Friday, May 26, 2006

What I should have written Version 2

Once again I distributed hand written cards to each of my students, thanking them for being in my class this year, hoping they had learnt a lot, complimenting them briefly and then wishing them much success in the future.

This really touches them- - - which absolutely flabbergasts me. I'm so out of touch with being a teenager, I just don't see how writing each of them cards gets this outpouring of gratitude from them. Even the BOYS (especially the boys?) are enthused.

I am not certain how I would have reacted in high school if my teachers had given me cards but I don't think I would have been as excited as all of my students seem to be. And they go and tell all the other classes, so that the other classes eagerly anticipate this.

I want my card, said the German boy who looks like Ashton Kutcher. When are we going to get our cards?

Are we getting cards, asked the tall new wave girl. The other classes got cards.

Of course I wrote the cards in French. The compliment was worded, more or less, You are a very _______ young man/woman. insert intelligent, agreeable, talented, personable, pleasant-

But here's what I should have written for some of them-

You are an extremely fidgety and annoying child, like a hyperactive cicada. I wish you had been a bug so I could have squished you.

You talk more than any human being I have ever encountered in my life. You are the opposite of Calvin Coolidge ( I could have written that, actually.) You have no chance at a social life because you drive everyone away.

You have gotten much, much gayer since the beginning of the year. You are almost as gay as the big flaming mop-headed boy I had last year. If being gay were contagious, Aristide would have a bad case of it now.

You are just flat ignorant, and that is sad.

You actually are as cool as you think you are (I could have written that, but it just didn't seem professional)

Get used to people calling you Aardvark.

You are dumber than most root vegetables. You have proven that blonde isn't really a stereotype, there's quite a bit of truth to it.

You know that stereotype that Asians are smart and hard working? You totally trashed it!

No one ever thinks of Filipinos as smart, though, and you reinforce that idea.

Your head is shaped like a lumpy, upside down pointy pear. It is truly unique.

There has been exactly one Monica so far famous in history. Why are you trying so hard to follow in her footsteps?

Your whole blue eye-brown eye thing? Not as cool as the kid I had last year.

Someday, you shall write a tell-all memoir about all the things you did in high school. You shan't have to make any of it up, either.

It's a good thing that in life, looks are more important than brains. Just find some rich guy who thinks really, really dumb people are hot, and you've got it MADE.

You look really funny when you get mad, like you're going to cry.

You have some of the dumbest ideas I have ever heard in my life, and I am related to someone who tried to glue a live tree back together after it broke during a storm.

Your personality is repulsive and whiny. It's too bad you don't have the looks to compensate.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

The Grand National

Another hot afternoon, why are all the times I seem to remember hot? this time towards the end of the year, crawling home from school. I’ve switched cars; I’m no longer driving the Opel, I’m driving another car I bought a week earlier, an imposing dead black muscle car. I need to make it to Napa on Memorial drive to pick up a cooling fan relay I ordered and paid for yesterday but it’s 5:30 and I realise I’m not going to get there before they close at 6, so I call my mother and tell her I’m bringing her most of a leftover Tres Leches cake the Spanish classes ate for Cinco de Mayo, and some omelette.

She is very happy.

I have wanted another car for a long time, the official reason being that the Omega gives too much trouble. This is true; the Cadillac dealer can’t/won’t fix it, and it’s a lot of trouble to take and get repaired. It went to the dealer over spring break and had $765 worth of work done. Valve Cover Gaskets, the temperature sending unit was replaced, and they recharged the air conditioner but claimed not to be able to find the leak, and the car STILL overheats, or claims to be overheating, on the crawl home. The next week the heater control valve broke as I was filling up in the morning at the Shell and steam started pouring out from underneath the hood, and of course I was afraid to drive it home so I had to take it during lunch, much to the disgust of my department chair.

There are two people out today, she groused, and I haven’t gotten to do anything all week.

I’m sorry, I said, I really did not intend for this to happen, but I cannot drive it home with steam coming out of the hood, so I have to do this.

She acquiesced, albeit grudgingly, and I had to miss part of 6th period, which made them very happy.

That is the official reason I am selling the Omega.

The real reason is that the Omega projects nothing interesting; it’s a nice car but bland and innocuous, and I want something that assuages my insecurities. I may be deficient in the Manly Muscle department, but I can have my car make up for it. Plus, I think it will get a lot of attention- and I can boast about it.

For example; The boy in 6th period with one blue eye and one brown eye (this is the second year I’ve had one of those students, but he’s not nearly as freaky as the black kid I had last year with one ice blue eye.), was about to utter the word “ownage” until he remembered that I had said it once, therefore it was no longer cool.

“We can’t say that anymore, Mr. Thomas uses that word.” he said disconsolately.

I seized this opportunity to point out that my car DEFINES the word Ownage. My car can kick your car retarded, I continued.

That doesn’t make any sense, he said.

Yes it does, I replied, my car can kick your car until it is retarded.

He couldn’t think of any proper rejoinder to this. I don’t own a car, he said finally.

We had to drive to South Carolina to pick up the car; the gentleman I purchased the car from lived in North Carolina and I could not possibly coordinate, without taking off of work, a trip to North Carolina. For some reason I didn’t do this. I suggested that perhaps we could take advantage of this to go see Trey’s family, but he declined this opportunity. He also was extremely difficult on the way up; despite my offer to drive, he refused, saying that “If I can’t drive the Grand National, you can’t drive the van,” and then got obnoxious when we got in heavy traffic. He was very impressed with the Grand National when he saw it. That’s a SWEET car, he exclaimed. And you can’t drive it, I said.

We made it there all right, but on the return trip got stuck in incredible traffic due to road construction; I had to shut the car off and sit and wait, a period during which I managed to do something to it involving the cigarette lighter which made the radio and interior lights stop working. Someone had left a Santana cd in the car and that, I quickly discovered, was the most palatable thing available on the radio. I was just contemplating the prospect of two and a half hours of Santana, which I was not relishing. I had intended to bring other CDs but instead I had just brought the cases. I had just learnt how to program the radio (why do all aftermarket stereos to come with buttons designed for 8 year olds? Why are they so tiny?) when the traffic stopped, and I was programming in the stations (I knew I wanted NPR, and was trying to decide between 94.9 and 98.5 when I fiddled with the cigarette lighter and made the radio quit.

All of my classes are very interested in what sort of car I purchased. I showed two students the car I was going to buy on the Internet after school on the Friday before I bid on it.

That car’s UGLY, exclaimed the one girl in her Valley Girl accent. (How a Filipino girl gets a Valley girl accent in Atlanta I don’t know, but it is actually charming.) You shouldn’t get that car.

What sort of car do you think I should buy, I asked, purely to see what she would say, as I had already decided.

She thought about it for a moment. You should buy a pink, Beetle convertible. And paint flowers on it, she added.

That would be so flaming, I thought. Better to drive a jet black muscle car and be thought flaming than to drive a pink Beetle convertible and remove all doubt- - no one’s that in touch with their feminine side. Not even me. Only Barbie, perhaps, is that in touch with her feminine side, and then nothing ever happens to Barbie that would keep her from being that in touch with her feminine side. For example, Mattel doesn’t market “Ken’s loser friends who are in their 30’s and bus tables at a crappy restaurant and try to get in bed with Ken and Barbie to try to score free rent.” “Barbie gets ripped off by the VW dealer and cries, but that doesn’t work, so she has to be a Total Bitch so they don’t charge her for parts her car doesn’t even have,” is not a game often played. So Barbie can afford to be that in touch with her feminine side. I cannot, and really don’t want to be, that would be icky.

But this car is extremely fast, I said.

But it’s UGLY, she said, and rolled her eyes. That ended the discussion.

When I came to school on Wednesday I was driving this car, the Buick Grand National, instead of the Catera. This was after 3 and a half hours of sleep. Luckily I had planned for this; I had made a packet beforehand and gave it to all the students to work on and explained why. You got the car? They exclaim. We want to see it! Let’s take a field trip to see Mr. Thomas’ car! No, I say, but you can see it from here.

First period all rush to the windows to see the car. They are surprised.

That car’s UGLY and OLD, they say. They can’t believe I had actually bought it. It looks like the Hitler car.

Huh, I say. I think that is a Good Thing; thus far it certainly is proving to be more imposing than the Catera.

I bet- says a girl with long brown hair excitedly- I bet Mr. Thomas drives down the road in his wife beater going - - she salutes, in a manner intended to imitate the Nazi salute, and then giggles. The whole class laughs.

Yeah! exclaims one of the boys, And I bet he has the Nazi symbol tattooed on his arm!

I do NOT, I reply. It is NOT the Hitler car, either. It’s extremely fast.

It’s not faster than my car, says the same boy.

Yes it is, I insist. It’s the quickest production car of all time.

What kind of engine does it have, he asks.

3.8 Turbo Intercooled 6, I say.

I have a turbocharged Altima, he says, I did it myself.

But it’s not as fast, I say, it’s just an Altima. Silly Armand, Front Wheel Drive is for Losers.

Armand remains unconvinced.

The other classes think it is ugly too. But it’s SQUARE, they exclaim.

Yes, and it’s extremely fast.

Why did you pay Ten thousand dollars for a 19 year old Buick, asks other Armand. It’s going to like, fall apart.

No it won’t, I say.

My family sees it briefly when we had dinner at my Dad’s house for Alex and Sara’s birthday but I am too tired to talk about it then.

Daniel sees it next when we go to the Colonnade for a repeat of Alex/Sandy/Sara’s birthday. I got my new car! I say.

I see, he says.

You can ride in it, I offer.

Well, he says (and this is partially how I knew he is jealous) I’m not going to RIDE in it. I might DRIVE it sometime, and THEN I will ride in it, but only when I can DRIVE it.

I think that I am not likely to allow this to happen, given the fact that just the week before Daniel had backed into Freomi’s car in the driveway when it was right behind him, but I do not say anything.

I want to ride in it, Sandy says.

I want to ride in it, Brittney says.

I want to ride in it, Alex says.

I want to ride in it, Sara says.

This makes Daniel more jealous so he insists that Alex ride with him. I’m not asking you, he says, I’m TELLING you. Alex has to acquiesce. You can ride with them, he tells Sara. Sara, of course, only wants to go with Alex.

Cathy is impressed with the car; she meets us at the Colonnade and has time to break in the drink queue and get herself a Seabreeze before Daniel, Alex and Sara eventually appear. They arrive even later than Freomi so that should tell you how late they are.

Oooh, she says, it’s a real muscle car, but you have to keep this one nice, and she points to the screws where I had taken off the door lock knobs so that the car wouldn’t be coathangered. Yes, I say, and I explain what had happened to the knobs.

Oh, she says. Then she notices “Uptown Novelty” next to the Colonnade. Gosh! I’ve never been in a place like that! She says.

I have, many times, sometimes with Trey and sometimes without him.

We can go see what it’s like, I respond. I always fall for the bait.

So we go across the parking lot, clutching our drinks, into the shop; she has just enough time to tell me about someone she once dated in the Renal division who was all into kink.

It reeks of basement fug; that combination of poor ventilation and fluorescent lighting and incense that is supposed to cover up the smell of quiet desperation and unsatisfiable longings and isolation. It is a very small shop, and the proprietor/employee takes no notice of us as we come in, recognising that most customers in such an establishment want to be ignored.

Cathy is somewhat surprised. They have smoking stuff, she says, looking at the “decorative pipes.” I want to buy some porn.

I pretend not to be surprised; I immediately visualise Cathy sitting in her bedroom watching porn and pleasuring herself; it isn’t displeasing, nor is it pleasing; it just is not a way I have previously thought about Cathy, and I have a hard time thinking of her in a sexual sense, unlike some of my friends, who all think she is hot.

You can buy it on the internet, I tell her, it’s much cheaper.

We look around for a little bit; Cathy looks at the toys and wonders what someone would do with such a thing. Does it vibrate? She asks.

I think you can put a vibrator in it, I tell her. I don’t like the ones that are supposed to look fleshy, I tell her, I think they look gross, I prefer the steely dan types, the sleek glass ones and the metallic ones.

We don’t buy anything; by the time we finished looking about and rejoin our group in front of the Colonnade, Daniel and Alex and Sara arrive. We all have dinner. Somehow Cathy is able to tolerate Daniel, who this time is not making up poems about how my penis is like a unicorn; but he does have us all sing Happy Birthday with the participation of everyone else.