportunity. So what this d-bag chose to do, at the suggestion of the mormon, was play a song called "I want to be your tampon," or something like that, and he couldn't even get through his own song without giggling. Unsurprisingly, Machine was unimpressed and told him he should play smaller gigs and build a following (you know, like bands do). Which took him completely by surprise. I can't figure out if his sense of entitlement comes more from having been in Iraq or from being on the Real World, but either way, get over yourself, cake eater.

Also, Devyn/Scott drama is sooo-ooo-ooo boring.

I made stir fry tonight and then my mom complained that the kitchen smelled like peppers. So she lit a candle, a caramel corn scented candle. But it doesn't really smell like caramel corn, it smells like curry. So now instead of the kitchen smelling like peppers, the whole house smells like curry. So I think it was a Pyrrhic victory on her part.

Obama was just sworn in. He made a few blunders during his oath, but when he does it, it's kind of cute. Not like Bush. With Obama it's like, "Hey, this guy's human," as opposed to Bush, where it's more like, "Hey, this must be that monkey that accidentally typed out Shakespeare because why the fuck else would he be president?"

I will have more to say, obviously.

Hrrrmm!

Hrrrmm!
Originally uploaded by Karate explosion!

Learn your rules,
You better learn your rules.
If you don't,
You'll be eaten in your sleep.

Evidently I'm a glutton for punishment, because I bothered to watch the Real World again. The mormon and the marine are still assholes (go figure), but the mormon did confront the gay dolphin trainer because of his anti-immigrant tirade, which is sort of respectable. I say sort of because he ended his confessional about the argument with a bout of hypocrisy, saying something about not judging people because of difference when that's what he's done consistently for two episodes, only substitute immigrants for queer people.

Anyway, to get back to the dolphin trainer, his rant really pissed me off for a lot of reasons, but especially because his parents are immigrants. He tried to use that fact to justify his comments, but if anything it should make him sympathetic, not serve as a justification for intolerance. I'm going to use the fact that my grandparents were immigrants to justify saying that I can't tolerate it when children and grandchildren of immigrants take an attitude like this d-bag.

I think it's inevitable that my rants about the Real World (and I'm probably going to keep watching) will end by talking about how people treat the trans girl. I think it's good that when people find out, they want to learn more, but it always devolves into some patronizing shit about how they want to be a support system while she finds herself. She seems to have a much better idea of who she is than most anybody on the show.

Anyway, blah blah blah.

I very much like these Ghetto Fridas by Chicano artist/activist Rio Yañez. His interviews with Ghetto Frida here, here, and here are also worth reading. They're really funny, but also very informed. He also has a (small, at this point) series of Chicano icons as zombies, which is pretty awesome, and some other things that are probably only of interest to the Mexican segment of my readership (which is actually significant because not very many people read this, and at least two of them are Mexican (sup Molly, sup Dave)).

38-year-old guy here.

This 38-year-old guy's Flickr is a goldmine for games of gay lover/straight lover.

Did you hear about that teenager?

I finally got a call to sub today. I hated it. It's not so much teaching as babysitting. And I hate kids. I really do. I thought this blog would really pick up once I had amusing stories to tell about subbing, but I probably won't have many more because I told the school not to call me unless no one else was available.

But I do have some anecdotes from today. In my first class, they were supposed to watch an episode of the Twilight Zone (awesome, btw), then, if there was still time left, they were either supposed to talk about it as a class or watch it again since they had to write an essay on it. But they were very much opposed to both of those options and wouldn't stop bitching until I put on Tremors. I think I caved in large part because I also wanted to watch Tremors.

Then I had a prep hour, which I mostly spent trying to make my legs and hands stop shaking.

Then I had the class for kids who can't read good. They'd been listening (yes, listening) to Fahrenheit 451, and had watched the Truffaut adaptation (which I gather they didn't like), and we spent the hour in the library so they could work on their power point presentations about the book(/tape/movie). Most of them used the hour to go on the search engine Google and look up pictures of fires and explosions and graphics from Terminator 2: Judgment Day. One kid spent most of it applying chap stick to a spider bite on his stomach. I also had to help him and his partner spell "Fahrenheit" a few times, but then they never liked the way it looked on the page, so they would delete it and then forget how to spell it again. Also, at one point he said to his friend, "Hey, did you hear about that teenager?" The teenager in question was apparently the one who sent something like 1,400 text messages in one day, but I just like the way he phrased the question.

The next class was to do an ACT practice exam, which they then graded on their own and didn't have to turn in. But I still caught a lot of them cheating. They would look up to see if I was looking, and then pretend they weren't when I saw them. I didn't even bother to stop them because who cares? they aren't even being graded.

And then I repeated the same things over.

What amazes me most is the difference between 11th and 12th grade high school students and first year university students. They're essentially the same age, but I hated teaching university students way less. I might have even liked it. You can actually have a conversation with them. A few of them even want to learn. With high schoolers I usually got so fed up, I spent the last ten minutes of each class having students pass back papers while I ignored them completely.

Also, one thing that apparently hasn't changed since I was in high school is that high school kids think my clothes are weird.

FYI, The Sting is an amazing movie. And Paul Newman is so dreamy. R.I.P.

Also, The Bank Dick has maybe one of the best car chases in the history of film. But still, nothing can ever top The Blues Brothers.

Number One Song After Number One Song

I've been spending some time listening to Ben Folds' cover of "Bitches ain't Shit" lately. I kind of hate this song for all the reasons I'm about to mention. Most of the issues revolve around Folds being a straight, white, male whose audience consists mostly of straight, white, males.

So the first problem is that the song is terribly misogynistic, and I get that he's performing it ironically, but because of who he is and who his audience is, laughing at misogyny could too easily turn into laughing with it. I'm also bothered that he uses the n-word for similar reasons.

Another issue is that, while his intention might be to say, "Look, I'm a short, nerdy, balding, white dude, but I also know a thing or two about hip-hop," what the message actually seems to be, again because of his audience, is, "Look at how ridiculous black people are. Listen to the crazy stuff they're saying."

Also, he totally cuts out Dat N- Daz's verse.

But I do appreciate the way he turns the song into a narrative with musical cues to punctuate the emotional climax, and he does give it a good melody. I was going to post the song on Tumblr, but won't because I think I'd be guilty of all the same things I'm accusing him of.

Wholphin

Most recent Netflix rental: Wholphin, Iss. 4. What is Wholphin, you say?

"Wholphin is a new quarterly DVD magazine from McSweeney’s, lovingly encoded with unique and ponderable films designed to make you feel the way we felt when we learned that dolphins and whales sometimes, you know, do it."

I particularly liked "Heavy Metal, Jr.," a documentary about a Scottish metal band called Hatred, whose members are all 10 years old, and a Russian imitation of Married with Children, translated by several different people to varying degrees of accuracy.

The best moments of "Heavy Metal, Jr." come when the one kid's mom prints back patches for their denim jackets, but accidentally misspells the band's name as "Hatrid," and when they know they want a song to have Satan in the title, but can't decide what comes next, then an epiphany: Satan Rock. Or should it be Satan Rocks? If you want to know more, you'll have to watch the film.

The Russian sitcom, translated as "Happy Together," is pretty ridiculous, but the translations get progressively funnier. In a particularly good translation, the husband and wife are both revolutionaries, but he's a pacifist and she's for armed revolt. Hilarity ensues. In an even better translation, the translator begins with some amazing innuendo, makes up hilarious new lyrics to the theme song (which I can't remember, but really, they're very funny), then gives up entirely and starts free-associating for the rest of the episode. She tells an anecdote about her father taking a mime class and being "invisible-lassoed" into going with him, and that was a funny joke. Then she talks a lot about people she knows having kids, which leads to the best line in any of the translations: "If I ever catch pregnant..." Yup.

Disregard the pathetic attempt to moralize and just appreciate an elephant and a dog being best buds. It's pretty cute when they touch their feet together.

The Real World, Brooklyn: The mormon and the marine are total assholes (go figure). And gay for each other (go figure). The gay dolphin trainer is kind of a douche. He's incredibly patronizing with the transgendered girl. Everybody else is pretty boring.

I guess I can't help casting aspersions.

Right now I'm listening to the neighbor kid ride his snowmobile back and forth, back and forth across the lawn. He goes to one end, sort of idles as he turns around, then floors it back to hit the piles of snow left from clearing the driveway. So it kind of sounds like this: buzz-buzz-buzz-buzz, VVVVVRRRRRROOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, buzz-buzz-buzz. I've never understood owning snowmobiles in town. It's like the snowmobiling equivalent of an above-ground pool.

I finally broke down and listened to MGMT. I didn't hate it, but I'm not crapping my pants over it, either. The only song I might go out of my way to listen to is "Electric Feel." In their defense, though, I still wouldn't call them the most overrated band of 2008. How could that honor go to anyone but Fleet Foxes?

I don't want to make this blog a place for casting aspersions, however (excepting customs officers and assholes on snowmobiles), so here, something I actually liked: I recently heard and very much enjoyed a band called the Soft Pack (formerly the Muslims). They sound like a grab bag of New York bands, but maybe the easiest comparisons to make (if you want to limit a band to who they sound like, which I apparently do) are the Strokes and the Modern Lovers. I've posted a song here, and somebody else posted a better description and the whole album here.

Airborne Cats

These pictures are amazing. And ridiculous. And it's ridiculous that anyone would dedicate that much time to something so ridiculous, but I looked at them and then made a post about them, so, you know, glass houses.

I'm in love with this series of drawrings by artist Matt Furie. You can probably see why. Maybe people have seen these before, but I apparently just discovered the internet so here they are again.

Last night I watched Psychomania. As far as awesome movies go, this is one. It's about a bike gang called The Living Dead who achieve immortality by killing themselves and really believing that they'll come back to life (it's true, one member didn't believe and he just died). Then, once resurrected, they go on a murder spree because, hey why not? there aren't any consequences.

One of my favorite moments is early in the movie when Tom, the leader of the gang, first discovers the secret to immortality, but doesn't tell anybody, so when he rides his motorbike off a bridge, the other gang members think he's really dead. They then persuade his mother to allow them to give him a proper biker burial, which I thought was going to be really badass, but wasn't actually. What really happens is that they send him off with an acoustic ballad (which I've posted here).

Also, the gang members all had really badass names, including: Hatchet, Hinky, Gash, Chopped Meat, and Bertram. Also, a frog was somehow really important to attaining immortality, but I'm not sure how exactly. Also, the movie sort of disproves my earlier theory that to prove how crazy they are, two male gang members will dance together. The only dancing was between Tom and his mother. But a couple gang members did briefly carry parasols as they wreaked havoc. And they all killed themselves, which I guess is crazy in its own way.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is that you should watch this movie.

I just finished watching Francois Truffaut's adaptation of Fahrenheit 451. One of the Firemen in the movie looked remarkably like the d-bag from the border the other day, which seems entirely too appropriate.

Off topic, I love Toblerone. I only realized recently.

Generally speaking, the worst part of any trip I take to Canada is coming back into the U.S. Today was probably the worst yet. Officer Vittron (I think that was his name) is a real asshole. After asking a thousand accusatory questions and clearly not believing my answers, he spent ten minutes searching the trunk, then when he found a copy of Discipline and Punish, he asked me another series of accusatory questions about the book. Apparently owning a book by Foucault constitutes a threat to national security. Mostly I think he was mad at me because he doesn't know who Foucault is. I want to file a complaint, but I think the actual result of that is he would be congratulated for being a dick, and I would get hassled like that every time.