Luck of the Irish

Orifice has been found!

My menopausal, 107,000 mile silver chromed Honda Civic, the car which recently cost $3,000 dollars worth of repairs has been found!

At this point I should probably thank God or something, but if God was responsible for me getting my car back, God also had to be responsible for sending a thief to steal my car. No, I'm chalking this up to dumb, Irish luck, the kind that gets you into trouble but also gets you out.

True, I'm not Irish, but there is no such thing as Jewish luck.

Turns out the thieves drove the car three blocks away and parked it at a more secluded parking complex to rip out the radio and rustle through my belongings. The police arrive at my doorstep to inform me of the good news; when the landlord of the other apartment building called the police to inform that my car was parked illegally and needed to be towed, they ran the plates and noted that it had been stolen.

"We tried calling you but you didn't answer your phone," the officer says in a monotone voice. (I was cleaning up a spill of fruit juice in the kitchen.) "You're lucky we stopped by your apartment, otherwise we would have impounded the car."

"Well, I'm glad you did!" I exclaim brightly.

The police offer to give me a ride in their squad car. The back seat of the squad car has no cushions, just hardened black, uncomfortable plastic with a bullet proof shield between me and the police sitting in front. Probably a lot easier to wipe up blood and vomit when you don't have upholstery to worry about.

We get Orifice and she appears to be in good shape, all except for the triangular shaped rear window on the passenger side, broken into a thousand tiny pieces; held in place by a thick, viscous black tape.

"What's the tape for?"

"It muffles the sound of the breaking of the window. It also prevents glass from scattering everywhere," the officer replies.

I open up the car door to find all of my change (approximately $4.50) my radio and my cell phone charger gone. A pirate hat lies in the passenger seat, along with a copy of Kavalier and Clay I've borrowed from Phil. I rifle through some papers scattered on the floor and find a Barnes and Noble's gift card I had forgotten in the glove compartment for $20.

Thieves never steal books; trust me on this. If you ever want to thief "proof" your house, just put all your valuables in books. Better yet, line books around the walls, they'll form an educational barrier of spiritual energy that no thief will dare to cross. A gift card from Target or Wal-Mart would have been snatched in a second, but a card from Barnes and Noble in ghetto world is foreign currency - worthless.

The police check my ID. "Sir, did you let anyone borrow your keys?"

"No."

"Well, we found a key in the ignition." The officer hands me my valet key, the one I had forgotten I had left in the car. "Were these in your glove compartment?"

I don't answer. Maybe? I feel stupid as a strange feeling creeps over me, unable to look the police in the eye. What is this strange sense of humiliation, I wonder? Oh that's right, I remember this sensations now, embarrassment! Not an emotion I'm accustomed to.

"Sir, you shouldn't leave your keys in the car," the officer drones on. "When you do that, you make it easy for people to steal your car." His partner smirks, but the subtext is clear.

Why are you being such a dumb ass?

They inform me I can drive the car home, but I should wait an hour before going on the road just to make sure the license plates have been taken out of the police system, otherwise I might get pulled over because another cop might think I've stolen the car.

I thank them and drive the car home. I call work to tell them the good news. Let slip about the keys - they crack up.

Hardy, har, har. Laugh it up, Parrish.

I call a mobile window repair shop. They come out a few hours later and replace the broken window in about a half hour. I marvel at the economic efficiency of it; in the span of a day I've had my car stolen, re-discovered through a computerized system, and repaired by a mechanic from a shop which specializes in fixing broken windows by driving out to peoples homes.

Car theft in LA isn't just a crime.

It's an economy.

Cursed

My car has been stolen.

The silver colored Honda Civic, the chrome coated "Orifice" on wheels, my 107,000 mile menopausal vehicle that has just cost me $3000 in repairs, is gone. Vanished into the ether, disappeared into the urban void, in a single night transformed from my single most valuable possession into a few tiny particles of broken glass left behind from a broken window. Mr. Leiken presents his magnificent, magical, mysterious teleporting car; WATCH him effortlessly make it vanish.....

....now only if he knew where it had been "vanished" too.

I've mentioned how much I dislike cars, my sneering tolerance held in check by the apprehension of having to live without one. Like a doomed victim in a horror movie, I live under a geas, an automobile curse that torments me from the moment I purchase a vehicle through a series of endless repairs, costly upkeep, fender bender accidents and petty tickets; a bottomless pit of angst that ends in an orgasmic crescendo of horror the moment I discover my car is GONE.

When you have a car stolen it takes a moment for the facts of the situation to fit in; like a computer warming up it takes several seconds for the brain to register the empirical data presented before it, for the facts to become reality. Here's the sequence:

1. SURPRISE - Where is my car? I know I parked it here.

2. DENIAL - Someone must have moved it. I know it can't be STOLEN.

3. ANGER - Some Mutherf---r just took my car!

4. RAGE - I'm going to kill that Mutherf----r who took my car!

5. WHINING - This is so unfair!!!

6. BITTERNESS - I hate the world and all the lucky fools who still have their cars.

7. ACCEPTANCE - Time to write a blog about it.

I've gotten semi-accustomed to having my car being broken into and stolen over the years, possess an immune system toughened through a series of vehicular fiascos that enables me to process the emotional aspects expediently. I file a police report, call my insurance, walk out onto the street just to make sure the thief didn't take the car on a joy ride and leave it parked nearby.

Nope.

Not much I can do now, just have to suck this up and move on. The police officer informs me that a Honda Civic was stolen yesterday not more than a mile from where I live, that Honda's are the most widely stolen car in America.

Thanks for that, Chief.

He's right though, as great as they are, Honda's are a magnet for thieves, I can't afford to drive one because inevitably one day you won't have one to drive. What do I drive next? Do I buy a clunker and drive it until dies, or do I go to a dealership that's offering a low interest rate and no money down? Should I just forgo thinking about owning a car and lease? Perhaps I can work out a deal with a student and buy a car from one of their parents, almost every kid at my school has at least a parent or uncle who is a mechanic.

Except they all drive Hondas.

Perhaps I should just hoof it and try to take the bus...

No, not really an option. Not in LA. Not unless you want to completely give up your lifestyle and freedom.

Just because the horror movie ends, doesn't mean that you can't have a sequel - have to keep the franchise going. If my cars were horror movies they would have been titled:

PANDORA'S BOX

It looked like a good car, it was boon - a gift from father to son. Little did they know what lurked beneath the engine.

THE CAR THAT WAS TOWED

It was supposed to be a casual tow for a parking violation - but it ended in a total loss.

CABALLERO'S END

It was the car that was driven a thousand miles through Mexico and back without the protection of Mexican auto insurance. But the car Christened in Mexico was no match for the daily horror's of LA.

ORIFICE'S WHEELS

Lavished with money in upkeep and repairs, it was the car that was supposed to last, until one day it just simply disappeared.

And currently in development...

CAR FIVE (working title)

The story of a man who had suffered through a lifetime of bad relationships with his vehicles as he seeks a new vehicle.

My car was stolen.

I'm going to kill that MUTHERF----R!!!

Orifice on Wheels

Car overheating,
Title just received in mail,
Four wheeled whore....

Cars are like relationships, there is never a good time for them to break down. In the United States, trying to live without a personal vehicle consigns you to public transportation, to living among the poor, to becoming a second class citizen. Sure you don't have to have one, but by not owning a car you'll be sacrificing both mobility and that most important of all American commodities, time.

Unlike most people, I don't like cars. I don't derive pleasure from driving them, I don't care what they look like, they don't validate my existence. The axiom: I own a Porsche, therefore I exist stands outside my spiritual frame of reference. In my world view a car must have two qualities, otherwise it is worthless.

1. It must get me from point A to point B.
2. It must be dependable and be low maintenance.

(Curiously, these are the same criteria I have for girlfriends.)

So when it comes to owning a car, my money has always been on a Honda, the Timex of the vehicular world. I have ten levels of experience of driving beaters; a lifetime of popped clutches, non-working breaks, dying alternators, dead batteries, overheated radiators, electrical shorts, failing transmissions, and blown fuses.

I have had one car stolen, five different radios ripped from three different dash boards, and a third car driven all the way from the East coast only to have it crumpled like an accordion while parked on the street in a hit and run my second week in LA. (Whereupon it was pushed into a red zone and towed without my knowledge for being parked illegally.)

Every altercation I ever had with the police or the authorities has been a direct or indirect result of owning a car. I've been harassed at least a half dozen times by police looking for DUI's. I have received tickets for speeding, a ticket for failing to yield at a stop sign, a ticket for running a red light, a ticket for a failed tail light, and a ticket for a missing front license plate. I have received more parking tickets then I have fingers and toes; tickets for expired meters, tickets for being parked the "wrong" way on the street, tickets for being parked during street cleaning, tickets for not reading the street signs properly.

No, I do not like cars. I have probably spent at least two years of my life long salary buying, repairing and maintaining vehicles, all for the privilege of owning a car.

In 2008 I bought a used Honda Civic with 65,000 miles for ten grand. My old Honda was on its last legs, and it was time to move on. For the past three years, the Civic has been good to me, or as good as any car can be to any owner. I had the breaks redone, a battery replaced, your standard oil checks, but the car appeared to be fine.

Until Thanksgiving. While driving up Escondido canyon to my sister's, the car began to overheat. I eventually had it towed to an auto shop near my house. The mechanic told me the radiator was shot and the thermostat fused to the engine, but for a mere $500, he could fix it.

For the next two months the car appeared to be fine.

Until last week. I was driving back from Riverside when I noticed the engine overheating. Worried, I got off at the next exit only to have the car die as I pulled into the gas station. Once again I took it back to the same mechanic, figuring since he already had experience with the car he would know what was wrong with it.

Instead he figured he should replace everything, including the plastic valve covers which had melted on the top of the engine. This time there is a new timing belt, a new water pump, and a new camshaft pulley and camshaft sensor, both of which had been causing the engine to vibrate. For $1400, I would have the privilege of being able to drive again.

For three days. But then the car overheated. Again.

This time the car overheated when I turned the heat on. Yup, you read that right. Overheated with the heater on. I turned the heater off and the car appeared to cool down. But while sitting still in traffic the engine began to overheat, again.

I've either just been ripped off by a mechanic, or at 107,000 miles my car has just officially hit menopause.

This time I'm at work when I call the tow truck. Ms. Seabourne, a fellow teacher at school, recommends a mechanic in Long Beach who is supposed to be fantastic. She even offers me the use of her car, a Toyota Corolla, while mine is in the shop. She has a second car she can use as a spare.

Most tow truck drivers in Los Angeles are Latino, so I'm a little surprised when the guy who arrives to pick up my car is African American. His name is Victor Jones, and he's a former NFL running back who played for eight years before shattering his knees. I ask him why he's driving a truck.

"Groupies, man. Groupies."

"You should come and speak to my students."

"I used to do that, man. Used to. But the most important thing you can tell your students, STAY IN SCHOOL."

When we arrive at the auto shop the second mechanic strides forward to shake my hand. I explain what has happened and that this time I want him to look over everything and whether or not the car is salvageable. He nods, telling me what he'll check, explaining that he wants to perform three different tests.

He starts by placing a blue tube of liquid over the radiator. "If this turns green," he explains, "that means there is a problem with your coolant."

We turn the car on and the liquid appears to remain blue, but then it begins to shift, turning bluish jade, before transforming into a rich shade of aquamarine . The mechanic whistles. "That took longer than it should, normally it turns green right away."

"Well, what does that mean?"

The mechanic begins to explain the inner workings of the engine. I'm lost within twenty seconds. I ask for a more simple explanation.

"It means that there is one of four things wrong with your engine. Three I can fix easily, but if it is a bad valve then I will have to replace a cap and that is expensive. I'm going to run some other tests, I need to make sure. I want to run the tests early in the morning when the car is really cold."

I thank him. He asks if I want anything from the refrigerator, a diet coke, water. "Do you need a ride anywhere? I'll have one of my men drive you."

I thank him but the teacher who is letting me borrow her car is picking me up. (Give it up for Seabourne!)

The next day the mechanic calls. It's a bad valve. It's going to cost me about $1600. I begin to silently swear, as I am now faced with the ultimate modern dilemma.

When an older car begins to break down, does one spend the money to fix it, or does one cut their losses and get a new car?

And I just made the last payment in December.

Son of a Bitch.

I'm about ready to say screw it, but then what? If I walk way I've thrown away not only a car but all the work I've already had done on the car. At least if I get it working again I can resell the vehicle and get something back for it, or keep it and hope that the car is fine for years to come.

The mechanic tries to reassure me. He tells me if I don't have the money, I can pay him in installments with no interest. He further claims that he'll stand by his work for 20,000 miles or two years, and that if anything goes wrong with the engine he'll fix it for free.

I double down.

I tell him to go ahead and fix it. I should get it back Monday.

I can live without a mate, I can live without a house, I can even live without a TV. But no matter how much I hate them and fear them, I can't live without the god damn car.

A car isn't freedom, its purified angst. Angst on wheels.

Snooki and the book signing

Snooki isn't a name. It's slang, a colloquialism of informal speech best used for stuffed animals and cute pets, a name befitting puggles and hamsters.

(My first pet was a hamster with a name ironically similar to "Snooki", I named him Snoochi - until he died of wet tail. There was a Snoochi II, III, and IV - they died of wet tail too. Don't ever name your hamster Snoochi unless you want them to die of wet tail.)

Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi, better known as Snooki, is a reality TV star from the hit show Jersey Shore, an MTV show about eight Italian roommates from New York pretending to be from New Jersey having to share a house together. There's Jenni "JWowww" Farley, Paul "Pauly D"DelVecchio, and of course Michael "The Situation" Sorrentino; Jersey Shore is a mash-up of MTV's the Real World blended with HBO's the Soprano's.

Four foot nine with poufed hair, fake tan, big boobs and enough mascara to rival a raccoon, Snooki is one of the more popular characters from the show. Snooki isn't pretty, most men wouldn't give her a second glance, but what Snooki doesn't have in looks she makes up for in humor. Girls adore Snooki because of all the cast members on Jersey Shore, she's the one most of them would like to hang out with.

She even has a book, A Shore Thing. Written by Snooki's ghost writer Valerie Frankel, A Shore Thing is a novel about a girl named "Gia" who resembles Snooki and has lots of hot sex with a beefy Italian firefighter named Frank. Valerie Frankel may have written the book, but Snooki gave her lots of ideas, and Snooki's face is on the cover and on the back, so it's almost like Snooki wrote the entire thing all by herself.

So why am I writing about Snooki, you ask? Good question. I'm writing about Snooki because I went to her book signing at the Grove.

When I saw the sign at Barnes and Noble promoting the book signing I immediately texted Parrish, who is a huge fan of Jersey Shore. I didn't think Parrish would want to go, but she texted me back almost instantly. "Let's Go!!"

What the hell, at least I'll get a blog out of it.

When you attend a book signing, most stores will demand you purchase a copy of the book from the store for the author to sign. Because Snooki is a high profile reality TV celebrity, Barnes and Noble is handing out alphabetized wrist bands along with brand new copies of the book for $26.95. Grumbling, I pay it. They won't let me stand in line with Parrish if I don't have my own book. We are given a flyer with a number of guidelines and rules:

. Posed photography WILL NOT be allowed. Photographs may be taken from the signing line only.

. Other memorabilia WILL NOT be allowed.

. Personalization WILL NOT be available.

It's only four o'clock, we've got some time to kill. We hit the Cafe Moza and people watch.

Two and a half hours later after eating a feast of fine french cheeses and bread and beer, we trek back into the store. People are already lining up, but I cut through to the front and find that because we purchased our wrist bands early, we can move past the majority of the people waiting. I estimate there is probably about three hundred people here, most of them young women with their mothers and a handful of hapless boyfriends.

A trio of teenage girls behind us begin giggling and screaming uncontrollably as soon as Snooki appears. "Snooki!" one of them screams. Snooki waves, escorted by an entourage of security guards, managers, agents, photographers and book store staff. She's short, tiny, would be forgettable except she is surrounded by the aura of celebrity, and that makes her the most envied person in the room.

"Oh my God!" one of the girls behind us gushes. "She is so short!"

"Quiet!" another girl admonishes her friend. "She'll hear you!"

"Are you girls from LA?" I ask.

"No, we're from Newport." (That's the OC.)

"Have you met anyone famous?"

"Well, we met the cast of Jack Ass!" the prettiest one titters. "But I'd really like to meet Justin Bieber."

"If I met Justin Bieber I'd pee my pants," another girl cuts in. "Why are you here?"

"I'm writing a story for my blog."

Her eyes go round. "You have a blog! Are you someone famous?"

Parrish gives me the eye, trying to hide her smirk. I sigh, oh the lies I could spin, the lies I could spin. "No, I'm not famous. Only in my own head."

Snooki comes back out and girls at random begin screaming, WE LOVE YOU SNOOKI! A member of the staff opens up a copy of the book, instructing us to have the novel open to the front page for Snooki to sign. I pull out my iPhone, attempting to figure out how to zoom in the camera. Should have checked that out earlier, because the line is moving forward like a water slide at the park, people being processed in groups as Snooki signs her name over and over again in book after book in a bright pink pen.

There must have be at least fifty people in front of us, but the store crew has them filed past Snooki in under ten minutes. Books primed, we hand them to a store clerk who passes the books to Snooki. I try to get in close to take a picture on my phone, but security stops me.

"Sir, you'll need to turn off that phone. No camera's past the line."

I shut it off. Risking my phone to get a close up of Snooki just ain't worth it.

As I walk up for a brief moment Snooki and I glance at one another. I permit myself a polite smile, and give her a small nod. To her credit, Snooki doesn't pretend that I'm some super fan who has been just dying to get a chance to meet her. Beneath the make up, the tan, and the poufed up hair, she looks tired, weary, a five minute celebrity running a marathon because the moment she quits, it's over.

She signs the book, and I move on.

As we exit a member of the staff cuts off and collects our wristbands, preventing us from selling or giving them away to other people.

"Wow, I can't believe we met Snooki!" Parrish exclaims. "I can't wait to read this ghost written book! What are you going to do with yours?"

"Not sure yet," I reply. Tax write off maybe?

The inanity of fame; how could someone like Snooki, a girl with no talent, accomplishments, or beauty, become an instant celebrity? Snooki is a celebrity precisely because she has no talent, accomplishments, or beauty - she's the young woman many identify with because they all think they could be the next Snooki.

You don't need skill, or intelligence, or looks to be famous; just timing and luck. Who wants to be the next lottery winner, step right up and get a chance to meet Snooki, buy her book! Maybe some of her fame will rub off on you!

Snooki. Like everything else in this country, she's instant and effortless, even her name is disposable. Cultural fast food to be consumed and forgotten. But hey, at the end of the day she's $26.95 ahead, because I still ended up buying her book...

Definitely a tax write off.

Top 10 Movies: 2010

Like so many other years, film goers found themselves under a deluge of crappy films throughout the beginning of 2010. It was an eclectic year for film, but beside the mediocre sequels and brainless comedies, there were a few gems scattered throughout the year.

I haven't seen everything, so there may be films that deserve to be on the list that I've missed - but overall I felt 2010 had a lot to offer. (And a lot that should never have been offered.)

Top 10 films of 2010:

1. Social Network - Aaron Sorkin and David Fincher make a potent combination; the dialogue crackles with raw energy, and there is nothing more topical at the moment than Time's person of the year Mark Zuckerburg and the advent of Facebook.

2. A Prophet - Technically released in 2009, this modern day (and more realistic) Scarface story about a no name's rise to prison kingpin is compelling, brutal, and so freaking cool! Yeah, it may be from France, but don't hold that against this gem of a film.

3. True Grit - D. H. Lawrence once wrote that the essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic and a killer, and no one seems to understand that better than the Coen Brothers. True Grit isn't just a film, it's an homage to the Western and the legends of the Silver Screen.

4. The Town - Ben Affleck's second directorial debut about a Boston gang of bank robbers is taut, cunning, and full of brutal action. But the scene where Jeremy Remner goes down in a hail of gun fire surrounded by police is praise worthy of James Cagney in White Heat.

5. Toy Story 3 - Lovingly crafted, Pixar has made a film that is by turns sweet, funny, and full of danger. It's a shame that many adults dismiss animation, because no one should feel they need to have a kid in tow to watch this delightful and brilliant film.

6. The Fighter - Down on his luck fighter finds girlfriend who helps him learn to believe in himself and gives him the heart of a champion. Yeah, we've seen this before, but the performances by both Amy Adams and Christian Bale are terrific, the fight scenes are tense, and Melissa Leo and the six sisters are unforgettable.

7. Inception - Christopher Nolan's movie about stealing ideas from people's dreams is a time piece of intricate writing, pace, and action that makes his former film Memento look like a wind up watch. Never pandering to the audience, Inception is cinematic surrealism of revolving stairs, there is no one correct way to interpret this film.

8. The Ghost Writer - Yeah, it's directed by Roman Polanski, but this old school Hitchcockian thriller is an ominous web of film noir that spirals Ewan McGregor into further and further peril. Pure suspense at its best, this film is a treat for anyone who has an attention span longer than sixty seconds.

9. The King's Speech - Think the Madness of King George III meets the Miracle Worker, this showcase for Colin Firth as a stammering prince terrified at the thought of having to give a speech is a masterpiece of acting. Geoffery Rush ain't too shabby either.

10. Easy A - A tribute to eighties comedies, Emma Stone hits one out of the park in a break out role that could easily land her on the "A" list. Witty and delightful, its always a blessing when there is a film about teenagers that doesn't view adults as perennially clueless and stupid.

Films that were pretty good, but didn't make the list: Iron Man 2, The Other Guys, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Megamind, Date Night, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, SALT, Kick-Ass, The Expendables...

Films that shouldn't have been made...

(I can't include Sex and The City 2 because I didn't see it, but I bet if I did it would be on this list.)

5. Knight and Day - Here's an idea, let's throw Cameron Diaz and Tom Cruise into some mish mash spy adventure and hope it all works out. Well, it didn't.

4. Robin Hood - Hey, let's tell the story of Robin Hood but cast Russell Crowe, one of the most serious and stoic of all actors as one of the most jolly and flippant of all heroes. There aren't any merry men to be found in this monstrosity that is only colossal in it's dullness.

3. Alice in Wonderland - I like Tim Burton, I do. I like Johnny Depp, I like Helena Bonham Carter - but this bizarre, goth faerie tale is Alice in name only. Someone needs to reign Tim Burton in, first Willy Wonka, and now this. Burton's remakes are defacing classic art.

2. Jonah Hex - I knew it wouldn't be good, but I had no idea it would be so bad either. How does a film like this happen? I blame the terrorists.

1. The Last Airbender - I loved the cartoon series, which is why watching this boring, ponderous, piece of crap was all the more painful because the crap was flying into my eyes because it was 3-D . M. Night Shymalongadingdong - the jig is up. Quit!

Merry Christmas, Mr. Leiken

The last week before Christmas vacation is a strange time at a public high school. In the LA school system, we get a three week break before heading back for the long three month slog towards Easter. With nearly everyone looking forward to the holidays, the school takes on a festive atmosphere, akin to the last week of school without the disruption - the kids know they have to come back.

During the final week before the break, the worst students disappear, the school puts up its decorations, and everyone: teachers, administrators, and students are more relaxed. By unwritten agreement a truce is declared; chill man, it's Christmas - relax.

I'm just miffed I can't find my funky Dr. Suess Santa hat, the only hat I've ever owned that glorifies the spirit of Christmas while simultaneously promoting the fashion of the ghetto.

Bah, Humbug!

One of the best teachers at the school gives me a gift card to Starbucks. I'm so surprised I'm at a loss of words. She's had a rough year, but that hasn't stopped her from being a great teacher. This year she is particularly frustrated with her honors class of Seniors, "They think they know it all," she complains, "and when they don't do their work, I turn into a real bitch."

We're still talking about them when her seniors file into the room; it's Friday, the last class of the day and everyone just wants to go home and leave. One of the students has a guitar, but when I ask him to play something he freezes up, embarrassed.

The teacher calls him out on it. "Why won't you play for Mr. Leiken? You had no problem playing for me yesterday."

The students eyes go wide, "Because that's Mr. Leiken."

I don't remember him. "I had you for another class?"

"U.S. History with Mr. Duran; don't you remember?"

Concentrating, I vaguely remember him. "Well, I hope you learned something."

The bell rings as the students take their seats. "Hell yeah!" he replies, putting the guitar away. Suddenly the seniors rise out of their seats and walk out of the room.

The teacher is stunned. "What is going on!" she calls out. "Where are you going?"

"Sorry Miss," one of the seniors answers, standing guard in the doorway. "You can't come outside." He pauses for a second, "But you can come out, Mr. Leiken."

I walk outside to find the seniors in the hallway formed into a group for a photo. Two in front are holding a fruit basket while another holds flowers. "Okay, you can come out now Miss!" The students standing guard at the door allow her into the hallway, her class breaks into applause.

The teacher's eyes grow red. "They may not know it all," I whisper, "but they do know you are a great teacher."

As the day ends, I'm in my room, preparing to leave when two young men call out to me. "Mr. Leiken, we've been looking for you!" For a second, I don't recognize them, they look too old to be in high school when I realize they are too old to be in high school - they are seniors who graduated last year. Neither was in special ed, or on my case load. They were regular general ed kids who were in a history class with Ms. Martinez.

I had them for one semester for one class, and even then I was the secondary teacher, but they remember me. We shake hands, "We've been looking for you all day, Mr. Leiken. How have you been?"

I invite them into my room and we talk. One of them is attending Northridge College; the other plans to attend college in the spring but is busy making his own film. We talk about classes, work, life after high school, and of course girls. One of boys has a line he likes to use when he meets new girls.

"I ask them if their hair is real, or if it's a weave."

I raise an eyebrow. "Well that's either going to flatter them or leave them really offended."

"It's the only way, Mr. Leiken. You can't let girls get too full of themselves."

"I never did hear back from your cousin," the other breaks in. "The one who works in casting."

"I forwarded your profile, but you have to remember she sees hundreds and hundreds of actor photos. I'm sorry she didn't get back to you."

"That's okay, Mister. You told me never to give up, so I'm not."

We talk for over an hour. I ask them who else they wanted to see. "Mr. Adams, because he encouraged us to get into college, and of course you Mr. Leiken."

This surprises me. I never tutored them, I never helped them with college applications, never met their parents - from my point of view they were just two more faces in the crowd.

Yet here they are, wanting to tell me how much I helped them.

I look at the clock. It's time to go home. I shake their hands and bid them goodbye, chuckling to myself as I head towards my car.

Thanks for the gift, kids. Thank you.

Merry Christmas.

Write it, and you will offend...

Can you write a blog without being offensive?

The answer to that is a qualified yes, provided you are willing to stick to the following topics: product reviews, cooking, art, feel good memoirs, travel and shopping. In order to be inoffensive, a potential blog must be devoid of colorful language, personality, opinion, and humor.

It's the difference between Cormac McCarthy and J.K Rowling; No Country for Old Men might be a great book, but it will never capture the imagination quite like Harry Potter battling Voldemort. The more thought provoking and evocative an idea, the greater the chance of stirring controversy and angering the reader. Religion, politics, crime, ethnicity, education, celebrities, medicine, war, sports; all guaranteed to piss somebody off.

Especially if you are trying to be funny.

My profession is full of controversy; I had no idea that teacher's invited so much hullaballo until after I became one. Even though most people have never taught in a public school, everyone has an opinion on what's wrong with education, and the #1 target: teachers.

When America loses a war, we don't blame the soldiers for being cowardly.

When crime goes up in a neighborhood, we don't blame the police for eating too many donuts.

But when public schools fail, the first people we go looking to blame are teachers - usually for being lazy.

So for all our detractors, haters, and critics, I'd like to hear from you on how you would fix the following situation.

Let's take the following kid: we'll call her Maria.

Age: Going on 17

Years in School: 3

Days absent: 112

High School Credits: 20

Credits needed to graduate: 240

Learning Disabled: Yes (Reading disabled)

Maria's been pulled out to make up an inter-coordinated science test. Inter-coordinated science is the class students get after they've failed biology at least twice. Heavy set and wearing thick mascara, Maria wears a black hoodie and black jeans, ghetto wear 101.

The instant I enter the room to collect some paperwork, Maria's looks up, distracted, ignoring her teacher as she puts down her test, waving.

Two years ago I spent two hours trying to get her to write two paragraphs. When she refused to cooperate, I refused to give up, when she deflected my attempts to help her, I deflected her excuses - all of her whining, complaining, and attempts to wheedle her way out of work fell on deaf ears.

Two hours later, I'd failed.

The next day we tried again, but Maria refused to give in. She refused to bring paper, she refused to bring a pen, she refused to study, to bring her books, she refused even to copy what I wrote down on the board. It was a siege, who would break first, the teacher, or the student?

In the end, Maria won. I had other concerns, other students that needed my time and help. Students who wouldn't fight me every step of the way - students who wanted to pass and graduate.

Two years later, and she is on a different teacher's case load. She waves to me like she is greeting an old friend. "Hey, Mr. Leiken!" Maria calls out cheerily. "How are you doing?"

I grunt. "What test are you taking?"

"I don't know, some intercourse test."

"That's inter-coordinated, Maria," the other teacher corrects.

"I know what intercourse is," Maria replies, waving her arms. "Yah-ah!"

I glance around my room, except for another kid quietly taking a test in the corner, its empty. I pull up a chair, sitting down across from her. It's time for the "talk".

"Maria," I ask, "what are you going to do after high school?"

"What you mean, do?" Maria answers, rolling her eyes. "Get a job, duh!"

"Doing what?"

"I don't know Mister, a job. I'll work for my family or something."

"Well, what do they do?"

"I don't know."

"So let me get this straight, you are going to get a job working for your family but you have no idea what it is you'll be doing."

Maria sneers, "I know what's up Mister. You don't need to worry about me."

"So what are you going to do about money?"

"You can just get money from EBT. (Electronic Benefits Transfer - or Welfare) That's what my Mom does. If you have kids they give you food stamps."

"So you are planning to have kids just to get food stamps?"

"No!" Maria scoffs. "I'll just lie or something." She glances at both me and the other teacher. "Don't the two of you get food stamps?"

"No, Maria," the other teacher answers, "we work for a living. We've never been on welfare."

"Well that's stupid," Maria scoffs. "You should both go down there and tell them you need food, they'll give you some."

I refuse to let her change the subject. "Maria, what are you going to do for a living?"

Maria picks up her test. "I need to take this test, Mister Leiken."

"After you answer my question. How old are you?"

Maria thrusts the test down. "I'm 17 in January. But in my head, I'm already 17."

"So what happens when you turn 18? If you've got it all figured out, why waste your time in school?"

"I have to stay in school or I get in trouble with my Mom! If I'm not in school she doesn't get food stamps."

"But what happens after you are 18? They won't be giving her food stamps anymore because you'll be an adult. Is your Mom going to let you hang out around the house? Won't she expect you to go get a job?"

"Psshhh, I'll just live in the garage." Maria snatches up her test. "I really need to take this test Mr. Leiken."

"Why? You are just going to fail it."

"You can't say that!" Maria snaps angrily. "You don't know that."

"Have you been in class? Have you studied? Have you done any of the homework?" I look at the test, its empty of answers. "The entire time you've been down here you haven't even answered one question, and now you want to take the test because I'm putting you on the spot. What are you going to do after you turn 18?"

Silence. Maria and I stare at one another, a class of wills, but this time I win the siege and she breaks away. "I'll just go to adult school. Then I'll get a job at McDonald's."

"Maria, I believe you don't do the work not because you are lazy, but because you don't believe you can do it, so you give up before you even try."

"I think you're right, Mister."

"You can retake classes, but you can't make up time. Even if you passed every class from now on you wouldn't be able to graduate until you are 20." I rise from my seat. "If you don't want to learn, fine. But if you don't want to be here, you need to think about what you are going to do, and you need to figure it out soon."

I leave the room. I have ten more just like her on my case load, it's not the learning disability that impairs her ability to succeed, it's the attitude. There are at a minimum five hundred kids at my school just like her - who treat school like a social playground, a place to "kickback" and get away from home.

At least five hundred kids who refuse to bring their books, to come on time, to bring a pen or a pencil, to turn in homework. Five hundred? It could be a thousand. A thousand kids who don't try and fail, but fail to even try. Is it any wonder the graduation rate is only 50%, that my district ranks lowest academically across all of California but is first in teenage pregnancies?

Yep, it's clearly all because we're lazy, shiftless, money grubbing, union protected teachers.

And Charter schools are the answer!