Before coming to the southland, I was completing an M.Ed. in Eastern Europe and earning my keep as an EFL teacher at a University- and I use that word loosely- in Gliwice, Poland. It was there, in Gliwice, that one of my students wrote the following charming short story:
The story of the goblin, the goat and the hermaphrodite princess
(As told by the goblin)
Once upon a time there lived a beautiful Pricess in a lovely castle surrounded by a garden of pretty flowers. It was a beautiful time. However, the Princess, who was a hermaphrodite, suffered from constant diarreha. Such an affliction was brought about by having eaten a poisoned banana given to her by the goblin who guarded the garden, the castle and the princess.
Why would she eat the poisoned banana, especially since the castle had no bathroom, only a window for her to do her business? Well you see, this princess was not very smart and she would eat most anything a man or creature offered. Soon, she was afflicted with diarrehea day and night as she waited to be rescued from the goblin and the castle.
Her rescuer was neither a prince, princess or combination thereof. Rather, it was the zebra who had escaped from the zoo to munch on grass throughout the countryside when he happened upon the garden and goblin. He and the goblin fought ferociously over a patch of dead grass when the zebra knocked him over with his own horns (it was a special kind of zebra straight from Chernobyl.) The creature charged the castle and was soon inside the castle and the princess with whom he or she lived happily ever. Or at least this was the story my class told me when I was a fledgling student teacher in Silesia.
The more I think about it, the more likely it is that this story holds some clues to my present predicament.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Fucking Disgusting
I don't generally get political and definitely don't get into Israeli stuff on this blog- i leave that to Yaeli but this story caught my eye earlier. It's about a lad named Samir Kuntar. Samir, a famous freedom fighter, struck a blow for his oppressed brothers by, as the blogger Sandmonkey puts it,
In
the coastal town of Nahariya, the terrorists shot dead a policeman and
forced their way into an apartment building, where they captured Danny
Haran and his daughter, Einat, 4.
While the terrorists rampaged
through the apartment, firing weapons and detonating grenades, Haran's
wife Smadar hid in a crawlspace above the couple's bedroom together
with their other daughter, two-year-old Yael, and a neighbor.
In
an effort to prevent Yael from crying out and alerting the terrorists
to their whereabouts, Smadar kept her hand over the child's mouth, and
accidentally smothered her to death.
Meanwhile Kuntar and his group took Danny and Einat Haran to the beach.
"There,
according to eyewitnesses, one of them shot Danny in front of Einat so
that his death would be the last sight she would ever see," Smadar
wrote later.
"Then he smashed my little girl's skull in against a rock with his rifle butt. That terrorist was Samir Kuntar."
Two years ago, Samir's pals kidnapped three Israeli soldiers, and have been proposing a trade. No, not exchanging the soldiers for Samir: Rather, as CNN put it ""We'll have a final answer when they are returned," Regev said of whether they were alive or dead." In other words, Samir's release will secure information on whether these guys are even alive. What a deal! I could understand [not accept]. releasing Samir in exchange for the soldiers. They have families after all. But that's not the deal. The deal is releasing Samir in exchange for confirming whether the soldiers are even alive. Assume, best case, that they are. Will they be released? No. But maybe, somewhere, another child killer can be released in exchange for the soldiers.
If they haven't died by then.
In
the coastal town of Nahariya, the terrorists shot dead a policeman and
forced their way into an apartment building, where they captured Danny
Haran and his daughter, Einat, 4.
While the terrorists rampaged
through the apartment, firing weapons and detonating grenades, Haran's
wife Smadar hid in a crawlspace above the couple's bedroom together
with their other daughter, two-year-old Yael, and a neighbor.
In
an effort to prevent Yael from crying out and alerting the terrorists
to their whereabouts, Smadar kept her hand over the child's mouth, and
accidentally smothered her to death.
Meanwhile Kuntar and his group took Danny and Einat Haran to the beach.
"There,
according to eyewitnesses, one of them shot Danny in front of Einat so
that his death would be the last sight she would ever see," Smadar
wrote later.
"Then he smashed my little girl's skull in against a rock with his rifle butt. That terrorist was Samir Kuntar."
Two years ago, Samir's pals kidnapped three Israeli soldiers, and have been proposing a trade. No, not exchanging the soldiers for Samir: Rather, as CNN put it ""We'll have a final answer when they are returned," Regev said of whether they were alive or dead." In other words, Samir's release will secure information on whether these guys are even alive. What a deal! I could understand [not accept]. releasing Samir in exchange for the soldiers. They have families after all. But that's not the deal. The deal is releasing Samir in exchange for confirming whether the soldiers are even alive. Assume, best case, that they are. Will they be released? No. But maybe, somewhere, another child killer can be released in exchange for the soldiers.
If they haven't died by then.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
I want what they have
So after eating some sushi in the Japanese restaurant that employs the other resident Heeb of Lafayette, I settled in to watch Harold and Kumar go to white castle. Take it from someone who has never touched a joint, it was still an awesome movie- and one I could definitely relate to. There is a moment when Harold and Kumar watch their Jewish neighbors scarfing down some hot dogs and Harold says "I want what they have." It's what Jews said 40 years ago. And no, its not about the hot dogs.
A good many years ago (not 40), I went to a fast food place that was similar to the hot dog joint in the movie. The food sucked, but that was beside the point. Everything was a production: from getting a drink ("Water please." "Wa...what?") to a menu ("You want a menu?") to ordering. Actually, I didn't get to ordering because by that time I was so pissy, I just up and left. And, partly because of that day and partly because of many, MANY similar days, I never set foot in Johnny Rockets again. But yeah. I want what they have.
A good many years ago (not 40), I went to a fast food place that was similar to the hot dog joint in the movie. The food sucked, but that was beside the point. Everything was a production: from getting a drink ("Water please." "Wa...what?") to a menu ("You want a menu?") to ordering. Actually, I didn't get to ordering because by that time I was so pissy, I just up and left. And, partly because of that day and partly because of many, MANY similar days, I never set foot in Johnny Rockets again. But yeah. I want what they have.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose: at least here
My quasi reintegration began when the great state of Louisiana, ecstatic over a bit of unexpected state funding, posted an ad on Linguistlist, hoping for a few adventurous souls to hop on down and do a Ph.D. Yours truly, then sampling Slovakian cuisine, was one of the applicants. This was so since he wanted a doctorate very muchly and the offer- free tuition and a graduate assistantship stipend- was greatly to his liking. However, your intrepid reintegrationst was mindful of the fact that because the docs didn't do such a hot job at his delivery and left him with hand tremors and a shitty memory, he would need accommodations to make it through school. In fact, Northwestern U. had mentioned that he should stay away from them for this exact reason. And so, taking the risk that he would be left to munch on carbs for another year, he sent off his many medical documents with his application.
But behold, if you will, a letter of acceptance which led to a hastily arranged departure from the quasi-motherland, leaving behind his 90something grandmother [whom he was very fond of- a rarity for him] to sample the delights, savory and otherwise of his newly adopted home state. Of course, he was used to adopting new homes, but that's neither here nor there.
And so it is, that he arrived on a rainy summer day, to the warm southern hospitality of the only other New York Jew on the premises, an anti-social lad who liked the idea of helping much more than helping. And in 2 days time, faced, again, with homelessness, he secured a place on campus, but not the place that most locals thought an "international student" [which he is not- which is neither here nor there] should occupy. Though a grad student, he was given a roommate- another international student. [The university housing survey's first item? Ethnicity. The Louisiana voter registration form's penultimate question? Religious affiliation.]
Sadly, all was not entirely well in La La Land. That accommodation thingie? Never happened. Of course there was a chat or three with one of the professors, which is how your intrepid academic wanker learned, much to his surprise, that his English may not be good enough for graduate school. The first semester ended on a definite downer, having secured a C+ average- not what grad school calls for by the way- and nearly getting kicked out.
Fear not though, for a letter high on legal mumbo jumbo earned a trip back to the cauldron of higher education. Sadly, some were displeased by this show of gumption and responded by saying many mean things about yours truly, and, much more importantly, setting about screwing him over grade wise. Which he does not appreciate. At all. So, for example, when his class ended after ten weeks without a single grade, only to learn, one day before the deadline, that he had failed, your newly minted Louisianan got grouchy enough to file all sorts of papers. (He got even more grouchy when learning that the lad who admitted him has been demoted from his position and that a friend of his was threatened by the faculty.)
And so it is, that your earnest blogger is once again on the outside of the tent, pissing in, rather than inside the tent, pissing out. This is quite liberating however. For example, I now wear a yarmulke, confident that my situation here can't detoriate any further. Should anyone ask why I do not live with the international students, or why I haven't been to church, or where I am from and when am I leaving [all questions I have gotten] I am free to respond with a stream of dirty words I have not previously uttered but very much wanted to, especially to the young man who still does not know my name but insists that I attend bible study.
Freedom rocks. The insecurity that brings about said freedom? Meh.
But behold, if you will, a letter of acceptance which led to a hastily arranged departure from the quasi-motherland, leaving behind his 90something grandmother [whom he was very fond of- a rarity for him] to sample the delights, savory and otherwise of his newly adopted home state. Of course, he was used to adopting new homes, but that's neither here nor there.
And so it is, that he arrived on a rainy summer day, to the warm southern hospitality of the only other New York Jew on the premises, an anti-social lad who liked the idea of helping much more than helping. And in 2 days time, faced, again, with homelessness, he secured a place on campus, but not the place that most locals thought an "international student" [which he is not- which is neither here nor there] should occupy. Though a grad student, he was given a roommate- another international student. [The university housing survey's first item? Ethnicity. The Louisiana voter registration form's penultimate question? Religious affiliation.]
Sadly, all was not entirely well in La La Land. That accommodation thingie? Never happened. Of course there was a chat or three with one of the professors, which is how your intrepid academic wanker learned, much to his surprise, that his English may not be good enough for graduate school. The first semester ended on a definite downer, having secured a C+ average- not what grad school calls for by the way- and nearly getting kicked out.
Fear not though, for a letter high on legal mumbo jumbo earned a trip back to the cauldron of higher education. Sadly, some were displeased by this show of gumption and responded by saying many mean things about yours truly, and, much more importantly, setting about screwing him over grade wise. Which he does not appreciate. At all. So, for example, when his class ended after ten weeks without a single grade, only to learn, one day before the deadline, that he had failed, your newly minted Louisianan got grouchy enough to file all sorts of papers. (He got even more grouchy when learning that the lad who admitted him has been demoted from his position and that a friend of his was threatened by the faculty.)
And so it is, that your earnest blogger is once again on the outside of the tent, pissing in, rather than inside the tent, pissing out. This is quite liberating however. For example, I now wear a yarmulke, confident that my situation here can't detoriate any further. Should anyone ask why I do not live with the international students, or why I haven't been to church, or where I am from and when am I leaving [all questions I have gotten] I am free to respond with a stream of dirty words I have not previously uttered but very much wanted to, especially to the young man who still does not know my name but insists that I attend bible study.
Freedom rocks. The insecurity that brings about said freedom? Meh.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Another close one?
I don't have any stories like this myself- and for this i am incredibly, incredibly grateful- but my godfather had a bunch and now a former classmate of mine is on his very own pregnancy death watch.
T, a lad with flowing auburn locks, whose Marine background prepared him superbly for the Poland-based Masters program we met in, a Masters program where we lived on the edge of penury for two years, a Masters program ran, on the local level, by a crooked priest who tried to sell us on an excellent tax evasion scheme- you know, that kind of program, the EFL kind- has, unlike most other males, stopped counting the number of women he bedded [i never even started that count but then, i AM weird]at 100. One of them was one of my former students in Poland. T, ever the student deflowerer, was also seen in the company of a well endowed lady whom i was briefly in lust with until i heard her speak. He then relocated to the swamps of New Orleans, three hours due east of my cosy spot. An amiable wanderer, he lives- in stark terror at the moment- in an elevated house in the garden district. Sharing his abode, on a hopefully temporary basis is a perky midwestern fundamentalist who, bless her sheltered heart, was taken in by his considerable non-fundamentalist charms. I thought the whole thing rather peachy- she did grate on me, at one point inviting me to "a real American church" [why not a sham one God?]- but i cut her youthful spirit some slack and am a sucker for domestic bliss anyhow.
Sadly, all is not well, as John Lennon, imagining a world with no religion, is not liked by the potential Mrs T. She IS only 22 though, so perhaps with time, she may open up to new experiences. Until then though, I gotta conceal my devil worshipping. She also imagines teaching overseas, which should be a real eye-opener for her so I totally encourage that. Not in the Medina though.
T himself seems to be running out of patience and no wonder- his whole world in perfect harmony pitch, while totally awesome from my perspective, is not going to find a happy audience with Mrs. T. But who knows? A few years in East Bumfucktownia, Africa, may do wonders. And I say this with total, absolute, sincerity. 22 is way too young to be absolutely certain of everything.I am seriously hoping that T sticks it out for a bit, because, as Uncle Kracker would say "You polished up my halo
And I dirtied up your soul"-- that would actually be healthy all around.
T, a lad with flowing auburn locks, whose Marine background prepared him superbly for the Poland-based Masters program we met in, a Masters program where we lived on the edge of penury for two years, a Masters program ran, on the local level, by a crooked priest who tried to sell us on an excellent tax evasion scheme- you know, that kind of program, the EFL kind- has, unlike most other males, stopped counting the number of women he bedded [i never even started that count but then, i AM weird]at 100. One of them was one of my former students in Poland. T, ever the student deflowerer, was also seen in the company of a well endowed lady whom i was briefly in lust with until i heard her speak. He then relocated to the swamps of New Orleans, three hours due east of my cosy spot. An amiable wanderer, he lives- in stark terror at the moment- in an elevated house in the garden district. Sharing his abode, on a hopefully temporary basis is a perky midwestern fundamentalist who, bless her sheltered heart, was taken in by his considerable non-fundamentalist charms. I thought the whole thing rather peachy- she did grate on me, at one point inviting me to "a real American church" [why not a sham one God?]- but i cut her youthful spirit some slack and am a sucker for domestic bliss anyhow.
Sadly, all is not well, as John Lennon, imagining a world with no religion, is not liked by the potential Mrs T. She IS only 22 though, so perhaps with time, she may open up to new experiences. Until then though, I gotta conceal my devil worshipping. She also imagines teaching overseas, which should be a real eye-opener for her so I totally encourage that. Not in the Medina though.
T himself seems to be running out of patience and no wonder- his whole world in perfect harmony pitch, while totally awesome from my perspective, is not going to find a happy audience with Mrs. T. But who knows? A few years in East Bumfucktownia, Africa, may do wonders. And I say this with total, absolute, sincerity. 22 is way too young to be absolutely certain of everything.I am seriously hoping that T sticks it out for a bit, because, as Uncle Kracker would say "You polished up my halo
And I dirtied up your soul"-- that would actually be healthy all around.
Bucky
I always wind up surrounded by guys with names like Smitty or Bucky. I don't know why this is so. While in Memphis, I averaged a car wreck every six months and was tended to by Smitty, a jovial six foot tall tobacco chewer. Decked out in overalls and a baseball cap, he took a liking to me that was dampened only by the following convo:
"You go to church little man?"
"Ummmm.....no but I go to a synagogue if that makes you feel better."
"Nah. Go to church little man."
I declined and while we got on fine, I sensed a definite chill. The newest clone is Bucky, manager of the local computer repair shop. Since my screen is busted, I have been waiting for a replacement since mid-May. Various screen-related convos included:
"Is the screen ready?"
"Uhhh...I uhhh asked for the replacement but ordered the wrong part."
"Why?"
"Well my eyes are really bad and I can't read them little numbers."
"Is the screen ready?"
"Waiting for the delivery."
"Since when?"
"Why..ummm...last week."
"Is the screen ready."
"It will be. Totally."
It is moments like this- and there are many moments like this- when I consider salmon fishing in Alaska.
Oh and something educational is brewing as well, but this being an uber small town, I'll hold off on blogging it. I also have an interview next week for a Project Manager position. That's right. Being a Bossy Hermit. In Joisey no less.
"You go to church little man?"
"Ummmm.....no but I go to a synagogue if that makes you feel better."
"Nah. Go to church little man."
I declined and while we got on fine, I sensed a definite chill. The newest clone is Bucky, manager of the local computer repair shop. Since my screen is busted, I have been waiting for a replacement since mid-May. Various screen-related convos included:
"Is the screen ready?"
"Uhhh...I uhhh asked for the replacement but ordered the wrong part."
"Why?"
"Well my eyes are really bad and I can't read them little numbers."
"Is the screen ready?"
"Waiting for the delivery."
"Since when?"
"Why..ummm...last week."
"Is the screen ready."
"It will be. Totally."
It is moments like this- and there are many moments like this- when I consider salmon fishing in Alaska.
Oh and something educational is brewing as well, but this being an uber small town, I'll hold off on blogging it. I also have an interview next week for a Project Manager position. That's right. Being a Bossy Hermit. In Joisey no less.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
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