Little kids haven't learned a) what information is appropriate to convey or b) how to convey it. Yesterday I found out that I look like an actor, and not just any actor, but the actor who plays Prince Charming in Ella Enchanted (see footnote 1). This happens to be Hugh Dancy, in fact (see footnote 2). While I was getting my bearings, trying to figure out how to handle such flattery from a 10-year-old, I learned that Hugh Dancy is, in fact, kind of ugly. So now, while I am reeling from wondering whether I should be cut to the quick, the situation evolves rapidly (and bizarrely), keeping me off balance. It is revealed that it is in fact my shirt (which is a completely nondescript white broadcloth Oxford) looks just like the shirt worn by Hugh Dancy in the scene right after he fights an ogre (see footnote 3). Actually, if it had big bloodstains and a bunch of cuts in it, it would look just like the shirt worn by Hugh Dancy, who is ugly, in the movie Ella Enchanted, right after he has a sword fight with an ogre.

Man, I'm glad I spent six minutes of my life finding that out.

On an unrelated note, the Black Lips were awesome, and Fluxy is happy about getting to shove people around.

The motto of Chapel Hill should be meretriculae et lavatri vaginarum.

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1. I had never heard of it, either.
2. I looked it up.
3. Or something? Details of the movie contained herein are of suspect origin (a babbling 5th grader) and will probably remain unverified by me.

Where I teach, we pretest everyone in every subject at the beginning of the year. Ostensibly this is to decide where to place them, and to allow us to individualize their schedules and curricula, etc. It can be very useful, but often times it's bunk; you know the kids don't know anything about what you're going to teach them (or at least nothing solid or organized enough to put a dent in your curriculum), so you're just wasting a couple of days going through the motions.

The pretest for my 5th/6th grade Life Science class, for lack of a better idea, begins with a picture of a cell with the labels for the major parts whited out. Admittedly, it's kind of a manky photocopy of a photocopy, but anybody in a "basic biology" kind of mindset would (I hope) recognize it immediately. But, you know, little kids are all kinds of unpredictable and weird (*see footnote). One little girl sitting in the front row leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "Mr. Dan, I know what this is!" then got up, walked over to my chair, cupped her hands to my ear, and announced, "It's where babies come from!"

Yeah, I'm glad I'm not teaching "Health."

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*I think that's why I kind of liked The Pacifier, even though it was retarded.

Okay, so I got the tubes back, finally. I can access the internet from inside my actual own home, which is pretty cool. I don't have to be at work or a coffee shop or entering my credit card number while I enjoy the olfactorily kaleidoscopic canine social patina on the fence at the end of my street.

Thank you for your support during the time of trouble about which I was intentionally vague. I'm better now.

The kids are back. The monolithicality, the sheer phenomenon-ness of their return, combined with the degree to which I am at-see knee deep in pre-teens seriously impairs my ability to communicate much more than just the facts: They are back. Little kids are so quirky and idiosyncratic and weird. Seriously, was I like that?

I don't have internet at my new place yet. My (possibly) former ISP seems to be fucking me over. I am sitting at the end of my street at midnight, my back against the gate to an apartment complex that offers complimentary wireless to residents who have signed up for an account, or to anyone in range who happens to want to pay $3 a day. I am paying the three bucks because I drove around tonight looking for a place that offered free wireless and couldn't find one that was open, and then called all my local "friends" to ask of I could use their connections, but nobody picked up the phone. Tomorrow the school year begins; it is the first day of the Teacher Work Week before classes start.

I drove more drunkenly tonight that I ever have before, I think. My life is balanced on the edge of a knife.

I found a place to live!

The location and rent are both slightly less awesome, but the level floors, closet space, dishwasher, ergonomic kitchen layout, and bathroom right next to the bedroom will probably more than make up for it. That last feature's mention may seem kind of odd, but just try getting up in the middle of the night to pee when you live in a place where the bedroom and bathroom are the two farthest apart rooms in the house.

Getting to go on vacation: also cool.

Thanks for the support, guys. I'll have a housewarming party once I'm back from Seattle and all moved in.

Furthermore, Summer School is finally over. Thank Fucking God. Man, teaching Summer School is demoralizing and depressing. In addition to the fact that nobody wants to be in school because it's fucking summer, most of the kids are there for a reason: they flunked something the first time, and now you have to try to teach it to them again. If you ever feel like you're making too much of a difference in the world and just need to spin your wheels for a while, by all means, teach some Summer School.

Well, I just called the realty office to tell them that I was planning to stay another year, and they told me that they had meant to call me to say they had decided to sell the house at the end of July, after which I will have thirty days to vacate.

Not only do I really, really like living here, but I was planning to leave for two weeks of vacation on the 31st.

So, yeah, fuck.

To the person who asked me about the font in my profile picture and then went anonymous: I believe it's called "Air Millhouse Italic", and what's written in my picture is in all capitals. I hope it leads to the suffering of the intentionally stupid.

To apologize for not having updated lately would, in my opinion, display a bit of hubris, so I will just explain myself (poorly).

To discuss the good stuff would be tacky and boring; to discuss the bad stuff would be impolite. The misfortunes of others are always, for some shameful reason, fascinating.

Man, it's below freezing, and I'm sick.

I used to love sick days. Sitting around at home playing video games all day was always way more awesome than being feverish and headachey was sucky. The work piling up wasn't a big deal because I was immature and irresponsible and probably wasn't going to have done all of it, anyway. There was something comforting about the lightheaded/lightbodied feeling (see footnote 1), the being wrapped in blankets, the interminable eight-bit soundtrack of, say, Dragon Warrior or SMB2. The refrigerator always seemed to have juice in it.

Now that I've recently acquired a laptop for the first time in my life (see footnote 2), which facilitates being a lazy bum with unprecedented efficiency, sick days might be cool again, except for tendonitis, not getting paid but work still piling up (see footnote 3), the unsatisfying feeling of uselessness, the inefficacy of my usual source of solitary solace (see footnote 4), my noticably lower baseline state of bodily comfort due to my noticably more advanced age, and the fact that I'm generally too cheap to buy juice.

So come hang out at my pity party. I promise that it's a way less uncomfortable affair than the ones I was throwing a year ago. We'll count my blessings; it'll be fun. Then you can go out and buy me some juice.

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1. It was kind of like being on drugs, and then you added the cold medicine.
2. Thanks, babe!
3. And, you know, not work that I can blow off because I'm twelve.
4. Booze will just make me feel worse. I've Proved It With the Scientific Method.