I Came to Bring the Phunking Pain

I just got a letter from a former camper. I’ll be honest, I absolutely remembered him and could even place his face with his name, a rarity for me, but I couldn’t remember where I knew him. Brandeis? Camp? Some jewy kid from my past, there are plenty of opportunities. That speaks more to the condition my condition was in than anything. I checked his friends list (it was on Facebook, don’t tell), and figured out exactly how I knew him. I was his counselor. Me and a guy who is still one of my best friends. His letter blew my mind. He was reminiscing about these events that were obviously so important to him, and only on the periphery of my memory, if present at all. It reminded me of how I was back then. I’ve changed a lot since then, but happily, I’ve changed back.

This is a theme in my life. There are two running themes in my life. The first is changing, then changing back again. At various points, I’ve realized that I’m completely different, and I need to change, but I usually end up just changing back. Does that make sense? It’s a good thing, I’m always better the second time around. This was definitely the case in being a teacher, I didn’t like what I had become, so I changed everything, and now I couldn’t be happier with my situation. But it isn’t a new situation. It’s an old situation, an old career path that I’m finally doing right.

The second theme in my life is thinking to myself, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful that I’ve had the opportunity to throw myself into unusual situations, for me, at least, and think that it wasn’t such a good idea. God, those are my most memorable moments, with my hand on the doorknob, about to open the door, and thinking to myself, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Usually, it wasn’t a good idea, but the risks were never great. On the big decisions, marriage, house, career, ethical choices, I deliberate ad nauseum and end up satisfied with my decision. But the little things, I throw myself at like a snowball barreling towards a cliff, and see what happens.

I’m going to see some of my former students graduate. One problem with changing back is that you lose touch with people quickly. I lost touch with many of my former Brooklyn students, and I’m happy the internet helps me find them again, but it reminds me of how many people I’ve let slip away over the years. Camp counselors, especially. I thought about getting in touch with some old camp folks, but there are people who are fundamentally critical in my psyche, though with whom I only spent two months, 17 years ago. What do I say to someone like that? How do I begin?

My editor left the site. It’s not a bad sign for the site, actually we’re doing very well. It’s a good sign for him, he’s going on to a better job, and a book deal to write a "How to" book. It does present a pickle for me, though. See, we only had three people here in the U.S., and he was on top. Now, he left, and I got promoted. It’s great news, I’ve taken editorial control of the site, and it comes with a nice little bump, as it were. Still, it means I’m in charge, which is fine, but also that there’s only two of us here. I liked my editor fine, he was a nice guy, and very knowledgeable. Not so, my assistant. She’s not very bright, knows nothing about the industry, and isn’t learning from her mistakes. I might have to fire her. I’m one of two people here, and I might have to can the other one. Ridiculous. I’ll be hiring a partner soon, someone on my level, to cover different topics. Hopefully, she’ll hate my assistant as much as I do, and she’ll fire her. Maybe that will be a question I ask when I interview: "Are you willing to fire my assistant?"

Nadine and I just bought a house. I know, join the club. We bought a townhouse in Morris Township, which is a nicer part of Morristown, NJ. I’ll be raising Jersey kids. We’re closing at the end of April, but we’re locked in now, so if anyone backs out, we sue (or get sued). It’s a great house, and the owners are leaving behind a lot of stuff: top of the line appliances (incl. brand new washer & dryer), window treatments, suede sectional couch. Sounds great, but it’s all cursed. The owners are divorced, very recently, and can’t stand living together (obviously), so they’re getting out. We got the couch because they couldn’t decide who gets it, and they didn’t want the hassle of moving it. Hopefully, the kids won’t suffer the same fate, but I wouldn’t mind if they left their dog, it’s very cute.

I still don’t miss teaching, but I miss seeing 100 people every day. Now there’s just me and the assistant, and I think I mentioned my feelings about her. At least with 100 people, you have a pick of people you like and people you’d hit with your car if they crossed the street in front of you. Instead, I have but one.

I think I’ll make plans to visit my old students some time soon.

There was a band named The The. They weren’t bad, I think they even had a hit single.

During my long stretch of unemployment (Quit, Fired, Layed Off) in 2000, I applied to a business magazine near Wall Street. They were very high in the air, like fiftieth floor of a tall building, with a great view and huge windows. I didn’t like the job, but I liked the location, which is a real factor in my job hunt. It was for a Copy Editor position. I had a great interview, they actually seemed to like me. I wore my best, darkest grey suit.

In my thank you letter I said: "I want to thank you for the the opportunity to speak with you about the position." Did you catch the error?, because I sure didn’t. I got a letter back that day saying they couldn’t hire me because I clearly hadn’t proofread  my e-mail. They were right, I felt really stupid.

I just got an e-mail from a former student asking for a letter of recommendation. I was her English teacher. I can’t claim to have even attempted to make my students perfect writers, but this letter was rife with errors. It brought back a whole flood of terrible memories, grading papers and growing more and more depressed about the state of education.

The girl was not the worst writer I had, she wasn’t even that bad, probably in the top third of her class. In class, she was very quiet, occasionally bitchy and combative, like all teenagers, but not without justification. Kind of an underrated student, in fact. Not the sort of person I’d spontaneously say great things about, but she never offended me in the slightest. There were students I taught about whom I would spontaneously say great things, just not this one.

I guess I’m obligated to write the recommendation, even though I don’t want to. Not out of laziness, it just depresses me to attach my name as her English teacher, when even by her senior year, she can’t write a flawless letter. She can’t write a flawless sentence. She’s not applying to Harvard, she’s applying to some small local schools. Am I holding her to a higher standard than I would expect of myself? I’m sure there are typos even in this blog, and maybe even some outright errors.

What would you do? How hard would you sell her?

The strangest part about my job is finding my hands somewhere they’re not supposed to be. Like <a href="http://www.slashphone.com/83/5757.html"> here</a>. Those are my hands. The wedding ring is covered by the phone.

I’m working for the website <a href="http://www.infosyncworld.com">infoSync World</a>. We review cell phones, and sometimes report on news in the phone industry. It’s a great job, I’m really loving it. I did take the job at the high school, and I worked there for a day. One day. On that day, infoSync, which at the time was only one guy in this country, called to offer me a job. I hadn’t started teaching yet. If it was a few weeks later, I would have stayed at the school out of guilt, but it was a professional development week before classes started, so I didn’t feel as bad. I’ve certainly seen teachers back out right before the school year began, and I was mainly an elective teacher, so there was no guilt. The school was really cool about it, too.

Some days I feel remorse, that I’m not a useful member of society helping to fight against the crisis in urban education. Other days I feel wonderful that I was so selfish that I had to do something that really makes me happy, and I go and get a fantastic falafel, of which there are many here near Astor Place and St. Marks, in lower Manhattan. I recommend <a href="http://getchickpea.com">ChickPea</a>. Avoid the Schawafel, it’s not as great as it sounds.

I’m not a cell phone geek or guru, at least not yet. I really like writing. I never thought I would get paid for writing, which is probably the first sign of a job you truly enjoy, that you didn’t think people would pay you to do it. The second sign? That you don’t realize it’s a friday until 3 in the afternoon, and then you start thinking about what work you’d like to do over the weekend, which I do every week.

The third sign is free drinks. There are a surprising number of events offering free booze to journalists. There are conventions everywhere - I’m going to be in Vegas in January. Tonight there is a preview show for the Vegas convention, and there will be free drinks.

So, we’re a small website, and we do our own photos in house, at our shared office space in NoHo, near the window. I hold the phone in my hand and take pictures. Sometimes, random sites will link to our posts, and sometimes they’ll take our pictures and run them. I’ll be reading another site, and there are my hands, which is kind of surreal. I like being a hand model, but it doesn’t pay well. I’m thinking about getting implants.

Teaching is a great profession. First of all, you get your summers off. And holidays. And a week in December, April, and February, if you teach in the Northeast, which I do. In addition to all that, you get 10 vacation days, maybe even sick days. I probably took more days in an average year than a good student.

Teaching can be very fun. There’s a lot of creativity, a lot of flexibility. Though they won’t admit it, and though some of them may frown on my saying so, there were a few times when I came in to work and just flubbed it. I made it up as I went along. Not the content, but the plan. I came in with only a vague idea, and sculpted a day out of it. Sometimes, those were my best days. Kids can be fun, especially teenagers, because they have a real, developed sense of humor. Sometimes they say things that are really funny, on purpose, and you laugh with them. There are teachers who think you’re not supposed to laugh to avoid encouraging them, but my philosophy is that laughing is like gas, it can be unhealthy to hold it in. I guess that’s why I like laughing gas so much.

Teaching feels like you’re doing something good, and important. Even at its worst, even when five people have told you to fuck off at five different times in a day, you can still look back fondly at each of those kids and feel for them, and excuse them, and sometimes love them for who they are, who they are trying to be. If it sounds sappy and melodramatic, that’s okay too, because it’s High School, and High School accepts all the sap, corn, and melodrama you can throw at it. There are no eccentricities, there is only High School. High School is Zuul.

Teaching is secure. It doesn’t rely on advertising dollars, or subscriptions. In all but the worst districts, if you do a good job, you’ve got a good job, for an entire year. Short of falling asleep in class, it’s tough to get canned, and even if you do, there are people whose job it is to stick up for you. There’s still a pension in teaching, too, if you ever decide to leave. There’s upward mobility, sideways mobility, or you can just keep your head down and do your time.

I can’t believe I’m writing this, but I am going to be a teacher next year. Actually, I’m going to be a teacher tomorrow. I had the interview at West Essex High School, and they loved me, and I loved them. They offered me the job the same day, and today I accepted it. I’m going to be teaching 3 sections of journalism, which is really what sold me. I’m also teaching a section of Sophomore English and a section of Theater Arts. I’m not running the school play, but I am advising the newspaper.

I took Stephen Colbert’s advice and went with my gut. After I interviewed at the school, and just felt myself being part of a school again, it was intoxicating. I mean, I must have been under the influence, because I tossed away what, until yesterday, was a dream job playing with gadgets and working on a web site. I got home last night and all I could think was: I can’t turn this job down. It’s too good to turn down. If I designed an ideal teaching job, I wouldn’t have been creative enough to come up with this one. I have to give it one more go, see where it takes me.

I’ll let you know.

I probably won’t be a teacher next month. I’m not a teacher right now, I’m just getting paid by a school, but that ends this month. I moved, so I’m looking for a new job. I broke my leg during prime teacher-looking-for-a-job season, which really hurt my confidence more than my chances, so I waited until the summer and now . . . nothing. Teaching jobs are hard to come by here in deep, white suburbia.

But I don’t think I want to be a teacher next month. Later, maybe. I’ve had eight interviews in the last three weeks, and none of them have been for teaching gigs. Well, one tomorrow, but hopefully I’ll cancel. I was kind of offered a job this morning. I was told by the owner of the web site that it would be great to have me on board, they just need to fill out some paperwork and find me a chair (literally). Does that count as an offer? We didn’t talk money, so I say it doesn’t. If I get an offer with a number attached tomorrow, before my school interview, I’ll take it, and cancel with the school, and then I won’t be a teacher.

At every interview, I’ve been asked why I’m not going to be a teacher. It’s a really tough question to answer, because it was a heart-wrenching decision, and I don’t use heart metaphorically lightly. I do feel a physical reaction in my torso when I realize I won’t be teaching. I tell people it’s because I was an editor and writer before I was a teacher, and I just want to get back into my original racket. That’s because it would sound terrible at an interview if I told the truth. Teaching is a horrible job.

I met a guy at a party who is a pharmaceutical engineer. He designed a tank into which hamster enzymes are thrown, and, somehow, out comes propecia, the hair medecine. I asked if he liked his job. He said it had great hours, great pay, smart colleagues, interesting work. The only problem, he said, was that it was completely unfulfilling.

“How’s your job?” he asked me.

“My job is only fulfilling.”

There is nothing else good about it. The pay is lousy, the hours are endless, the colleagues are smart, but under so much pressure, and sometimes so young and inexperienced that they don’t understand professionalism yet. The work is challenging, but it stops just shy of what I would call interesting. It is a horrible job. It is a miserable job. I have never met a person thinking about becoming a teacher whom I didn’t try to talk out of the profession.

But it’s a profession that needs me. It needs anyone, i’m not being egotistical. That’s why it breaks my heart to leave it. It’s like leaving a stray at the pound. I say to myself, someone else will come along and take care of that mangy thing, but I know I could do a good job at nurturing it, and someone else could take another mangy teaching job home with them.

So, I guess the moral is: Don’t be a teacher. And if you want to be a teacher, whatever you do, don’t ask me for career advice.

I’m walking again, at long last. It was 16 weeks, 3 days between steps. Last thursday, my doctor removed the largest screw holding my fibula in place by connecting it to my tibia. That was the last obstacle to walking. In the hospital, i took my first step, which was toward the bathroom.

In fact, easily the biggest inconvenience has been the bathroom. I can exhibit remarkable control in a pinch, but I often wake up having to use the loo, so this whole roll-a-bout thing was quite a hassle. Of course, now I’m either crutching or caning to the john, but it’s a trade-off between difficulty moving forward, or difficulty turning. And beside, as a man, there is something primal in planting both feet in front of a toilet.

I have a new cane, but I’m not quite ready for it. I was going to go pimp, but the pimp-style canes don’t have the cushioning and support I wanted. I got one of those cool aluminum telescoping trekking poles from REI. It has a shock-absorber and a camera mount on top.

It hurts like hell to walk. It feels like I’ve been working a 12-hour day on my feet, or rather foot. Pure agony. I love it. As a lazy-ass couch-potato, I’m proud to say that I missed walking even more than I myself would have expected. The way I think of it, every bit of pain I feel today is pain I don’t have to feel tomorrow. Today, though, my foot is soft and dainty, almost japanese in its pleasantness. It’s almost nice enough that Nadine would touch it, but not quite.

I was awake for the surgery. It wasn’t that bad, they gave me valium to chill me out. I remember it all, but it wasn’t unpleasant. I’ve had dental surgery that was far worse. Actually, that’s not true. My father is my dentist, and he’s fantastic. He hooks me up with the nitrous, so every visit is like going to a good outdoor concert. And, he’s fast as hell, so even the worst grinding and drilling is over quickly. I joked with him that my leg surgery was only a little longer than his average root canal, about 15 minutes.

Today, I’m in school on Percosets for the second time ever, the first being last friday. I’m not a fan of pills, I don’t find Percosets all that interesting, but I do feel a little more mellow than usual. In any case, if any of you reading find out that I bludgeoned a poor schmuck for talking too much in class, please don’t mention to any prosecutors that I was on drugs at the time.

New Plasma TV arrives tonight. For such a techno-geek, you would think I would have bought a nice TV before now, but the woman thankfully keeps our budget on a short leash. Nothing huge, it still has to fit inside our wood cabinet, but after spending 12 years watching the same crappy old 20″-er, I can’t wait. If any of you need Hi-Def buying advice, I did a hell of a lot of research, and I’m a Consumer Reports subscriber now, too, so I can help you out.

Bonnaroo this weekend, I’ve never been, and I’m not going this year. Aaron and Dave left for camp. What the hell happened to my summers?

I hate radiologists. I think, of all the Medical fields, radiology requires the highest level of sociopathy to enjoy. There’s something slightly off about every Surgeon I’ve met, especially the lucky few who have cut me open, but they were never offensive. Radiologists, on the other hand, had always pissed me off.
Just after I had stomach surgery, I needed an upper-GI. The radiologist had to position me just right under the machine (x-ray?) so that, as I swallowed a barium milkshake, it would be recorded. He pushed and pulled me every which way. He stuffed me into a gown that wasn’t half large enough, then contorted me until it was barely on my shoulders, let alone covering the rest of me. Then, he poured so much barium down my throat I puked on him, and his little gown. Score one for the patient.
I just had more x-rays.
What don’t these people understand about "non-weight bearing"? Again, contortions, discomfort. Thankfully, my clothes stayed on, but not the darth vader boot, so my poor little foot, and it is quite little now, was exposed to the harsh elements. And she wasn’t gentle. I asked her to photograph my x-ray for me, and she claimed she couldn’t work my camera. Then she hid behind a door and took my x-ray with a multi-millioin-dollar-looking machine mounted to the ceiling and floor. With one button to press, I imagine my camera would be easier to use, but perhaps her machine has a half-button. Or maybe it works when you yell at it.
They never give you answers, either. It’s not like they don’t know what bones look like, or should look like. I’m not asking if the tumor has shrunk, I’m asking if two parts of my leg that are normally touching each other are touching in the detailed picture she just took.
And it wasn’t even a good picture.
The plate is blocking a key part of the bone, so I need a CT scan tonight. Then, i need yet another Doctor’s appointment so the Doctor can read the CT scan. In other words, I won’t be walking until at least Monday. But, I can finally stand.
My doctor said I can put half my weight on my leg. How do you know how much half your weight is? Easy, you get out the scale, and you put your bad leg on it. Then, push down until the scale registers half your weight.
Your homework: Anyone have any good brownie recipes? We’re having a mock-competition in my English department. So far we’ve had frosted and lavendar-s’more brownies. They were both good but, come on, I’m Phil, certainly I can come up with a kick-ass brownie recipe that tops purple marshmallows. I’m thinking molé brownies, or some deconstruction. If only I knew a professionally trained chef…
So, what’s the best brownie you’ve ever had?

I am passive aggressive, I accept that about myself. When you get mad at me, I’m more likely to be snide, or play dumb, just to make you more angry. When I get mad at you, I’m more likely to act sugary sweet, either to piss you off or to trap you into a false sense of security before I pounce.

I have a lot of friends who have been angry at me, at one time or another. My favorite is the time my best friend, Dave and I got into a cursing argument at Columbia Mall, in front of Boardwalk Fries (Mamma Iliardo’s?). Anyway, it was definitely the food court. We were on a day off from camp. At camp, you try to make a day off feel like a week off, so you fit in all of these things you want to do. Then, you’re with four or five other people, so you try to do the things they want to do as well. It doesn’t work, and people get frustrated.

Dave got frustrated. He had a right to be frustrated, I was only concerned with spending time with my girlfriend, Dave just wanted to do laundry, or something mundane. So, in the middle of the mall, Dave starts yelling about how I just wanted to hook up, and I didn’t care about anyone else. He didn’t use the words “hook up,” though, he used words like “fuck” and “screw” and embarrassed the hell out of the girl behind the counter, who got her manager to ask us to leave. We were just as embarrassed.

I probably have similar anecdotes for a dozen people on my friends list. That number should be higher, but one of my friends disappeared recently. I think I was removed as a friend. That concept staggers me. Someone hated me enough to go through the effort of removing me. I am no longer receiving regular updates about this person’s blog. I can still see her profile, her pictures. I can still read her blog, I just don’t get the updates. Some of you are probably removing me as friends right now, just so you don’t have to get my updates.

But I would never remove any of you. Charlene, my ex-girlfriend, who lives half a country away and who I may never see again, I wouldn’t remove. Amye, who I knew so briefly while I worked at an in-between job in between jobs, I am honored that she accepted me as a friend. Yong, I lived with for a year in a suite of 7 guys, and when I ran into him on the street in New York, I couldn’t remember his name. Even worse, I got him mixed up with a guy who lived downstairs from me, David Hwang, so I almost called Yong Hwang. We were outside a sushi restaurant. I thought Yong was meeting people he knew, and I asked if he knew people there. I think he interpreted what I said to mean “do you know the people who run this place,” as if all Japanese people know each other. Yong is Korean, by the way. I was worried I must have looked like such a racist bastard. Then, I got his phone number, but I forgot to hit ’store’ on my phone, so I ended up losing it. I was sure he thought I just blew him off, but then he accepted me as his friend here on friendster. I always liked Yong, he has a great sense of humor and told some of the funniest stories I ever heard. There was one about his Vice Principal at a urinal . . .

My long absence from school was difficult for my colleagues. Some of them were more burdened than others. Some of them took it better than others. A couple of my colleagues didn’t even welcome me back to school. A couple of them are still angry, but I’m unwilling to apologize for my absence. I’m unwilling to apologize for the somewhat random way my principal seemed to doll out responsibility in my absence, based more on availability than willingness or ability. Shit happens, people need to get over it. I have a compound fracture held together by titanium and no chance of walking in time to interview for a new job next year. I have bigger things to worry about than petty arguments, or the petty people who make them. To stop talking to me is asinine. To remove me as a friend without mentioning anything to me is just plain passive aggressive. I can accept that.

Before I got there, I thought the strangest thing about going back would be the students. Students sometimes have strange ways of showing that they like you, that they missed you. They’re awkward (as are their teachers), and so sometimes, like boys do to girls they like, they hit. I was expecting more ribbing, more hassling, but it was generally very pleasant. Pleasant, hell, it was almost ecstatic. There were hugs, even from students I didn’t feel liked me, or hug-liked me.

The strangest thing about being back is being short. I’m in a wheelchair. Honestly, I don’t have to be, and I know this is horrible, but I feel like my recovery and coming back should be a gradual process. First, I’ll sit. Then, I’ll roll-a-bout. Then, once I can put my foot down, I’ll be standing, but probably not for long periods, and maybe with a cane. A pimp cane. But for now, I’m short. I didn’t notice unitl I was rolling with my principal toward the elevator. She is about 5′8″ or so, I don’t know, I can never judge a woman’s height, but she’s shorter than me. Today, I realized I was looking up at her.

It hurts classroom management to all-of-a-sudden be shorter than your students. As I even told one class, usually I can stand up, and my hulking presence in front of the room will calm things down a bit. I’m not a mean look guy. I used to be, at sleep-away camp. I could shut a kid up across a dining hall with a sharp glare. Somewhere along the line, I lost it. I tried it on a kid once who told me that it was gone. He said: “you don’t have the anger behind it anymore.” I guess that was a compliment. And besides, I don’t know if I want to be throwing that kind of anger around, real or perceived.

I miss being hulking. Now I’m all dufus-y.

Movies. I finally saw the Godfather. The original, which I had never seen in its entirety. I think that hearing all the references and quotations, especially on Stern, actually enhanced the movie for me. The subtle nuances that everyone loves were highlighted because I was so familiar with Artie doing his impressions almost every day. Also, Brazil, which is a Terry Gilliam film. If someone can explain it to me, please do, though it was fun to watch. Twin Peaks is moving along, slowly.

Your homework is to give someone who doesn’t know you like them a hug.