Thursday, April 17, 2008

MR is BA

Men I admire:

Prince (the Purple Warrior of Love... not Charles)
My father

and Mike Rowe.

Don't know who Mike Rowe is? Well you're missing out. This is my brief homage to the man himself: You might know him as the host of Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel. OHHHH!! That guy. Yeah, him. Scruffy beard, trucker hat, old blue jeans (have I ever mentioned my sincere love of old collared shirts? I just love those cotton button downs with the colors faded from sun exposure and saturated in man-sweat from years of hiking in the Adirondacks, scaling insurmountable dunes in the Atlas Mountains, and herding sheep in the Himalayas. Of course, I don't where these shirts out [nor have I scaled the Himalayas], granted, but when I put one on, I just think about the sweaty adventures to come). He might be the coolest MF to walk the planet. Honestly, who would answer this ad:

"Looking for middle aged guy to stick his arm up multiple cows' asses and rummage through horse shit while being filmed. Must endure nauseating stenches and willingly endanger his life for the sake of entertainment. Wit a plus."

Mike Rowe would.

Come to think of it, I would to. Except, I'm not bad ass enough. In fact, I am kind of like the anti-thesis to bad ass. I might talk the talk, but I cower in the corner in the fetal position, sob, and suck on my pinkies, rather than walk the walk. Mike Rowe doesn't cry. He makes Chuck Norris look like a petrified Christopher Lowell. In a hair salon.

Perhaps the coolest factoid about MR (we have the same initials) is that he used to be an opera singer. You've got to be kidding me.

So, let's compare:

ex-opera singer
Hosts hit television show
Probably bangs hot chicks
Risks life
Voted #4 Dudelist Dude by Maxim
Incredibly witty
Can probably bench press his truck
Kick ass beard stubble

ex-collegiate musical theatre... uh... participant
writes a blog. Some people read it.
Is writing said blog at 10:40pm on a Thursday night, hence, no hot chicks in sight.
Lives with his parents.
Voted "Most School Spirit" in high school. (Hence, no hot chicks in sight.)
Thinks of come backs three hours later in the shower
I almost won a fist fight with Stephan Hawkings once. He cheated.
Hell yeah.

So go out there, turn on the Discovery Channel, and marvel at Mike. Perhaps some day, with a little bit of sweat, perseverance, and sun burn, I can be a tenth as bad ass. Yeah. Maybe. A boy can dream.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Life is a Stage

This whole "working" thing is kind of getting on my nerves. For the past nine months, I would wake up around 10, fall out of bed (often quite literally), partake in something closely resembling hygiene, and stumble out the door to give a three to four hour lecture to a group of wide eyed tourists. Ask names... forget names. Schmooze. Booze. That was it. Done. (With notable exceptions).

But now I am working nearly every day this week. What's up with that? And to top it off, I am in one place, wearing a uniform (dirty green embroidered aprons are so hot right now), doing the same thing, and saying the same thing to everybody: "Hey, how's it going? What can I do for you today?"

It reminds me of an interview I saw once with Marlon Brando (I spend an unhealthy amount of time on YouTube, browsing for old music clips or interviews). In it, Brando, looking rather Jabba the Hutt-ish, philosophizes on how we are all actors. Everybody acts throughout the course of their day. It's natural. And you know what? He's right.

As a tour guide, sure, I acted. That's part of the job. It needs to seem fresh and exciting every time. I mean, come on, I'm working for tips. But even here at the healthy deli, I have to act like every new person who walks through the door could be the second incarnation of Christ. But that's "customer service". There's nothing wrong with it. It's just interesting to think about. I mean, if this did not exist, the whole service industry would be a suicide-worthy experience.

How natural is it to be "fake" to a degree? Is that instinctual? Thinking about it, I can't imagine another time in history where that would have been necessary. Maybe when greeting a King or Queen, but often times they were basically supposed to be the next incarnation of Christ (or at least a demi-god)! Acting in life seems to be a modern phenomena (at least according to my forty seconds of analysis).

When you are at work today, count how many times you "act". Pass the same person twice in the hallway? Make it seem like you're excited to see them! Again! So much better than the first time.


Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Consciously Rising Above Paranoia (CRAP)

I'll admit it: I'm a hypocrite.

I said I'd never work in food services, and here I am with my hands wrist deep in organic chick peas (which are neither "chicks" nor "peas"... discuss). I mean, my entire life I have been sort of irrationally disgusted with half-eaten or partially eaten food. The thought of putting my delicate hands into the leftover muck left by others was enough to send me running for the hills with tears streaming from my eyes, snot dripping from my nose, and my arms waving frantically like a marionette on crack.

EH! How disgusting! How vile! I'm not quite sure what is the most revolting aspect of touching the food. Truly, it's harmless. It can't hurt me. I know that. But, I can compare touching Somewhat-Hardly Imbibed Trifles [SHIT] with that feeling when I pick up dog poop with a plastic bag or paper towel: Even though my hand never comes into contact with the frightening substance and I am otherwise fine, there is still that revolting feeling that sends shivers through my body. Oh man. I hate it when I have to do that. Some people are so natural at it! I envy them. They're all "It's natural! No big deal. I just pick it up, as if... (they look softly into the distance) as if I was simply plucking an enchanting flower from an azure meadow. Bend. Pick. Done." And I'm all "EWW!! IT'S WARM!"

Where was I? Ah yes...

Oh enchanted world that hath beset these troubled times upon mine depraved being. Why dost thou forsaketh me! For what have I done to deserve this... this... culinary quandary! I think, therefore I am. Henceforth: I touch, therefore, I am employed.

Example: Today I had to "clean the sinks" at closing. Oh god. Such a harmless title, and such a sinister understatement. They were completely covered in SHIT. SHIT everywhere.

And now I present to you, the climatic song at the end of the First Act of SHIT the Musical entitled, "Moving On (I Don't Care)" In this song, Mateo, the good-natured but seriously confused Puerto Rican immigrant, gets over his irrational fear of SHIT:

On the chair
On the bowls
In my hair
In the stove
SHIT everywhere!
SHIT everywhere!
Watch me stare!
It's covered in SHIT and...
I (crash) DON'T (crash) CARE! (a sustained F)

Tomorrow should be fun,

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Give In...

My current obsession:

I was born in the wrong decade.

Hormone Free

I've done it. It's about time, and I've done it.
I got a job.

Where, pray tell? Well let me tell you!

a deli.

Bummer, right? I know, tell me about it.

Well, it's not your ordinary deli, per se (Could you imagine ever actually working at Se Port? I think I would strangle myself from a combination of stress, testosterone suffocation, and random encounters with people whose names I don't quite remember but necessitate a hey I know you.) I work at one of those organic all natural feel good hippie delis! If you lean back, I'm sure you can smell the patchouli...

As usual, I'm exaggerating ("Every story is the truth, and some of them actually happened"). This place is sort of low key, relaxed, "greet the usuals" kind of a place. I think I'll fit in. And really, I'll only be there for about a month or so before I head off for theatrical pastures in CT, so I know I can handle it.

So, I'll do this for a while, be a bum at home for a month or two, and after getting my yearly musical theatre quota (you know I'm doing two shows in CT right?), I'm back on the boat and off to Scotland for a few months. Peace out patchouli and hand me the haggis!

I only have one fear: when in Munich, I needed to buy lederhosen after I became a certified beer drinking Bavarian. Will I come back from Scotland in a he-skirt?

Hell yes.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Matt Hate Mott

I've got to get something off my chest that has been bothering me for the longest time:

Honestly, what the fuck is the deal with tomato juice on airplanes?

I'm telling you, every single time I travel on an airplane, some D-bag next to me has to order the goddamn tomato juice. Why?! I have no idea. Never before in the short 23 years of my earthly existence have I ever once seen a fellow human being order tomato juice anywhere except in a plane. At the local cafe? No. At the Italian place on the corner? Never. Over at the organic smoothie place? Not once. In the refrigerator at home? Fuck you.

Only on planes.

So what's the appeal? Who really wants to slug watered down marinara sauce mid-flight? Come on! I'm sure it's great for your breath and works wonders on your teeth. Oh, and how can I forget, it must be marvelous to imbibe amidst turbulence! I mean, I'm having trouble enough slurping down those little "pull back the tin lid" water thimbles and you're going for the friggin' tomato juice! Granted, I like to occasionally get a faux-glass of red wine on the plane... but that relaxes me. There's a physical/emotional side effect! It gets you drunk, biotch! Tomato juice? Full of vitamin C and filth.

Maybe it's more subtle than I imagine. Maybe other people have already realized this disturbing state of affairs, and know that the only time they can get their beloved tomato juice is on plane rides. Maybe they see other people order the tomato juice and think to themselves "high stain potential, nauseating stench, and ghastly gross glass residue (similar to how milk leaves its little calcium slug trail after you drink it from a transparent receptacle, tomato juice leaves its Trail of Tears behind as well; except it looks like... don't make me write this. Use your colorful imagination and a biology textbook). SIGN ME UP!"

Oh god, I'm getting a visual: the crimson morass interspersed with flecks of unnameable "herbs" and "natural flavors" snaking its venomous path to the awaiting ignoramus's lips, but alas, his/her appetite for the vile fluid is insatiable (!) as he/she dips the container at too severe an angle, causing the murderous magma to overflow onto the dolt's upper lip, giving them a most dreaded and revolting juice-stache (a la The Joker). The horror! THE HORROR! DAMN YOU MOTT'S!

Perhaps I am making too much of a fuss about this. Maybe there are legions of TJ lovers out there, who, hidden from public view and discourse, hoard gallons of the stuff in their garage ice-boxes, and sneak out when the kids are asleep to partake in their ritual all-night bingers. The thought horrifies me.

I hope I can sleep tonight,

ps. I haven't had a rant post in a while. It feels good.

Highway to Hell

Yesterday I had an encounter that many people dream of. I know I have. Yet, when push came to shove, I blanked.

I had just finished a meal with my dad and sister at the local restaurant we like to frequent. For some reason, I was not feeling too great. It was a combination of the jitters and a slight nausea. I felt wrong in my skin. My theory is that it's from the coffee I drink. I never started until I arrived in Paris (ah, Paris. Te amo y Ich liebe dich). Once I got there, I didn't pick up smoking at all; just drinking espressos at every meal and whenever I wasn't doing anything else. Oddly, I developed this twitch in my right eye that I associated with stress at the time. It was probably the caffeine. Anyway, while at home, I continue to drink espressos or "bold" coffee. I've gotta stop that. Where was I going with this story? Oh yes!

After the meal, I went for a drive. I like to go through the Old Field area, with its winding roads and high school memories. Sifting through the fog of my daydreaming, I realized I was near the library. Wonderful! I had been there a few days ago and realized that I forgot to get the one book I had originally intended to obtain: Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" (I'm reading it now, and I'm not too impressed... sadly). As I was skimming through the poetry section, looking for something else (I forget what), I started eavesdropping on a young couple who were at the computer near me. They were about 18 years old or so, and looked kind of like your typical Long Island urbanized-but-living-in-the-suburbs kids. She had white eyeliner and stick straight, processed hair. He had a shaved head dotted with scars that refused to regrow their sandy blond hairs. She was trying to get him to find and read a book. A noble pursuit, and I liked her. While searching at the computer, he turned around to face me and exclaimed "Dude, what should I read?" It was a rhetorical question. He really wasn't looking for an answer. He only looked at me long enough to say the remark, not hear the response. But it struck me. Uh, I don't know! I consider myself a reasonably well read dude, but I couldn't come up with an answer. Yeah, I could be pretentious and throw around Hugo and Melville, but who wants that? This dude is not shouting "Romantic Literature". I gave it a minute... and decided to lie.

"Hey man, I've been thinking about it and I think I got it. Try Jack Kerouac, "On the Road."
I've never read Jack Kerouac.
"I think you'd like it. Its not pretentious or wordy. It's funny and mainly about his drug filled adventures across the US."
I think I heard that somewhere. It's not really funny and there are much less drugs than I imagined. I think I confused him with Hunter S. Thompson.
"You'd really like it."
He'd hate it.

He thanked me without looking me in the eyes and I drifted away. Perhaps I inspired him. Some day, after living a life in the lap of luxury as a famous travel writer and literature critic, he will look back on that day he had a chance encounter with a stranger in the local public library. Thank you, dear stranger, thank you! You've inspired me and given me direction! Kerouac was the beginning. You showed me Valhalla!

Walking down the steps, I wandered (feeling quite high and mighty) down to the fiction section of the library. Browsing the rack, I saw it. It was staring at me. The seas parted and it was there. And it was good.

One copy left.

Jack Kerouac. "On the Road".

I took it, checked it out, and left with it under my arm and I'm not sure why.
Still thinking about that one,

Monday, April 7, 2008

Mr. O'Toole

Here is the video I mentioned before of Peter O'Toole on Letterman. I promise, this is the last time I will mention the guy for the foreseeable future.

Do I Have an Uncle Lou?

Recently my dad and I attended a benefit concert in Brooklyn for a local theatre (spelled, pretentiously, "theatre" and never "theater". It's much more Dickensian-more Shakespearean-more Peter O'Tooleian. Need I say more?). The theme of the night was "Hal Willner's Stay Awake Live". To my feeble mind, the only images I can conjure up, based on the title, are of red-eyed musical theatre junkies swilling espressos in the vain attempt to remain conscious. How wrong I was.

Apparently "Stay Awake Live" was this huge album in the 80's or something where contemporary musicians and other celebrities re-recorded Walt Disney songs. This one woman I met (who reminded me of a drunken Joan Cusack) continually repeated how she used to cry and cry while listening to the album, especially the song from Bambi. Thinking back, I am not really sure I have even even seen Bambi, or Dumbo, or other one-word titled cultural masterworks. I have images in my head from it, like Bambi's mom getting shot, but over time I think that I have made it a much more gruesome scene in my imagination. There's Charlton Heston (RIP), stalking his prey down-wind, with a 30.06 in his calloused hands, a German Luger at his hip, and a Bowie knife between his teeth... just in case. Striped down to his American flag knickers, he puts snow in his mouth to hide his breath, stares down his iron sights, tracks the foraging beast before him, and between heart beats...

I'm pretty sure it was nothing like that. I digress.

So we show up to this Berlin-esque warehouse-turned theatre. Beautiful men and women with perfectly crafted messy hair serve glasses of wine to willing patrons and sporadic tables filled with every trendy snack imaginable (carrots, pita chips, hummus, assorted cheeses, etc.) litter the reception space. Pops and I partake in the red. Most go for the white. I think that's because the red might stain their teeth. I don't know, I feel like if you drink it a certain way, that doesn't normally happen. Or maybe they just like the look of a glass of wine but not the taste. No matter. The room fills, the lights begin to flicker, and the show starts. First person out on stage:

David Byrne.

Like, the David Byrne.

For those of you not up on your post-punk-"80's rock is unappreciated-Ian Curtis is God-Duran Duran Changed My Life, instead I Rock to Rachmaninov", losers... David Byrne was the lead singer/creative genius behind The Talking Heads. Or so they tell me.

With a shock of white hair and sporting a white tuxedo, the man himself comes out on stage and is full of charisma and charm. He breaks out into the Cinderella tune "A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes". It's wonderful. He's full of emotion, in that Byrnesian throaty voice. Very nice.

At this point, both Dad and I were feeling the full effects of the vine, making wise cracks at the performers and our fellow attendees. It was father-son bonding at its best.

Other highlights included Steve Buscemi coming out and sing-speaking "Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho" in a kind of Mike Myers from "So I Married An Ax Murderer" beat poetry style. That's ok, because, hey, Mr. Pink doesn't really shout out Musical Theatre to me. He can get away with it.

The night continues, we schmooze with the locals, eat salmon salad, fine cuts of steak, and wild rice, etc. Then, the man sitting next to me points out a living (read: barely living) legend who is in the crowd today.
Lou Reed.

Yes, Lou Reed. Velvet Underground. and uh... Lou Reed.

I thought the dude was going to croak right there. He is maybe 4 feet tall, wearing a bright orange hoodie (I guess he was trying to be inconspicuous), and shuffling about like an aging Igor (that's Frankenstein's assistant, not Stravinsky... although the visual of an aged Stravinsky is pretty close to what I'm trying to get at). The man is a legend. He changed modern music. He made "noise" cool. Andy Warhol produced one of his albums for christsake! But dude, he looks old and kind of imp-y. I wanted to say something to him, but chickened out. What could I say? "Hey Mr. Reed! No relation. Hahaha! Get it? My last name is Reed too! ha. Nevermind. Uh, I liked that time, forty years ago, when you were with the Velvet Underground. That was awesome. Umm, I'm not really sure what you've done since then, but I'm sure it was pretty important. Have a great night!" Nah, let the dude enjoy his meal. The last thing he needed was some smart ass 20-something claiming to know all about his influence on music and not really knowing a damn thing.

And that was the end of the night. Good times. I'm off to try and find a job and make a small contribution to society!

Friday, April 4, 2008

You've Heard of "Monster in Your Pocket"...

Now get ready for "Puke Pocket."
This is a little story about what happened to me a month or two ago when I went to London. It's a sad story, filled with massive amounts of heartbreaking torment and a small amount of puke. I guess that needs an explanation:

It started out like any other day in Paris. I woke up with a hangover (My good buddy Pieter had insisted that I go out the night before. "No Pete, I have a train to catch at like 8 in the morning, I can't go out." Then, he pulls this one out on me: "Dude. What would Peter O'Toole do?" [Note: I worship Peter O'Toole. Yeah, he's a great actor. Who isn't? No, what I love about the man is his blatant disregard for his own personal safety and the judgments of others. He once told a story on Letterman about how he goes out drinking one night in Dublin with a friend of his. They are piss drunk and decide at 4 am {"not too late"} that they are going to go out "for one last one." They go to this hole-in-the-wall bar and proceed to get even more inebriated. The barman walks up, says "Boys, you've had enough. You'll be having no more." Peter O'Toole looks at him, looks at his friend, and says "Oh no, we'll be having quite a few more." The barman won't serve them....... so they buy the bar. How. Fucking. Bad-ass. I digress....]. That bastard. He knows that I quite curiously admire PO'T. The deal was sealed. So yeah, I go out with Pieter and proceed to get wasted, only to wake up three hours later for a train ride to London. Great idea Matt. Make sure to tell your kids about that one.)

This was sort of your ordinary "subtle pain in the right temple" hangover. Nothing too serious. I get up and realize, much to my chagrin, that I forgot to pack the night before. Oh yeah! I was drinking heavily. In normal circumstances, this would be no big deal. My wardrobe is not too extensive, so it's rather easy to find something that I would like to wear. However, I am going to London. London is trendy. And to top it off, I'm going to London to see a girl who I met on my tour in Paris and hit it off with (hey Andie) and hey, she's pretty damn good looking. I've got to look presentable... or at least somewhat non-vomit inducing.

I throw some clothes into my man-bag, throw on my beloved jacket, check my passport, wallet, glasses, and such, and head out the door. I'm in a bit of a rush. I run down the road, slide into the metro (line 2) and make it to Gare de Nord just in time. Flying past the other commuters, I arrive at my platform and at customs. Cool. Shouldn't be a big problem. If they realize that my visa is one month expired, I can charm the lady behind the glass. Scratch that. The big hulking dude behind the glass. Strike one.

I get up to the counter. "Passport and customs card please." Fuck. I forgot to fill out one of those completely ridiculous "where will you be staying while in London? Why are you going to London?" forms. Strike two. Running to the back of the line, I find the stack of cards (sprawled out, quite lazily and without form, on a small, poorly labeled table). There are no pens on the table. You've got to be kidding me. Alas! No problem. I always carry a pen (and paper) on me at all times in my very special pocket in my jacket. The pen is a sick steel Parker fountain pen (very chic... and over-priced... and pretentious), and the paper is a small notepad that I track my life on. It has all my business notes, all my funny stories I wish to remember, and little musings that I have on the metro. I cherish these two articles, and they are constantly at my side, awaiting my use (I like to imagine that I am a world famous journalist, with a quick wit and a scathing pen, ready to record history at a moment's notice on my small green spiral pad. I softly chuckle to myself when I withdraw my pen and pad, and think "Anderson Cooper ain't got shit on me. Well, except for the fame. He's got that. I'll give it to him. And the good looks. Yeah, he's got that too. Damn, he's a good looking man. That white hair works well. And he's got a TV show... i have a blog. Fuck Coop.")

I reach into my pocket, like I have done so many times before, coyly smile and wait for somebody important-looking to see me pull out my nifty pen and be all impressed:
A shudder courses through my veins.
It feels weird in there.
Like... kind of moist.
My pocket should not be moist.
I look down.
The outside of my pocket is perfectly normal.
The inside, however, is lined with a small amount of some undetermined chunky fluid.
And now it's on my hand.

It looks like a small amount of puke has somehow nestled itself inside my pocket, making itself welcome in the once vacant chasm. Not on it, or around it, mind you. In it. And not loads of puke. Somebody didn't mistake my pocket for a waste receptical and ralph in it. No. It appears somebody put a heaping tablespoon of puke in my pocket. Did I mention: it's on my hand now.

Dilemma: I need my pen. It's inside the pocket. The pocket has puke in it. With ninja-like skill, I retrieve the pen, wipe off excess puke on the table (it was instinctual and a bad idea) and proceed to fill out the customs card. I am gagging thinking about the current situation. I couldn't be more uncomfortable. Is anybody watching this? Did they see my puke-reaction?

"Hey there, could I borrow your pen?"

I look up. There is a rather effeminate dude standing there, blank card in hand. He's talking to me. He needs a pen. Panic. Do I: a)explain the situation and the unknown origin of the puke. b)Welcome to Hell, please sign here.

I've always liked my signature.

I give him the pen, try not to make eye-contact, barely answer his queries, and quickly shuffle away. He definetly noticed the puke.

After thoroughly washing the inside of my jacket and the outside of my beloved pen, I had to part with the notepad. The paper was too absorbant. Honestly, it was a difficult parting. I felt like the old bitch on the Titanic. (No, she's not a bitch. It just sounded cool). Good bye, sweet spiral notepad. You shall be missed.

Here's one to you,

ps. The origin of the puke remains a mystery. I don't think it was my puke; yet the possibility of it being another's puke is difficult to imagine as well. Maybe it's best to never know.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Back in Black.... well, really "the red"

And I'm back, ready to blog and humiliate myself to the masses. Bring it on.

I am currently back home on Long Island (A curious note: We LIers refer to living "on" Long Island rather than "in" Long Island. I can't think of another similar example. People live in NYC, they live in Boston, they live in their mother's basement, they live in a cave. Hmm... some live on the beach, others on Martha's Vineyard, or on Cape Cod. Interesting: I think that "in" denotes a large space or seemingly large space, and "on" is something perceived as smaller... maybe. Anyway). Things have been largely sterile and unworthy of note, namely due to my current lack of income. Ergo, I need a fucking job.

Yet, even in the midst of an employment crisis, I am being too picky in my choice of future jobs. Today, I was going to apply to a local restaurant where many of us used to go back in high school... until I realized that many of us used to go there back in high school. That's just what I need: the label of "the Guy Who Never Left Home." I've left home! I swear! True, I'm not too monetarily successful. Yeah, I'm kind of in debt. But I'm a traveler! I'm a writer! Live Free, Think Hard! Feel free to make sexual advances at me!

Maybe not.
Here's how I imagine a conversation that would take place way too often:

Hot Chick from High School who doesn't look quite so hot anymore but is still looking good (hereafter referred to as "FHC" [former hot chick]: Hey Matt! Great to see you!
Me: Oh hey ____! (too much enthusiasm, revealing my true apathy).
FHC: What are you doing here? Have you worked here long?
Me: Oh me? No, I just started here. I'm just home for a short time before I do a show in July.
FHC: WOW! You're an actor? Like Shakespeare or Ed Norton?
Me: More like Liza Minelli.
FHC: Cool. Is it in New York?
Me: Uh, no. (nervous chuckle) Rhode Island.
FHC: (her eyebrows falling back to their normal position) Oh... that's... still cool. Yeah. Great experience.
Me: Yeah, right. What are you up to these days?
FHC: Yeah, I work for a PR firm in the city and I was just back to see my little brother's lacrosse game.
Me: Oh cool! (again, betraying my complete lack of interest and struggle for a follow up. Honestly, what could I possibly ask about marketing or PR? "Is your desk cool?").
FHC: I guess I'm going to have a low carb burger with blah blah....
Me: (shoot me.)

Nah, waiting tables isn't for me. Plus, I hate touching half eaten food. Fuck, if I got a sesame seed or lentil stuck underneath my fingernails... let's not even go there.

My dad had a great idea: what about becoming a substitute teacher! On paper, great idea. Reality = loser. Just think back to those poor bastards that would sit uncomfortably while "their" class worked on dittos (a word that has not once graced my ears since 12th grade. "Yeah Bob, go ahead and copy those spreadsheets for the meeting, and if you could copy some dittos, we need to focus on homonyms this week. Thanks a bunch.") I mean, I would be abused and want to jab out my eyes when I went to turn on the DVD and couldn't figure it out. Just stamp "FAILURE" across my forehead (and above my special parts, to save future generations). Plus with today's kids, listening to rock and roll, and wearing outfits that would make Courtney Love blush... I couldn't handle it.

Well, I shall continue my vain search. Until tomorrow!