Krispy K. Kreme

December 22nd brings grey rain on Nashville. I am served by a short middle-easternish looking woman wearing a sweet albeit perfunctory smile and her issued red polo shirt encrusted with sugar and the classic Krispy Kreme logo. She wears too much eye-shadow to be able to tell her age. I am enjoying a maple iced glazed donut and wondering what the unnecessary use of the Ks in the name would have signified in late 1930s Winston-Salem, North Carolina where the first of these opened. But I refuse to let the spectre of racism ruin the enjoyment of my "breakfast" (it's hard to say that deep-fried bleached-flour dough circles slathered with pure sugar constitute a meal. Such is the conceit, however). I don't understand the substitution of the K for the C in advertising and branding. I don't know what the desired effect is. Some examples: Mortal Kombat (video game), Korn (lousy metal band), Kustom Kleaners (dry cleaners), Kreative Kuts (hair salon). The list goes on. What are they trying to say with this? They have taken a liberty with standard spelling, and somehow it translates into this sly wink. "You know there's a C there usually. We know it, too. We know how to spell. So what? We're just kinda crazy like this with our Ks sometimes. We mix it up, we know how to have fun, but as per the legibility of the rest of the word, we can exercise restraint and exhibit professionality as well. The spelling of this word is strange and yet familiar, intriguing and comforting at the same time. We do things differently, here. We defy your expectations." Perhaps Vernon Rudolph, the prima progenitor of this donut franchise, thought some of these things. And maybe he was among the ranks of the white, hooded men. Yes, in fact, I submit that his reason for using the Ks in such a fashion must be attributable to either A. an aforementioned rhetorical ploy of devil-may-care advertising OR, B. a subtle exhibition or even subconscious confession of membership in the Ku Klux Klan. Or both.

I digress, for my story is about a woman demanding donuts. I am sitting rambling to myself about the K.K.K, and a woman walks in with streak dyed dirty blond hair, Christmas colored clothes matched and balanced, a shiny black faux-reptile skin purse and a "fuck yall" look on her face. She marches toward the counter and blurts out at the first employee she sees (the petite Arab), "I don't have a job and I got eight people to feed!" At this point I think she expected the employee to punch a red button behind the counter which would send everyone into emergency-donut-making-mode. Rosie the Riveter style save-the-world efficiency would erupt. The long donut conveyor belt would start cranking double-time, employees would no doubt get burned by flung grease and boiling hot sugar (such are the casualties of emergency-donut-production). But the employee said the right thing: "Excuse me?" Reptile purse lady repeats the line, "I don't have a job and I got eight people to feed!" There are just too many questions here to ask, so I'll let you ask them and proceed with the story as I was able to discern it from my vantage point. Eventually I heard that the had a sheet of eight or so coupons for "One Free Donut." Of course they are one per customer and the eight people whom she has to feed have to be present to get their donut with the individual coupons. (Questions: where are they? This Krispy Kreme is not in a very residential area. From where did she drive to acquire this free breakfast for herself and her. . . I don't know, fellow recent laid off friends?) Reptile lady is persistent, though, and gets all her donuts, free. And she is absolutely, self-righteously indignant the whole time. From the moment she walks in the door she is already pissed that the employees there had not prophesied her urgent need for donuts, met her at the door with the box and sent her on "God speed, good lady! Go, do not delay! Feed your reptile friends!" I couldn't imagine what strange mongoose of the heart had haunted the reptile into making such erratic demands. But it kind of made me want to see if I had what it took, made me want to storm the counter saying, "I don't know what I'm doing with my life and I got weak dreams to feed! Can I. . . can I please have a free Kool Kreme Doughnut Shake? Strawberry, please."

Puzzle, Fortress, 1992

I’ve recently been managing an addiction to the Showtime TV series Dexter. It’s been out of control at times, I’ll admit, and has mirrored the Harry Potter and Lost problems that I somehow overcame (mostly, I think, by completely satiating those desires with all the available material). As I’ve paused to reflect on this new escape into narrative, I remembered my abandoned blog and the feeble attempt I made therein to fill in some of the blanks of my own narrative. Not in a plot-smart (or even plot-conscious) way. Not necessarily to instruct, perhaps to entertain. Not to turn back the veil on anything big. But to put some of the puzzle pieces of a life out there because their color and shape, though not easy to place, are interesting in and of themselves; because every puzzle piece is itself its own strange little puzzle. And I have a box full of them, so why not?
This one is of those dark, background pieces, where several of the pieces look the same and the front of the box isn’t any help. At the top of a steep hill, a longish piece of front yardage about forty feet wide and twice as long, sits a red and brown brick ranch house. Behind, obscured from street-view, is a fenced in backyard with one of those DIY kit treeless tree-houses, only a few years old but already in disrepair. In it I’m sitting, fuming and sad, as my fortress of solitude is pummeled with soccer balls, footballs, and various other weaponized yard debris, picked up and beamed at me in rapid succession to maintain the assault’s fever pitch. My assailants are Drew Carlisle and Joanna Wilkey, and though I’m foggy on their exact motivation (this corner of the piece is three shades of black), their malignance is by no means unjustified. I recall vaguely the gist of the antagonisms: I hated their proficiency at sports, which I lacked; I aimed this at them with words of hatred; they aimed back with their aforementioned immaculate hand-eye coordination before I knew what the meaning of the word irony was. Which is ironic, how many ironic situations someone might find themselves in before knowing what the word means. I think whenever you find out what it means, irony loses half the chances it had before. Suggesting, of course, that the people at Irony, Inc. bought the dictionary companies and made all the cover art completely unappealing.
That was all there was to that moment, really. I don’t remember how it was resolved. Likely, Joanna’s mom poked her head out the back door and told us it was time to go to school and we all dropped the war in the grass and stuffed the hatred in our pockets for safekeeping. I also remember that Drew, who because he was very smart could lie better than any of us, once told us about a rally for Bill Clinton that he and his dad went to where some lady flashed her tits at everyone. I dunno, I guess it might be true. 1992 was crazy.

An Onion

Lately, I have found
that thinking on my sins
is like pealing through
the layers of an onion:
that is, that it stinks,
makes me cry uncontrollably,
and, I've decided, would
not be good in my salad
after all.

Humiliation! Starring Matthew Blackwell and Seabass(?)

Matthew Blackwell was another victim of the Shannon (cf. Shannon Shelton entry). Matthew garnered the approval of Shannon and her minions by doing absurd dances on command (Shannon like Jabba the Hutt-ess, stuffing alien froglike things into her giant mouth, summoning more entertainment with a wave of her creepy puppet arm). Matthew was no buxom slave-girl, however, no Slave Leia (if you haven't seen Return of te Jedi enough to understand my references, then you're just not cool enough to read this blog). He was just a chubby kid who wanted to be liked, and thought that everyone's laughter was somehow with him, as friends, when it was clear that it was at him, as. . . let's say drunken cannibals (as children, in their hearts, often are). In spite of all this inflammatory rhetoric aimed at the Shannon, a confession seems appropriate here, for a hopefully instructive comparison. About 2 years ago when I was working as a substitute teacher, I subbed for an elementary Special Ed. class a few times. I was requested specifically after the first time because the other teachers (Note: Special Ed. classes are team-taught for reaons of manageability) liked me a lot and wanted me back. These ladies had a lot of fun doing their job, which was refreshing in a Special Ed. class. I'd subbed in Special Ed. classes before that had a cloud hanging over them all day, where the teachers seemed to think that kids preferred heavy pity and obsessive coddling to a love that was both tougher and lighter--what most kids need and prefer. There was one kid, Sebastion, who was maybe 8 and had Down's Syndrome. He was affectionally referred to as "Seabass," and generally beloved by all. One of Seabass's favorite things to do, and one of the teachers' favorite things to prompt him to do, was dance to music. Particularly, in a moment of spotlighting him on the floor, we would all clap in rhythm and yell "Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!" and Seabass would do this crazy air-humping thing that cracked us all up, and which he enjoyed thoroughly. What is the difference, I wonder, between our interaction with Seabass and Shannon's with Matthew? I think we all genuinely cared for Seabass and showed him the kind of love kids need. I don't think that Shannon actually cared about Matthew in this same way. But I truly wonder, and to be safe, will ask for forgiveness.

Careless Talk: Jennifer Crocker

I cannot remember whether it was third or fourth grade, only that I did not know what sex was. Only that it involved kissing and nudity with someone whom you "liked," and that it was to be desired. When I said what I said, I wonder if in part I was throwing a line out there, begging someone to say something about sex that would clear it up for me? What I said to Seth Gleaves and some others at the lunch table that day (I believe that it was in the Fall) was: "I want to have sex with Jenny Crocker." Again, I really had no clue. Like maybe we would kiss for awhile naked and then at a certain point we would "have" sex. . . "having" being like consuming something. . . did I picture the climactic action as something like eating a parfait together? What would we "have" together? And yet I knew the language of "having" proper to sex; I didn't say "I'm gonna do a sex with her," or "We're gonna do sex to each other." I knew the grammar, but not the meaning, or even a half-adequate image. But I said it. The kids around me were shocked. They couldn't believe that someone they knew -a peer, no less- was going to have sex. Well I was, it was settled. Made up my mind. I was not aware of the predatory tone of this claim, but Seth was (did he know something I didn't? Did he get "the talk" long before I got the news of what it really was?) Seth scrambled to the other end of the lunch table and sat across from Jenny Crocker and her mom, Betty Crocker, who was eating at school with Jenny that day. I've never had much luck with timing (not that there's ever a good time for a child to voice their naive, rape-esque plans). I can remember Seth's face. As he reported my words to Jenny and her mother, he had a look on his face like he was revealing the secret plot of a criminal to a policeman. I don't remember being that nervous regarding what her response might be. I still didn't know what sex was or why it was a big deal, really. I thought knowledge of it was suppressed because it was something like doing a backflip on a trampoline: fun, but dangerous, and therefore inadvisable (and perhaps there's some truth in that). When lunch was almost over, Betty Crocker got up to leave and as she passed behind me leaned down and said in my ear (loudly, not whispering), "You just keep your ideas about sex to yourself, mister!" Which wasn't perhaps the most constructive response. I feel that I should have been taken very seriously, or not seriously at all. She should have addressed it more directly. I should have gotten in a shit-heap of trouble. But it was enough to keep me from talking about sex anymore until fifth grade, when I talked about it every day and still didn't really know what it was.

Cruelties Received: Antione Struthers/Felipe Santos

Antione Struthers was smaller than me, but he had the biggest damn mouth at Pennington Elementary School. And he had power, somehow, with that mouth. I think that Felipe's loyalty to Antione was familial, a first or second cousin, perhaps. Though I vaguely feel that their picking on me was ongoing, I remember only specifically one day outside at PE when Felipe was running after me, throwing tennis balls at my legs per Antione's instructions. Felipe called me "Marcus da Carcass." I think he just liked the rhyme, and didn't realize how terrifying it was for a third grader with abnormally large muscles to refer to me laughingly as a "carcass." Clearly he intended to kill me eventually, after playing with me for a time, like a cat with a mouse. It wasn't personal at all, somehow. Sometimes Felipe would just talk to me casually as if we were friends, and he seemed genuinely nice. And then Antoine would walk up and Felipe would remember that he was supposed to hate me. I only felt mildly terrorized. We were pretty heavily supervised, so they couldn't get away with much. Towards the end of my fourth grade year, though, Antione told me "When we get over to Buena Vista, there ain't gonna be nobody there to protect you." We were both headed to Buena Vista next year for fifth grade, a school right across the street from a rough area of government housing. I sweated bullets for roughly the next eight months of my life, constantly looking over my shoulder once I got to Buena Vista, expecting little Antoine to shiv me. I actually never saw him there at Buena Vista at all, and don't know what happened to him and Felipe.

The Ferris Family's Pool

I was trying to step onto a pool float. It was one of those that was body-length, made for lying on to tan. I didn't know how to swim but thought "Well, as long as I just stay on top of the float, I won't even touch the water." So I just tried to step on it with all my weight and it slipped up and I fell into the six foot end of the pool. I took in some water and thought I was going to die, and after what felt like a long time a hand grabbed me up and pulled me out. I don't think that my dad was a good swimmer either, so that's why he didn't jump in to get me, lifeguard style. He just laid flat on his stomach by the side of the pool and kinda rooted around in the water for me. I think I coughed up some water for a minute, and then headed inside to warm up and probably cry because I felt horrible. I remember everyone sitting at a table close to the pool laughing hysterically. In my memory, they are all looking at me, pointing, clearly very amused at the foolish spectacle I had made of myself. This seems ridiculous, though, and I'm sure they must've been somewhat oblivious of the situation (which was, I think, both more inconspicuous and short-lived than I had thought). I didn't see this, though. I was sure they were laughing at me, and screamed as loud as I could at them "It's not funny! I almost died!" I remember hating them so much for what I perceived as their perverse calluosness. I really had thought I was going to die. I was pretty scared of the water thereafter and didn't learn how to swim until I was sixteen or so. Like my father, I'm still not a strong swimmer.

Strange Bonds: Ronald Linehan

Ronald Linehan, when I knew him best, was a 6'2" 30 year old man covered in wiry black hair and acne, rarely seen not wearing his favorite Jurrasic Park t-shirt (though he often paced the house shirtless). He was my friend. Ron had a low IQ and a sense of social development that was arrested around the age of 12. He and his parents lived a few houses catty corner to my own. Ron had gone to school with my older brothers, and they loved to make Ron laugh (which Ron was prone to with little provocation). And since I spent so much time with my much older brothers, I spent time around Ron. Living with his parents, he had all the time in the world to do whatever he wanted, really. This entailed mostly playing basketball in his backyard, drinking several pots of black coffee a day, and spending the rest of his time playing video games. It was an awe-inspiring video game collection. He had every system on the market, and all the classic ones, too. Countless games. And that steering wheel/pedals peripheral for driving games. It was my discovery of such treasures that intitiated our friendship. I often went over to Ron's house after school to play video games, or just watch Ron play video games. He was a masterful player. He was committed, working at it for countless, coffee-addled hours. I remember walking over to his house, after I hadn't seen him in a few weeks, excited that he would have a new video game. I remember walking up the steps to his front door and ringing the doorbell thinking (with somewhat exceptional introspective insight for my age, I think) "Am I coming here because I want to hang out with Ron, or because I want to play video games?" Both, I thought, waiting. Nothing wrong with both.

Senseless Moments: Lee Whitfield

I clenched my fists on the playground of Woodbine Baptist Church. I think I was watching Dallas Star, Lee Whitfield, and Lee's girlfriend (I think her name was Krystal, spelled like the tasty burgerette) joke around and be fourth grade cool. I hated Lee's gold necklace, Dallas' rebellious mullet, and Krystal's beautiful freckles, bespeckling her body like so many sesame seeds on a warm bun. Whenever I attempted friendliness, my affections were spurned. What had I to bring to the table? What could I add to Lee and Dallas's encylcopedic knowledge of racist jokes? I clenched my fists and simmered with inadequacy. I boiled, and the expression this finally found was in running towards the nearest window of the church building with my fist outstretched in front of me, shattering the glass. I looked down at my hand, at all the blood, and started wailing (it was somewhere between screaming as if my head were on fire and boo-hooing over a dead pet). I was ushered inside by a calm adult, who calmed me, but my mother soon got involved and her overreaction prompted my overreaction, which then reinvigorated her overreaction, resulting in an escalating, cyclical mutual craziness. I guess we composed ourselves and I went and got my first stitches ever, the scars still white today on my ring finger and wrist. After I got the stitches taken out, we had dinner at Shoney's to celebrate. At the time, the reason I gave for why I did it was that Lee Whitfield had dared me to. I don't think he did, but I'm not sure. I think my motive was either A. that I thought that breaking the window would be a really dramatic, cool gesture that might win me an appreciative audience, allowing me to vent my anger and constructively address the source of that anger (my uncoolness/ friendlessness) or B. I went crazy for a few minutes.

Senseless Moments: Ian Jones

Mrs. Morrow was almost never absent. Even that day, she felt present, peering over our shoulders at our new cursive. Our substitute had a New Zealander accent (a fact or conjecture I realize now only in retrospect, from the sounds of memory). He was older, hair-growing-out-of-his-ears old, and it seems to me now like he would have had stories to tell. Which, actually, is what he was doing, I think. Yes, I recall him pacing the room, tracing a zig-zag pattern between our rows of desks recalling age-appropriate, didactic anecdotes. We had had a few different substitutes who had done this. . . I'm recalling Mrs. Canada, who always talked about the trip she and her husband had taken to the Holy Land. Settling at the front of the class, the old man faced us and continued. But Ian Jones and I were not listening. For as long as we could do so out of earshot, we had been whispering things against him. Long strings of curse words, squeezed together back to back, as repetitive and yet as inexplicable as DNA chains. They were like magical incantations we were leveling against him, confident that our steady streams would inevitably effect his spontaneous combustion, to our glee. He had done nothing to merit our spite but be new and different (betraying his weakness by smiling, stupidly assuming our innocence). Ian had actually taught me how to cuss. Here's to you, Ian Jones, for teaching me the basic grammar of cussing.

Cruelties Received: Ben Pearson

Ben Pearson's mom (I think that her name was Becky) remembered me walking up to their house on Modena Drive when I was maybe nine, dressed in a cowboy outfit, asking for Ben. I don't remember that. I remember getting off the bus one day with Ben at the foot of Modena's steep hill in front of my house. Ben's house sat at the top of the hill, a beautiful two story brown brick with a high front porch and Greek pillars. As we walked I said something absently honest about some girl Ben liked named Alexia Hendrix. I had innocently forgotten, as a new fifth grader, that candor and candid speech were not highly prized in middle school, that awkward, angry sea of insecurities. Ben, as rail-thin as I was but a year my senior, grabbed me and threw me down in our neighbor's ditch. He straddled my terrified torso, his hands clasped around my wrists, shaking them emphatically as he ordered me to promise never to repeat what I had said to anyone ever again. I promised. He was serious in that way only preteens can be, when absurd banalities become matters of life and death. He was spitting angry, the spittle that collected on my scrunched up face no doubt due in part to the salivary impediments of his braces. He got off of me and stomped off up the street to his two-story house, which amazed me. To lie in bed and listen to music while internally cursing his step-dad, Paul, the captain of a paddlewheel riverboat, the General Jackson, which amazed me. To anticipate his weekend at Opryland Themepark, riding the Hangman twelve times in a row, which amazed me. To be the person and have all the things which stupidly, completely amazed me.

Cruelties Given: Matthew Blackman

Behind Pennington Elementary sat six little trailer-like classrooms called "portables," though I don't think they ever went anywhere. In one of them we had PE in the winters, which mainly entailed stretching and forced square-dancing. In remember one day sitting in a row indian-style, our backs against the wall. Most of us had our sweatshirts or sweaters on, and then the coaches kept the portable so hot. Our parents had lovingly layered us, we who shuffled from the heat of the main building through the cold to the steam of the portables. Everyone so afraid of the cold. We were in a row, faces forward likely receiving instructions for the next activity. No, now I remember, and this makes more sense (or because it makes more sense, I'm remembering it). Mrs. Gleaves had stepped out of the room for a moment and we had been positioned where we were and warned with the great ontological imperative: "Be good." We sat in silence, sure that the moment we did anything besides being good she would walk back in. We sat in silence and for reasons I can't now remember I got up and walked seven paces to the right in front of Matthew Blackman. I leaned down in front of him and punched him hard in the stomach. He slumped forward, crying, forehead on the floor as I walked back to my spot and sat in silence as before. Had I been waiting for such an opportunity? What had he done to deserve the blow? I don't remember. "Be good." Could be more constructively phrased. "Do good," maybe. "Continue to do what you're doing." Mrs. Gleaves walked back in with the cold behind her, and seeing Matthew doubled over said sternly "What happened?!?!" I don't remember if I confessed, or if the other kids outted me. Or if Matthew and everyone else were afraid to speak, and we all just silently commenced with the square-dancing, no one wanting to dance with the kid who punches people cold.

Senseless Moments: Paul Hunt

My first best friend was named Paul Hunt. He lived a few streets over from me on Maplecrest. He had a giant rottweiler named Charlie whose open mouth was bigger than my face. His father, Ron Hunt, was of the Hunt Brothers Pizza dynasty, currently served at 6000 locations in 27 states (although I think he was a cousin, not a brother). I remember one day on the playground I said something very insulting to him. He was getting on my nerves, saying things that I thought were stupid. I think this was partly because I had much older brothers, so I assumed I was much mature than anyone else my age. I had learned disdain at six. On this day, he had had enough and told me that we couldn't be friends anymore. I was terrified at the prospect of losing his friendship as he marched away, determined to move on with his life. I think perhaps he had been talking about Darkwing Duck a lot, and I thought that show was stupid (and let's face it, it was no G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero). I didn't know what to do, but I suddenly felt desperately alone. I do not understand the logic of the following: I found the dirty tangle of a popped balloon lying on the blacktop, grabbed it up and ran towards him with it, panicked and on the verge of tears. "Here, Paul! Here! I got this for you! Be my friend!" He looked at the weird trash in my hands, took it, and looked back at me. "You think you can buy my friendship?" I also do not understand his taking my offer so seriously. But it was clearly the principle of the offer that he was so disgusted with, his kindergarten moral compass clearly better balanced than mine in the heat of this 90s soap opera. I do not remember details from there, only that Paul forgave me. He moved to the country the next year, and last I checked (via MySpace) he's a bi-curious mechanic living in Clarksville.

Cruelties Received: Shannon Shelton

Shanon Shelton was a spacious woman with perma-flared nostrils like a crazed Spanish bull. She didn't like the word "No." She didn't like it when I spoke words. Her mother was the day care director at the small Baptist church, which had to account for her continued employment there. One day in her dominion --a dirty dining-hall sized spaced called "The School-Age Room"-- I said some word or words to the effect of "No." Shannon's visionary gift of punishment was poured out on me. She hoisted my fifty pounds up onto a rickety fold-up table and ordered me to lift my arms up in full cruciform. I complied. Then she ordered all the other children in the room to point at me and laugh. They all joined in without hesitating, and the laughter-on-demand seemed surprisingly authentic. I stood there and cried and when my arms started to hurt, I jumped down off the table and ran out of the room, upstairs to be comforted by my mother, the church secretary. I remember fantasizing about Shannon's death, though I don't remember if I was the one killing her. I probably didn't think I could kill her. She seemed to me like an invulnerable Final Boss who, even after you've launched several rockets into their face, just won't die. She still works at the daycare, but she has her own kids now. I'm sure she's gotten softer.

Suburban Childhood Recapitulated

My roommate Stephanie recently told me about a writing exercise recommended to her by a friend: write about one memory a day from your childhood. I thought this a good idea and once I started it, I fell in love. Thinking about such things brings me a peculiar mix of joy, sadness and wonder, so I hope that I can convey some of that.

This Other Thing (Since 5th Grade)

So music is the other thing I do. I've done it since 5th grade, actually, it just doesn't make it out there a lot, necessarily. I've been pretty obsessed with this Bandcamp opportunity lately and as such it has sucked up all my creative time. And for those of you for whom this is old news due to my completely oversaturating Facebook with the "Please come listen to my music" campaign, apologies : )

I Almost Picked Up a Prostitute

So Im on my way to a Nashville Sounds game and I get turned around the wrong way. Greer Stadium is off 8th Avenue but I turn down it the wrong way, back towards the Rescue Mission and the Greyhound Station, you know? I realize my error and start trying to find somewhere on the right to turn into, turn around and redirect. I come up alongside a woman walking in the same direction and Im looking at her because Im trying to time things right so I don't hit her when I turn in. Or, you know, not "not hit her" really, like there's really a danger, just not turn in and cut her off unexpectedly and create this weird "Oh excuse the nose of my Jeep" situation, right? So Im looking at her to communicate all these things with just a look, and she's looking at me like "What? What is it?" And I'm like "Well nothing, just. . . you know. Just put the pieces together, okay? Im trying not to make this awkward." But then I kinda get ahead of her a bit and I can turn into the little side alley I've chosen. And it's okay. Except these side alleys down 8th are really narrow. . . it's where Cannery Row is, and there's the train tracks there and the area is just kinda cramped with old, red brick factory buildings with weird little worthless, paved nooks that you can hardly fit anything into. So I'm in now and I couldn't have chosen better sooner, per se, I'm just trying to backtrack fast and not be late to this game. While I'm wheeling around making this tight little four point turn I notice the lady from earlier walks by again and looks at me with that same "What?" look, and there's no avoiding her gaze because I'm literally cornered in this tiny alley pointed straight at her. She passes by. I pull up to the curb to finally hang my left and get pointed back right, and there she is again, this time just five feet to the right of my passenger side window. My windows are down and she looks in at me and says (this time not just with her eyes, but with real words) "Did you need me?" And I'm confused so that I look at her like "What? Do I need you?" And of course, it all clicked together: where I was and the details of this weird little dance of gestures I had inadvertandly participated in. And it disturbed me that a different look on my face would have confirmed what she wrongly suspected, that I suddenly found myself receiving the look that one of her clients would get. A look that asked "Yeah?" and that would be returned with "Yes." And besides her somewhat jagged gait and ragged t-shirt and blue jeans, she kinda looked like one of the middle aged women at my church. Pretty in an elegant but careworn kind of way. I didn't know how to react. Nervous laughter at the absurdity of the situation didn't seem right, and pity wasn't good enough. I was just sad and didn't know what to think or do. The End.

"Lost" in the Supermarket: Why I Stopped Buying It -or- How my Favorite Show Got Jack-ed Up and it Makes Me Want to Hurley

My now soured relationship with the infamous show Lost began as a whirlwind romance. I remember my interest peaked by the pilot: the exotic location, the action, the mystery, the potential for growth and depth I sensed in characters like John Locke. I was soon hooked and we met weekly, with the days in between filled with an aching hunger for more information, deeper backstory, further developments. Rival commitments later presented themselves, such as academics and humans, and I found time in shorter supply.

Years later a neighbor let me borrow the Season 2 DVDs, and I was suddenly transformed into a TV Caligula, gorging myself for hours on the show, my narrative-libido insatiable for more about the island, more, still more. Then the Season 3 DVDs were at my disposal. Numerous classes were bullshitted and social events forgone, all for the sake of learning more about the Others, basking in the glow of new romantic developments, pondering: What the hell is the Dharma Initiative all about? What does the Island want? My curiosity and anticipation left me was primed for Season 4, ready to get back to the courtship days of old with the weeklong wait times. And then? Intimations of escape? Flashforwards, which started with the Season 3 finale, hint at a time OFF the island, the Oceanic 6, etc. But. . . this can't be. The whole thrust of the show is getting off the island. Were there to be an escape or a rescue. . . they would no longer be LOST.

Now some might argue "Oh, but don't you see that they were all lost without one another prior to coming to the island? They were broken and aimless before they got there and then found their true selves through the trials and adversities they endured together." Okay. Acknowledged. BUT, that emotional/moral content doesn't negate their basic, driving desire to get off of the hostile/crazy island back to the comparatively less hostile/crazy real world. Here the affair began to seriously break down. It was the claustrophobia of the island that made the situation so dire, that made the characters so close. It was the mystery of the island as a wholly Other place that made it so appealing.

The show should have been cut short, in my opinion. Let's be honest, it would have been impossible, were the writers given 7 or 17 more seasons, to satisfyingly tie up even half of the loose ends without creating a whole slew of other ones. The problem as I see it: in order for the show to survive it had to evolve, and in the attempt it devolved. New characters with meandering and ultimately irrelevant subplots were extraneously added (Desmond not being included in this indictment). Mysteries were piled on top of mysteries in such a way as to no longer suggest alluring complexity, but rather reveal a dangerous Jenga tower of questions destined to fall and destroy our foolish hopes for clarity.

The real moment of clarity came when I realized this: Lost will not be faithful to its promises. Lost was a silly cocktease who never had any intention of anything serious, just messing with my heart from the start, manipulating my emotions for her own sick penchant for feeling in control. Oh she got me all right. I hope she feels reeeeeeeeeal good about what she did.

You know what Lost? You had such a big budget and your stars might be featured in films and you had legions of faithful followers, but you know what YOU are?

You're a soap opera. You feature a cast of at times overly dramatic characters with outrageous back-stories. Your central characters weave in and out of unexpected liasons and love triangles difficult to follow. You leave us as an audience longing for the next episode and we don't even know why. You're an narrative-emotional addiction without substance, without telos, and you're not even ashamed of that. You're a fickle bitch and I'm glad it's all over. . .

I'm coming over later to take back the 80 plus hours of my life you stole from me. And my Clash Greatest Hits CD, I think it's in your car. It better not be scratched up.

Exchanges with Strange Children

Both having occurred today at school--

In this first one Im walking the kids outside.

Me: It feels great out here!

Small child 1: No it doesnt.

Me: No?

Small Child 1: No, it feels soft out here like your skin.

At which point he reached up and rubbed my arm, and

I recoiled, made uncomfortable by his weird and unexpected

observation/touch.

In this next one we're sitting in class, and the child has his head

down on the desk.

Small child 2: Mr. Walton, my head is hurting me. . .

Me: Well, tell your head to stop it.

Small Child 2: I don't speak Brain. . .

Dignity, Always Dignity

"We will guard each man's dignity and slay each man's pride."

-A hymn

Today my pride was repeatedly wounded. Actually, before I even get in to that, I should begin by saying that the title of this blog will soon no longer be applicable. I've secured a position as an Educational Assistant in the Special Education MIS classroom at an elementary school in Metro. MIS stands for Moderate Intervention Services, which translates roughly to kids with severe behavioral disorders who can't function in a normal classroom because they throw fits all the time. So my pride is wounded daily now, which is probably absurd for it to be so wound-able by small children. But their continuous disregard for my authority --the thing I am being paid to wield so as to make a peaceful learning environment possible-- as well as their personal insults and violent abuses really do dig in after awhile. This is, I've both concluded and been told, "meaningful work." Yet the children say "I hate you" to us multiple times a day, as well as "I love you." I reason "They don't mean it" when I hear the former, and therefore cannot help but conclude the same with the latter. Reading and basic math: these are the ultimate meaning thus far, the only thing I know that these kids are taking home a little extra piece of each day, if anything. Tough love, self-discipline, the fruit of encouragement and new challenges: all these seem to just bounce off of their prematurely thick hides like the rubber erasers they methodically break off of all their pencils and toss to the floor.

Whenever they're not working they thrust their seven-year-old hips in the air mimicking movements from the music videos their parents watch, or stab the tables with their pencils or knock chairs over. And they are not working most of the time. Unable or unwilling to focus, Quiondez takes ten minutes to write his name. Baror, a 2nd grader from Rwanda, told me today, "I hate brown people. I'm black. I hate brown people." Briona is the most consistent screamer-kicker-cryer, putting in at least a solid half an hour a day into the act. And Kavian cannot keep his body still for longer than ten seconds at a time; it's a miracle he completes any work at all, which when he does he's typically a whiz at, be it math or reading/writing.

Today, after two weeks of being with them, was their worst day ever. On the way home I determined to make it home without falling to pieces, a nervous wreck, and through prayer and a bit of delirious laughter I thought I had overcome my soul-sickness. Then I parked in the wrong spot to pop in to FYE and see my brother, and my Jeep was almost towed. I don't know why, but it absolutely set me off. I was screaming at the cop and the tow guy. I told them about my day, about how I was there to see my brother because I didn't have any groceries or money and my paycheck hadn't gone through yet, that I just needed a break. The cop let me tear up my $95 ticket, but the tow guy wasn't having it; he demanded $45 immediately or else he was towing it. My brother thankfully paid it (with money he doesn't really have), but something about it was just a huge affront to my pride. I have felt grateful lately to have found a job being disrespected by children for seven hours a day for low pay, so the line between learning needed humility and enduring unreasonable humiliation has been an easy one to blur. But it's a line that must be made. Because I earnestly want for myself the same thing that these kids need: the preservation and enrichment of true dignity, and the slaying of false pride. So below is a clip from one of my favorite movies that I'd like to dedicate to keeping the old head up.

Dignity. . . Always Dignity clip