it's always something

you can never just make a photo copy. the machine is out of paper, or a cartridge needs to be replaced, or paper has jammed, or you need a code to access the machine. doesn't anyone just write notes on a board anymore? speaking of notes, teachers don't use chalk anymore. they all have these white boards with dry erase markers, or over heads. me? i still dig chalk. of course, you get that dusty shit smell on your hands that never comes off, but it's the least work. and it's charming, you know? but, no one cares about charming now. we are too busy being efficient. and when you get down to it, none of it matters, because we are teaching the same bullshit, whether we use chalk, a marker, or an over-head.

the next time someone asks you what you do, tell them..."i attempt with all my might against the forces against me to maximize my leisure by reading, and listening to jazz. and, i never ask someone what they do. that is the sign of a shallow follower who has accepted the standards of success within our corrupt, corporate dominated civilization."

you can't go home again. especially if you have lost your alicia keys. by the way, i don't care what anyone says, i think she is a vastly, overrated stiff. it is a sad commentary on the state of american popular music when people like her are considered profound artists. well, at least it ain't botti playing my funny valentine.

speaking of valentine's day, you gotta admit that when it comes to creating new ways of wasting a person's money, our culture reigns supreme. this is not to say that there isn't a certain charm to the day, but just to point out the essential commercialism that is integral to it.

and the children still have bloated bellies in africa.

and the babies still burn in baghdad.

and that box of chocolates is still waiting for you to buy.

things are getting worse. please send chocolate. well, what else do you have in mind?

let them say about me that more often than not, he tried to be human. and that once in a while, he could hit a high note. at his best, there was a creativity within him that bordered on something good. of course, he was like all the others, complaining, self righteous, with a self inflated view of self. as time went by, he remembered what herbie mann said..."i find as i go through life that no one cares about me as much as i do." thanks to ike and zoot and gene, he knew how a tenor should sound. he wasn't much, but at times, he could transcend the mediocrity of his surroundings, and for a few seconds, he was alive. there were many who were worse.

he never built bombs. he rarely uttered "i'm just doing my job" and when he did, he felt guilty, as if his hand held the murder weapon. he once asked "is he dark skinned enough?" when his supervisor had him trail the black customers in the store he worked in. a sense of humor... that he had. but the tragedy often overwhelmed him, and the jokes didn't help then. they rarely do, but they were something. he was in their pitching. he threw strikes, but in the end, the other side had too much power.

a girl walked in to the class with a new hairdo. p noticed, and said "you look like you are in the supremes." he meant it as a compliment, but i don't think it was taken that way. the oldies just don't get respect. the world is in an uproar, the dangerfield is everywhere.

p asked "david, do you remember paul bearer?" you think my puns are bad. by the way, he was the undertaker's manager.

i told spears to count by three and put a line after the third number. when i went back she had put a line after each number. another time i asked her, "if you had two dollars, and someone gave you another dollar, how much money would you have?" she just looked at me, her mouth hanging open.

hey, i can't handle money either.

back to the stockade.