That Old Deluder Satan

1647, Massachusetts:

"Kids today, I tell ye."

"I know, no respect."

"It's that damned old deluder, Satan. He hath got hold of 'em."

"That's it!"

"What?"

"The young are clearly being misled by the Devil. He must be stopped! And the children must be controlled."

"But we already force them to go to church three times everyday. If the bible doesn't scare them back in line, I don't know what will."

"Aye, and we already beat them..."

"When we're not making them do hard labor."

"So, what's left? What hathn't we done to them?"

"What if there were some place where we could send all of them for the day... some small room they can't leave all day? Somebody there to take them off our hands for a nominal fee?"

"But what'll they do there? They can't even read..."

"Precisely! We will educate the little shits!"

"Hmm... all of them?"

"All of them."

"Even the Negroes and the Indians?"

"Oh. Well, no, don't be silly. Obviously not them. But everyone else!"

Look at those little heathens!

Thus, the Old Deluder Satan Law of 1647 was born and with it the foundation for public education in these United States of America. As it was written: It being one chief project of that old deluder, Satan, to keep men from the knowledge of the Scriptures, as in former times by keeping them in an unknown tongue... It is therefore ordered that every township in this jurisdiction, after the Lord hath increased them to fifty households shall forthwith appoint one within their town to teach all such children as shall resort to him to write and read...


This law really was historically significant as the beginning of public education in America. Each member of the township was required to contribute to a pool of money used to pay for the schoolhouse and teacher, all in an effort to ward off the Devil by way of literacy. I just love the phrasing... That old deluder, Satan. It's so quaint! Fucking 1647, man... there were people then!

Now, in the year of our Lord 2011, I stand in front of a class full of jaded, skeptical, end-of-the-school-year-big-guys-on-campus-attitude-having 14-year-olds. I need help! They are staring at me... waiting... waiting... waiting for me to entertain them. Waiting for me to amuse them in some way. If I can, I might live. If I can't... well then, it's all over. They will rise-up and turn on me en masse and that'll be the end of me. They won't even remember I ever existed. They might have some vague memory of a beard and glasses, but it'll be as if those things were floating around in the ether, not attached to a person. "Mr.Kodish?" they'll say, when asked about my whereabouts. "We have no idea what you're talking about. That name sounds made up. Haven't we been alone in here for the last few weeks? There was a teacher in here? I don't think so. I think we would have known if a teacher was in here. No, it's been just us 14-year-olds. Pretty sure we're the only people alive on the planet right now."

Imagine, if you dare, the faces of
23 disaffected youths staring blankly in those desks

But, no, they have not been alone in that room. Believe me, I have been there everyday. Oh, have I been there. For I am their 8th grade English "permanent sub" for the last weeks of their middle school careers. I have been there about five weeks already, now there is just under two weeks to go in the school year. Their real teacher fell off his roof and messed himself up pretty good. He's OK... but not OK enough for teaching. At least that's the official story. Is it crazy to suggest that his "fall" was really a push? That one or all of his students were up on that roof with him? I'm telling you, these kids are put on the earth to push out the old (figuratively at least, literally if they can) and they know it. Put nothing past them! It's a teenage wasteland! We're all wasted! Only a matter of time... 

Alas, however, my own survival instinct has remained one step ahead of the teenage horde so far. I have managed to fend them off and maintain some modicum of sanity. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I am a good teacher. Heavens, no. Don't be ridiculous. In fact, looking back, I think I have fooled every person who has ever hired me, including the principal of this school. I am expert at faking it until making it. But, while I'm faking it, I am learning... learning more than the students, for sure. And I refuse to let them win. They may be younger, bigger, better looking, and more popular, but I still have my wits about me and can go toe-to-toe in the ring of the classroom with any of them. I'd love for it not to be a me-against-them situation, but it seems that is the way most of them want it. So be it, I am prepared to meet them on their own battlefield. I am prepared to mix my metaphors to the death!

Notice the movie posters.
That was my "big idea" attempt to engage the students.

Actually, it really hasn't been that antagonistic. I'd even say a lot of them like me, and I like a lot of them. Some of them, sure, are total assholes. Some may even be, in fact, possessed by Satan. But most aren't. They're just, ya know, 8th-graders. I forgive them that weakness. Plus, do you remember how you felt during the last couple weeks of a school year? Did you give two, or less than two shits about schoolwork at that point? I can certainly remember being mentally checked out and expecting nothing but parties and watching movies during the last week. Well, now I am on the other side of the equation and can tell you that the teachers feel the same way. But, we're still obligated to try to educate up until the last bell rings... and I already have a constant, newbie-teacher guilt that I am not actually teaching enough. I mean, how much do they expect me to teach, anyway? How much can you teach a brick wall? For that is what the kids are at this point... a brick wall with eyeballs and a Justin Bieber haircut.

The author and former teacher Frank McCourt (of Angela's Ashes fame) expresses all this in words better than my own in his memoir Teacher Man. Outlining his 30-year teaching career in New York City high schools, he describes what it's like to be in a classroom as a new teacher much better than I have, or probably could. So, let me stop ripping him off and let him sum up this post in his own words:

Facing dozens of teenagers every day brings you down to earth. At eight a.m. they don't care how you feel. You think of the day ahead: five classes, up to one hundred and seventy-five American adolescents; moody, hungry, in love, anxious, horny, energetic, challenging. No escape. There they are and there you are with your headache, your indigestion... You still have that bag filled with the papers of the one hundred and seventy-five students, their so-called compositions, careless scrawls. Oh, mister, did you read my paper? Not that they care. Writing compositions is not how they intend to spend the rest of their lives. That's something you do only in this boring class. They're looking at you. You cannot hide. They're waiting. What are we doing today, teacher? The paragraph? Oh, yeah. Hey, everybody, we gonna study the paragraph, the structure, topic sentence an' all. Can't wait to tell my mom tonight. She's always asking how was school today. Paragraphs, Mom. Teacher has a thing about paragraphs. Mom'll say, Very nice, and go back to her soap opera.
....
I was more than a teacher. And less. In the classroom you are a drill sergeant, a rabbi, a shoulder to cry on, a disciplinarian, a singer, a low-level scholar, a clerk, a referee, a clown, a counselor, a dress-code enforcer, a conductor, an apologist, a philosopher, a collaborator, a tap dancer, a politician, a therapist, a fool, a traffic cop, a priest, a mother-father-brother-sister-uncle-aunt, a bookkeeper, a critic, a psychologist, the last straw.
....
If you bark or snap, you lose them. That's what they get from parents and the schools in general, the bark and the snap. If they strike back with the silent treatment, you're finished in the classroom. Their faces change and they have a way of deadening their eyes. Tell them open their notebooks. They stare. They take their time. Yeah, they'll open their notebooks. Yes, sir, here we go opening our notebooks nice and easy so nothing falls out. Tell them copy what's on the board. They stare. Oh, yeah, they tell one another. He wants us to copy what's on the board. Look at that. Man wrote something on the board and wants us to copy it. They shake their heads in slow motion. You ask, Are there any questions? and all around the room there is the innocent look. You stand and wait. They know it's a forty-minute showdown, you versus them...
....
Here they come.
And I'm not ready.
How could I be?
I'm a new teacher and learning on the job.

The Procrastination Tango

Last weekend I made a little road trip to Tampa. Ordinarily, for a seasoned road traveler like myself, this measly 4 hour trip is nothing to write home about. But, this time, there were two reasons to write blog about: the occasion for the trip was extra momentous, and, along the way, Foxy the Hyundai Accent had her own very special moment.

Good ol' Foxy crossed the 20,000 mile mark! She's in her 20's! "You and me, 20g!" is what I said as I caressed her dashboard, took a picture, and shed a tear. Lost in reverie (I mean, focused on the road... defensive driving... 10 and 2), I missed the actual moment the odometer clicked over to 20000, but 20006 is close enough, right? Anyway, I was emotional because, in a lot of ways, Foxy's been my best friend for the last couple years. We've seen a lot, her and I. She held me safely and comfortably in the front seat and carried a heavy burden of my crap in the back as we drove across the country twice in her first year. She got me through mountains and snow, rain and wind, the desert and the Midwest, good times and bad. She came from Jersey, survived West Virginia, and waited patiently for weeks on end in the parking garage of a Safeway in San Francisco. She starts up every time, with pep in her step and NPR on her radio. She is the longest-term commitment I've ever had... When she crossed 20,000 miles, I was proud of her, and of me.

And last weekend, of all things, we were on our way to my real best friend's wedding. This was the momentous occasion for going to Tampa. My friend Mitch was getting married. MARRIED. HOLY SHIT. Now, that's a real commitment. I love Foxy and all, but at the end of the day I don't have to share a bathroom with her.

So it was I arrived in Tampa. Ready to celebrate my friend's joyous day and to do justice to the long, proud tradition of drunken groomsman. I hadn't been part of a wedding since I was a 4-year-old ring bearer carrying a pillow with a fake plastic ring tied to it. I was pissed at my Uncle (it was his wedding) about the fake ring then, and I'm still pissed about it now. I could have been trusted with the real ring dammit! I was a responsible little kid! I felt like a shmuck walking down the aisle with a fake ring... but I digress.

During this ceremony, all I really had to do was wear a suit and a yarmulke, and walk one of the bridesmaids down the aisle. Mitch and Amy stood under the chuppah, the Rabbi said some things, Mitch broke the glass, as Jews are wont to do, and all rejoiced. It was a beautiful day as two lives became joined as one.

The reception began with the ceremonial lifting of bride and groom on chairs, as seen in the Fiddler on the Roof clip linked above. Watch that clip! I was on groom chair duty and was apparently almost crushed by the bride's chair, to the horror of helpless onlookers. They tell me I was a hair's breadth away from a concussion. I'm just glad I didn't drop him, given that I had no advance warning there was going to be heavy lifting involved. I hadn't limbered up!

After this bit, the DJ started in with the line dancing songs and I suddenly knew why groomsmen needed to be so drunk. Or, why this particular groomsmen needed a few good drinks, anyway. I wanted to enjoy this party, and for better or worse (till death do us part?) booze was going to be necessary. So, I started in with the cocktails and was eventually putting vodka in coffee. Not bad! Well, it did the trick anyway, and even got me out on the dance floor a few times... By the way, what the hell does it mean to "do the Charlie Brown"? Nevermind, I don't want to know. I'm happy I don't know those kinds of things.

Awww.... Look at them. They're happy! And I'm super happy for them. I know this is what Mitch has wanted for a long time. It's weird though, isn't it? We're getting married now, huh? We're at that time in our lives? When the shit did that happen? I sure don't feel like I'm there, yet. I mean, getting fuckin' married?! Yikes. I can hardly imagine. Oh sure, I want love and I want a family... someday. But, it's awful hard for me to imagine doing that, like, today.

After all, "why do today what you can put off 'till tomorrow," right? I am pro-procrastination! Just say no to anti-procrastination! Follow?

In fact, this blog is a public display of procrastination. And I procrastinated privately before getting to this procrastination (Mitch's wedding was actually two weekends ago). But the point remains: if I wasn't writing this, I could be doing homework, applying for jobs, volunteering at a soup kitchen, learning to play guitar, curing cancer, or finding a woman with whom I might procrastinate or procreate with, whichever came first. (Insert coming first joke here) (Insert insertion joke here)

To me, though, there is a beauty in procrastination. If done correctly, it can transcend mere laziness to become an act of defiance essential to restoring elements of our humanity that the rush, rush, plugged-in, workaday world slowly robs us of. It's my belief that we need down-time, that we need to be able to make the conscious choice to not do something. We need to be able to free ourselves from the nagging feeling that everything has to be done right-now-this-second.

Sure, I will eventually do the thing, but right now? No. No, I don't believe I will. I am going to choose when the hell I do that thing. I will get to it when I am good and goddamn ready. And, when I am ready (mentally or physically), and I do do the thing, I will inevitably do it better. Procrastination is a gathering of energies integral to my creative process.

Or, I'm just a lazy ass. Yeah... definitely could be that.

But, I don't think so! According to the theory I am espousing in this post, procrastination is a noble enterprise. A mind-freeing exercise in alternative thinking. To me, it's like dance. In order to dance well, you need to be able to free your mind of its conscious inhibitions. You have to break your body free of the shackles of the mind. I am not a dancer, but, as I said, I was forced into a dancing situation at Mitch's wedding... comfortable, I was not. However, after enough vodka-coffees, I was at least able to get out there. Procrastination is the vodka-coffee of my everyday life, freeing me up to do things I might not normally do.

It is my way of communing with god, or the universe, or nature, or whatever. As much as I'd like to pretend that, like Thoreau or Whitman, I get deep insights and inner-peace from a walk in the woods, I do not. When I walk in the woods all I get is bug bites and Deliverance derived anal rape paranoia. And I don't like getting dirty. No, I'm not a "nature guy." But, procrastination is my substitute. When I procrastinate, I am stepping out of humanity in order to restore my humanity. You won't catch me on a nature retreat, but you will often find me busily at work not working.

You buying this shit? Didn't think so. But you sure killed some time reading it! Congratulations!
And Mazel tov, Mitch and Amy! Like Foxy and me, may you always enjoy the journey.

Happy anniversary Foxy!

Spring Bake

Everyday takes figuring out all over again how to fucking live. - Calamity Jane on Deadwood.

One of the things I like least in life is retracing my steps. If you ever see me looking annoyed and acting impatient it is likely because I have had to do something over again. Be it drive back and forth between two points more than once in a day; or retype an email because my computer froze; or repeat directions five times in less than a minute because the little bastards aren't listening (that's a substitute teacher-specific example).

In fact, I will go far out of my way not to go back and forth, out and back, over the same road. The shortest distance between two points may be a straight line, but if I see that straight line more than once in a short period of time I will become apoplectic. As such, I always plan my trips as circles, going out on one road and coming back on another. That is, if I have to come back at all. My real preference would be to travel in one direction at all times, never circling back whence I came. One-way trips, in which I am propelled into some new unknown, with no reassuring promise of a return to the comforts or familiarity of home, get my blood flowing. Not that home is bad, or that I don't crave home just as much as all those points unknown. It's just that I get "itchy" when I think about making the return trip itself. Home as a destination, a place to rest my head, is great, but the road home bores the shit outta me.

Here's me as a baby. I needed something to break up this big block of words.

To be clear, I am speaking literally and figuratively. Very literally, I hate driving the same road twice in one day. Metaphorically, this applies to just about everything else in my life. As I said, I don't like doing things more than once in short order, especially if I feel I have already "gotten it." I am compelled by equal parts boredom and restless intellectual curiosity (OK... more boredom than curiosity) to keep trying new things. Sometimes, I even feel like the more I do something, the more I try to get better at something, the worse I actually get. I start to get too much in my head, over-thinking the thing, whatever it is, to death. If you think long, you think wrong. So much for self-analysis and self-improvement... clearly, attempting those things will just make me a worse person. Yep, I checked, that statement follows the logic of the one before it. It's all perfectly logical.

But, then again, after a day has passed, I'll probably be able to stomach seeing that same old road again or doing that same old thing again. Maybe I'll even be able to stand a little self-improvement. Like Jane says, each day becomes new again. Each day presents new problems to be reckoned with and provides new perspectives from which to fucking reckon.

I quote Calamity Jane because recently my Deadwood obsession has been rekindled. It was back over Thanksgiving 2009 when I watched the first 7 episodes in North Dakota with Danie and Jesse and Jesse's family. I mentioned in the blog at the time that the show became the melodramatic, curse-filled soundtrack to our trip. I had been dying to see the rest of the series, but until recently I hadn't had the chance. Finally, HBO on Demand made the whole series available to stream online, and over the last two weeks, my dad and I watched all 36 episodes. He was as immediately hooked as I was when I first saw it back in NoDak. There is just something about hearing the word "cocksucker" over and over again that makes grown men giggle. Between the musically vulgar language and the constant background din of an Old West camp, I think the sounds of the show really kind of hypnotized us. Once we started, we had to finish. We each sat in front of our respective computers and watched the cocksucker till our eyes bled.

Some things are like that. Some things you have to see through to the end, quickly and without stopping, if at all possible. Watching a show in this linear, one-way, non-stop fashion appeals to my always-moving-forward, anti-retracing-of-steps nature. With a similar compulsion, I am still working my way through the Tartine baking book. All the recipes sound so good, and Morty the Bread Starter is so strong and healthy, that I don't want to rest until I have made them all; and I don't much want to go back and do any of them over again until I've tried all the ones I haven't done.

So, last week I finally made the croissants I had been threatening to make since the beginning. It's a fairly laborious process of "laminating" butter and dough together, so I had to be committed. Turned out to be a fun day of beating butter and dough with a big stick. The smell reminded me of my professional baking days in San Francisco. I handled very many croissants in my time at that job (2 whole days). Anyway, how were my homemade ones? Well, they came out looking pretty pretty, but... they weren't as light and flaky as I would have liked. They were layered beautifully, but not flaky. So, I was a little disappointed on the first day. However, it turned out that their heavier, crustier nature was perfect for sandwiches the next few days. And when I say perfect, I mean just that. Amazing freaking awesome sandwiches.... no matter what you put on 'em. These rolls made everything delicious.

I could have popped open a can of Pillsbury crescent rolls and
accomplished this in significantly less time

"I like bread and I like butter, but I like bread with butter best."

Three Rolls and a Fistful of Butter, starring my dad

This week it's Spring Break, so I have some (more) free time on my hands. I already did one big batch of bread and plan on doing another. With the first, I did something I spent the first half of this blog saying I don't want to do. I repeated. But I had to return to rye bread since my friend Mitch is getting married next week and I am bringing bread offerings to all the Jews in Tampa. At least this time I was making a double batch, so that kept it interesting. Also, this time I put the caraway seeds inside the bread, as well as on top. It was insane! Ended up I made five loaves, each with a slightly different character. Those receiving these breads will get the one that I deem best suites them. Or the first bag I happen to grab, whichever.

At the same time I was making my ryes, my dad made a challah. Spring Bake 2011 was in full effect! There was no wet t-shirt contest, but we were waist deep in Jewish carbohydrates. I don't know what that means! 

Can you see the face of Old Man Rye? He's squinting.

Corned beef on rye, mit pickle

The biggest rye on the block

Inside the Baker's Bakery

Action shot: Challah getting beaten

I'm going to try making a polenta and rosemary infused loaf next. Why not! For now, I am going to go "take the air," as they say on Deadwood. I'm going to walk around the neighborhood sipping casually from a mug of coffee, sort of overseeing my territory. Inspired by Al Swearengen on Deadwood, I now love walking around outside with a mug of coffee (a regular ceramic mug, none of these fancy, citified mugs with leak-proof tops). I'm telling ya, it really makes one feel quite in control of one's domain; like the boss. 

And when I get back from my stroll I'll probably take some shots from the giant bottle of whiskey we bought. My dad and I cannot handle our liquor like cowboys and gentiles, but we sure like to pretend. 

And then, tomorrow, I'll figure it all out all over again...

Spectacles, Testicles...

...Wallet, and Watch.

Two weeks ago, I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when I noticed some smudges on the lenses of my glasses. Now, I have been wearing glasses since the 3rd grade, I know a thing or two about wiping my glasses on my shirt. I do it many times a day, I've done it thousands of times in my life. The kindly folks at LensCrafters always tell you not to do that, but I refuse to carry around a lens wiping cloth. I mean, what am I, a nerd? Well, yeah, I am, but nevertheless, I ain't carrying no lens cloth. In any case, shirt-wiping my glasses had never been a problem. Never before had my glasses crumbled in my hands the second I touched shirt to lens. Well, never say never, because it happened this time, two weeks ago as I sat at my desk with a plan to be productive (by plan I mean a list of web videos I needed to see that day). There was no snap, there was no crack; there was only a soft rip, a sigh as my old beloved black plastic frames gave up, with one final gasp from the death throes. There was no fixing them, I knew that right off... they had split right at the corner, above the hinge. I could break out the masking tape... but, while I'm still as nerdy as I was in 3rd grade, I'm an adult now and I'd rather just break out the credit card. I had no back ups, I needed to get some glasses in a hurry. My dreams of a "productive" Saturday at my computer were dashed.

Looking into the sun

LensCrafters and their one-hour production time got my money once again (that's quite the racket they got over there, by the way... we should all have gotten into the glasses business). These are my new glasses, seen above, to the left, and below. I went bigger and more Risky-Business-by-way-of-Squints-from-The-Sandlot-by-way-of-Woody-Allen. I like them, but.... I am worried I am veering too far into hipster doofus territory. Usually, I prefer not to call attention to my self. I feel like these glasses are a little too "look at me." Of course, they are just dark brown, plastic glasses of a shape people have been wearing since the 50s... nobody cares but me. Probably nobody really thinks twice when they see me, no matter how aware I might be of my new look. But, I really do like them, they're different. Different enough from my old ones to not bore me, at least.

Actually, they mostly make me wish I was a rock star. Like an indie-band, sensitive-beard-rock-and/or-blues-revival, no-hard-drugs, maybe-a-half-sleeve-of-tasteful-tattoos, Roy-Orbison-covering, wife-and-kid-on-the-road-with-me, kind of a rock star. I could be like the bass player, or something. Bass player for the Reluctant Hipsters, recently signed to Jack White's record label. I could totally live that life.

His name was Joel in this movie. True fact.

Squints.

The middle school teacher stink eye.

Behind the blogging curtain.

These pictures make it apparent I now have full-fledged "Coke bottle" lenses. I guess the windows through which I view my world have gotten thicker over the years. Time passes and now I can't remember a time when I wasn't wearing glasses; they are intertwined with my identity and my memories. 

One of my most vivid glasses-wearing memories comes from what I remember of one afternoon in little league. I remember I was pitching, up on the mound wearing my too baggy baseball pants, and it started to rain. The rain drops collected on my big, square, '80s-computer-programmer, wire-frame glasses, which were held to my face with a Florida State Seminoles-emblazoned Croakie. Between pitches, which I am sure were expertly delivered, I was wishing I'd had some windshield wipers to clear my view. I don't remember too much else about the whole of my little league experience, except that I played only one season, my number was lucky 7, I played every position except catcher, the coach was kind of a douche, and I once hit two triples in one game. Hey, some people's athletic ability peaks at age 9, don't be jealous. Hate the game, not the player.


Only a couple years before that rainy afternoon on the mound, I was peering through my glasses at picture books... a fact I had to recall recently as part of the first assignment in my Reading Fundamentals teaching certification class. I had to do a book report on my favorite childhood book, explaining why it meant so much to me. There were many that I could remember, but only a few that I remember having an emotional connection to, and could still feel that emotional pull when I thought about them now, some 25 years later. I know I loved and owned many of The Bernstein Bears books (they were Jewish, right?), but I couldn't remember any one of them specifically. When I thought back, only one image, one picture from one of my kids' books, kept coming up in my mind. It was this picture from a Little Golden Book - purchased for .76 cents, on sale from the retail price of .89 cents - called Mr. Bell's Fixit Shop:

Take a close look at that doll. Jesus. That little girl crying over her awful, post-apocalypse doll haunted my memories. That doll is creepy, man. But, beyond the chill-inducing doll, I was affected by the rest of the book, as well. It is really about the idea of having a "broken heart" and how you can fix it. At first, Mr. Bell the fixit man says that he could "fix everything but broken hearts," but by the end, after he fixes up the little girl's doll, she corrects him. It turns out, with the tools of kindness and selfless compassion, he can "fix everything even broken hearts." I remember being knocked out by the idea of having a broken heart... The picture made it seem like a very literal idea, which was fascinating. But, I also knew what they meant, and the seeds of my romantic, emo tendencies were sown. To this day, I am far more concerned with what the heart is feeling than with what the head is thinking. Sure, I like thinking, but I am turned on by heart, by emotion, by feeling.

Wait a minute, hold the emo phone, I have just seen a headline on the internet. Besides feelings and crap, there is another thing that turns me on: eating. And the big food news of the week is: In-N-Out Burger is opening in Dallas now... this is huge news, people! In-N-Out is a well known and loved, cult-status burger chain in California, Nevada, and Arizona, mostly. Their expansion into Texas signals possible future expansion to other states, maybe someday even states beginning with the letter F. They are my favorite fast-food burgers, despite their underlying Jesus-ness. Nothing like a good In-N-Out! That's what she said, etc...

Anyway, I realize while reading this article about In-N-Out how proud I am that I have experienced first-hand most of the best regional fast foods from across the nation. PROUD, as if I have accomplished something great... I am not even joking about this. I genuinely love knowing that I know what a double-double tastes like, or a Taco John's Potato Olés-stuffed burrito, or a Whataburger, or a White Castle, or a Fatburger, or a Del Taco, or a Carl's Jr (and it's affiliates The Green Burrito and Hardee's), or a Steak 'n Shake, or a Jack in the Box, or a Jollybee, or a Checker's, or a Chick-Fil-A (another expanding Jesus outfit), or a Famous Original Ray's Pizza. I have tasted the daily sustenance of many regions... the locally renowned, cult-followed fast food joints. The fast food you can't get in every town, everywhere, but has still entered into the pop-culture. Some of these chains are amazing and deserve to be everywhere; some are foul, guaranteed stomach busters that should be cast off from the earth as the abominations they are (I'm looking at you, White Castle). But, I wouldn't give up any of these experiences... some of them have been transcendent, time capsule-worthy (or at least blog-worthy), mind-blowing moments that I would love to repeat or relive over and over again.

My fast food fetishizing actually goes hand in hand with my general romantic outlook on life. Just like I'd like to relive a double-double with grilled onions every single day (my cholesterol level thanks the stars In-N-Out isn't in Florida), there are other moments of pure happiness, peace, and love that I savor in my memory and would like to go back to over and over again, too, if I could.

This reminds me of a line I recently swooned over in a book. The line comes from City of Thieves by David Benioff: She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. Her mouth was cold, her lips rough from the winter wind, and if the mystics are right and we are doomed to repeat our squalid lives ad infinitum, at least I will always return to that kiss.

Jim Carrey's name in this movie was Joel, too.
Coincidence?

Now, that's just pretty. And the distillation of the kind of romanticism of life moments I'm talking about. It reminded me right away of the ending of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, an amazing, extremely romantic (in a sci-fi, brain-teaser sort of way) movie. In the very last scene, after Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet have spent an hour and a half struggling with their break-up and struggling to literally hold on to the memories of their relationship at the same time, they agree to try again, even if it means they will end up in the same sad place. They look at each other and simply say, "OK." It is the most profound "OK" in the history of movies. They are agreeing to enjoy the journey together, even knowing the ending may be a wreck. They are agreeing to love; love and memories, because they are so much better than hate and loss.

By the way, Benioff also wrote 25th Hour, which became an underrated, under-seen, quite mesmerizing Spike Lee movie. This has nothing to do with nothing, but if you have 5 minutes, click that link and watch that scene. Amazing stuff. I HAVE to watch this movie every time I see it on TV.

I guess I'm about done here. Yep, that's it.
I like my glasses. Look out for Reluctant Hipster tour dates. And remember: There's a time for playing it safe and a time for...

Good, but Would You Mug an Old Woman For It?

This weekend Morty The Bread Starter became a rye bread, which, since he cannot grow a beard, handle money, or run the entertainment industry, is the most Jewish thing he could do. Rye bread is as much a part of the Jewish culture as guilt, neurosis, and poor eyesight. In other words, if Morty had his bar mitzvah when we made the first breads, then this weekend he graduated from medical school. Let's see, what other stereotypes can I use... I guess that's it for now.

Anyway, yes, I used Morty to make rye bread, and, yes, I was pretty happy with the results, once again. Not sure it was good enough to inspire petty thievery (a Seinfeld reference; if you have to ask, it won't be funny to you anyway. OK, OK... here's a link if you need it), but it was definitely a success. This Tartine-style bread making has been a lot of fun! This one was kind of a sour-dough rye; mild, crusty, chewy, and covered in caraway seeds. Perfect for a nice deli sandwich. By the way, if you've never had a pastrami on rye, well, shoot, I really don't know what to tell ya... you simply haven't lived. If you want to know what it tastes like to be Jewish (but not what a Jew tastes like... that's something else entirely), you find yourself some rye and some pastrami, toot sweet.

Pastrami on Rye.
This might as well be a picture of a circumcised penis, that's how Jewish this is.

Rye-ce to meet you.

Caraway seeds.

In other, less baked-goods related news... I am still substitute teaching and my teaching certification courses started up again. A couple weeks ago I worked every single day of the week. As in all 5 workdays, in a ROW. It was nuts. I just don't know how people do that! By the end of the third day I needed a good two-day nap. That's how it should be: three days on, two days sleeping, then two more days off. I could happily live with that work schedule. Come on, Obama, make THAT change happen.

Still, working does provide some decent stories to tell, from time to time. For instance, the other day I found myself locked in a wrestling match with a 4th grader as I tried to restrain him from pummeling another 4th grader. Apparently some other kid in the class had said something about his mom or his manliness or some such thing, and this kid went from 0 to pissed-the-fuck-off in a split second. His eyes rolled back like a shark on the attack. He was ready to murderlate the other kid. I quickly stepped in and sat him down in a futile attempt to talk him down. He wasn't having it, and soon bolted up and darted towards his nemesis, arms flailing like a crazed monkey. This was no ordinary 4th grader, this was a mutant shark-monkey! A sharnkey? He never made contact with the other kid, though, because I held him back until the principal came to get him. He was no more than 4 feet tall, but he put up quite the fight. The whole time he never stopped swinging wildly at the air, muttering his 4th grade threats. It must have been quite the show for all the other kids in the room. I don't know how long I was wrestling with him exactly, but I know I was winded as I explained to the principal what had happened.

I can assure you, if this situation ever happens when I am in a high school class, someone is going to get hurt and it is not going to be me. I am not about to step between two high school kids whose combined weight is probably going to be at least five times my own. No, they will be left to their own devices until bigger adults, who make more money than I do, show up. This probably applies to middle school, too... even half THOSE bastards are bigger than me.

It's not all juvenile delinquency, though. Last week, in middle school, I bonded with the weirdest girl in class, the one all the others talked shit about when she left the room. She was weird and spastic, sure, but also smart and pleasant in her oddness. We got to talking, and before she left she gave me a guitar-shaped silly band. My first gift from a student. Not as nutritious as an apple, but silly bandz are like money to these kids, so it was valuable to her, and therefore, to me, too. At least, there was no misinterpreting the gesture. She was telling me that she appreciated that I had been nice to her, and I believed her. On the other hand, most of the time I find I filter what the kids say through my own insecure, insincere, cynical adult brain and draw the wrong conclusions about what they meant and how they meant it. I need to remind myself that at least half the time they are actually not making fun of me! The other half they most certainly are. But, still... I shouldn't assume they are coming from a shitty place. They aren't fully formed humans, yet, they deserve the benefit of my doubt.

As to my own certification classes, they're going along fine. When I went to the first class of the semester it was good to see all the other students again. So good that I found myself, in spite of myself, hanging out before class, chatting it up with a bunch of different people. I was fucking working the room! As I was walking around talking to everyone, getting laughs (I think genuine), I was aware of how unlike me this whole scene was. I was weirdly "on."  I think I must have been feeling less self-conscious than normal because I was still dressed nice from working earlier that day. Funny what a tie can do to a man, when it's not busy making him want to hang himself with it. Besides the tie, I think I was also feeling good because it was like 25 to 3, girls to guys, in the room (I was the alpha male for once in my life); and, since I hadn't seen these people in a couple months, I was fairly confident they could do with another dose of Joel. Usually I am quite sure that everybody's had enough. And usually I do not refer to myself in the third person. Like Costanza, I was doing the opposite. Worked pretty well.

Of course, I'm sure I was not quite the King of the room my memory has made me out to be. It might even have been a sickening display of awkward gregariousness on my part. But, then again, maybe I was at least a Court Jester or something, if not the King. I could pull off Court Jester for one night, I know it. Come on, reality, let me hold on to Jester status.

Well, that's all I got for this very Jewish-themed TV and movie referencing post... now back to The Mentaculus. As soon as I crack that probability map of the universe, it'll be time for the two-day nap part of my week. Next up for Morty will be beignets or croissants, probably. Next up for me is a new poor-eyesight related facial accessory, to be revealed in the next post. Stay tuned.

Schnitzer's. Co-STANZA!

A Means to a Sandwich or: Bread is God

Brioche, Brioche

Morty the Bread Starter is going to Disney Land! He was just named MVP of the Brioche Bowl! Yes, on Super Bowl Sunday, while the rest of the nation prepared to participate in our one true national holiday, Morty and I played in our own special Big Game. It was an early start, there was no opposing team, and all the plays were in slow motion. At about 7am I threw a Hail Mary down the sideline. At about 1pm Morty caught that pass for the winning score, a brilliantly-brown brioche touchdown. Gooooaaaaalllll! (Wrong sports reference? Ahh, whatever. This time next year you won't even remember who played in the Super Bowl this year.) Morty was humble in victory, but I would have been penalized for excessive celebration. How could I not celebrate, though... this was the freakin' Brioche Bowl for crying out loud! Morty did great and damned if I wasn't gonna celebrate. OK, maybe I didn't have to take my pants off, but I was in the moment... no regrets.

Son, I've been slicing bread all my life, let me show you how it's done.

The bread is bigger than the chef... I'm sure this is a metaphor for something.

That's a sandwich.

After I put my pants back on, we tasted the bread and I can tell you it came out quite well. Turns out, brioche is basically an uppity, Frenchified challah. It was eggy, buttery, and delicious on its own or as a means to a sandwich. And I made a big batch this time, so there is more unbaked dough in the freezer, ready and waiting to get the call. I hear you can deep-fry it and turn it into a beignet. Mmmm... uppity, French doughnuts. Must. Try. This.

As a sidebar to the Super Bowl festivities, and as a way to transition into the rest of what's been on my mind recently, I want to say this: If 120 million people watched the Puppy Bowl instead of big dudes playing grab ass (as my dad would describe the game), I am convinced our country would be a better place. Seriously, I was hypnotized into feeling good by the overwhelming force of cuteness on display. The concept is so simple, it's genius: put a bunch of puppies in a room, put a bunch of cameras in that room so people can watch what happens. If people were forced to watch this for a whole day, non-stop, a revolution of good-will and kindness would sweep the country... either that or people would go batshit crazy. I'd be willing to take the chance. Anyway, all I'm saying is that maybe we should spend our Sundays worshiping puppies (or, maybe, you know, our fellow human beings), instead of football and/or some invisible god or gods. What have those two things ever really done for us, after all?

George Carlin said something similar in a very funny way, as he was wont to do. Carlin ultimately decided to worship the sun and pray to Joe Pesci, because he "looks like the kind of guy who can get things done." With that in mind, and as much as I like puppies, I have actually decided to worship bread and pray to Morty. Ol' Mort is a real go-getter. If Morty can't do it, maybe it can't or shouldn't be done. But seriously, I don't need to worship any "creators" besides all the other humans sharing this life and this little rock we're all floating on in the vast, uncaring void of space. We all are the creators of our own worlds - one love affair, one family, one friend, one good deed, one joke, one puppy, one Morty at a time.

At this point I'd like to quote a book I read recently. Just warning you. Here it comes. This is mostly to document for my future older, lazier self that I once read things. OK, last chance to bail. Here we go.

In The Sirens of Titan, Kurt Vonnegut creates a new religion: The Church of God the Utterly Indifferent. Its two main tenets being: "Puny man can do nothing at all to help or please God Almighty, and Luck is not the hand of God." To quote Vonnegut, quoting his fictional reverend (emphasis mine):

"Oh Lord Most High, Creator of the Cosmos, Spinner of Galaxies, Soul of Electromagnetic Waves, Inhaler and Exhaler of Inconceivable Volumes of Vacuum, Spitter of Fire and Rock, Trifler with Millennia - what could we do for Thee that Thou couldst not do for Thyself one octillion times better? Nothing. What could we do or say that could possibly interest Thee? Nothing. Oh, Mankind, rejoice in the apathy of our Creator, for it makes us free and truthful and dignified at last.... no longer can a tyrant say, 'God wants this or that to happen, and anybody who doesn't help this or that to happen is against God.' O Lord Most High, what a glorious weapon is Thy Apathy, for we have unsheathed it, have thrust and slashed mightily with it, and the claptrap that has so often enslaved us or driven us into the madhouse lies slain!" - The Reverend C. Horner Redwine

Couldn't have said it better myself! Seriously, there is no way I could ever say it better, that's why I had to quote it. This is a religious philosophy that finally celebrates humanity and not magical outside forces that may or may not have been responsible for creating said humanity. Even if magical creation forces could be proven, so what? How does that affect me? What do I really need to know about creation other than "it happened" and "we are"? One way or another, scientifically or magically, we were created and we are here. No further thinking needs to be done about that subject, as far as I am concerned. We're here, let's do the best we can while we're around, the end.

I pledge allegiance to the bread, one nation under Morty

Is That a Baguette in Your Pocket?

The evolution of Morty. Well, evolution combined with me playing god.

Crusty, crackling, rustic French goodness.

Hey, baby, check out my baguette.

Another happy customer. Now, over 3 people served!

The further evolution of Morty.

And then there was one... We are very good at eating warm bread quickly.

I have to say, this was very good bread. This is probably the most happy I have been with the end results of a baking project... I really don't have an unkind word for how it came out. It smelled and tasted just like the best baguettes I've had at restaurants or bakeries. The crust was thin and crisp, the inside was tender and delicious. It had just the right sort of nutty aroma. Of course, I am not claiming much credit here... I simply followed a good recipe and Morty did all the hard work. In fact, the highest compliment I can give this bread is that when I was eating it I forgot totally that I was the one who made it. It was only after the first two loaves were long gone that I appreciated the craft of what I had done. It was so good that it rose above the din of self-doubt and modesty in my brain... I had to admit, I had made something of undeniable quality. I held my head a little higher that night, the way only a craftsman proud of his day's work can.


Now, this kind of pride is not easy for me to express. Normally I am not one to toot my own horn, or butter my own baguette, as it were. Usually, I like to stay firmly in the realm of humbleness and self-deprecation. The funniest jokes are the ones I have at my own expense. My nature is not to make fun of others, or to be mean. Not to say I don't dislike most people ('cause I think I probably do), but instead of meanness, I hope I usually try to relate to them with empathy and then simply move on. Oh sure, I do make fun of people sometimes. I mean, some people just have it coming and who am I to not give it to them? But, that is not where my mind goes naturally and I am not proud of myself when I do it. The best (and coincidentally, easiest) target will always be myself.


This brings me to a recent conversation I had on the phone with one of my best friends (don't worry, it's not you, because this friend says he never reads the blog.. in fact, he scoffed at the notion as if it were ridiculous.. a whole other point of contention). Have you ever talked to someone who has no room in their conversation (and apparently, their consciousness) for self-doubt? They are just so seemingly sure of themselves, and even take a mocking tone when you express confusion or doubt about your own life. They make it sound as if you are the crazy one for not knowing the answers, or even just not being 100% sure of the answers. Have you ever wanted to reach through the phone and choke the life out of one of these people, ask them if they were so sure of themselves now? Of course, they'd be dead, so I guess they couldn't answer, but the point would have been made, I think.


It comes to this: If you aren't self-aware about your own problems, I can hardly stand to talk to you. You don't have to hate yourself, but you must recognize that you, like every other human being on this planet, is flawed. And you must desire not to be so flawed. If you are perfectly unaware and/or accepting of your own defects, fuck you. First, I don't believe you. Second, if it is true that you genuinely believe you have all the answers without any second-guessing, what a self-righteous and clueless prick you must actually be. 


Is this simply my own neurosis speaking? Am I just jealous of these types that go through life so sure of themselves? I don't think so. Like I said, I believe these people are only pretending to be that confident, anyway. Deep down, they may be even more conflicted than I am. 


But, my capacity for empathy fails me when it comes to people with this attitude. If you can't engage me in a self-deprecate-off, I will lose interest in you, not to mention respect for you. Being so smugly confident is disingenuous and fucking boring. I mean, if we're good friends and we take the time to talk to each other... let's really TALK! Let's talk about real feelings, real doubts, real insecurities.. And good stuff too!


But actually, that stuff is the good stuff. It's good, real-life conversation, and that is the best things friends can do. I can get the weather from a widget, from a real friend I want to hear some of the inner-monologue. So, come on, open up, admit you don't know everything, admit you're not sure about the decisions you're making in your life. And allow me that privilege, too. It'll be OK... or maybe it won't. I don't know! But I know for sure that maybe is more honest than yes, no, always, or never.


Maybe I will make a brioche with Morty this weekend, maybe I won't. Maybe I will get out of bed, maybe I won't. Maybe next time I see my friend I'll strangle him with a piano wire, maybe I won't. Maybe, just maybe.