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!

Funk

I'm in a funk.

We're not talking about a mild case of the Mondays, but a full out thunderstorm of gloom pierced through by bolts of apathetic rage, draping the sunnier parts of my personality in a light coat of annoyed frustration. This funk is bulletproof, unreceptive to the simple charms of Glee, impervious to sharing a cold one with friends; I don't even feel like celebrating Halloween, and typically I find nothing more enjoyable than having any excuse to dress up like a pirate and terrorize the school.

But this year, I don't even hand out candy. The blues has been ringing in my ears for the better part of two weeks, and I'm starting to wish the band would just shut the hell up.

It's hard to pinpoint when exactly the funk started, professionally I'm kicking more ass then I ever have, when I stop lecturing more often then not the class lets out a giant "awwww." But for all my success, I find myself dissatisfied with both my performance and my impact as a teacher.

Seniors I have worked with for years, bright kids who should be applying to Cal States, won't fill out college applications or take their SAT's. Four years of coaxing them, teaching them, encouraging them to believe in themselves, and they won't take the final steps towards higher matriculation. If they don't get in their college applications by Thanksgiving, they've missed the deadline for next year.

If the entire goal of high school is to prepare students for college, but they won't even bother to apply, what is the point of this entire exercise? I tell them to stop by my room, that I'll help them with their applications and proofread their essays during my planning period or after school.

No one ever comes.

Then there are the troublesome students, the kids who are killing time until they turn 18. As a point of pride, I believe I should be able to manage any troublesome student, no matter how belligerent, obnoxious, or disruptive - I think I can handle it. Wrong, Leiken, wrong. Some things are out of your control. I push a student too hard, and I find myself almost getting hit.

Master teacher, indeed...

But hey, at least I'm not in jail. Unlike my friend Carlee who has been ordered to do eight months for her second DUI.

She’s in a funk as well, one caused by being locked in a small cell and being unable to see sunlight. She writes they only let the inmates outside once every two weeks to play basketball in a court covered by a thick wire mesh, intentionally designed to prevent the prisoners from fully enjoying the outdoors, to glimpse only slivers of blue sky between steel cords of cold metal.

Carlee’s been a friend for years, I know her through her ex-husband whom I met in the teachers intern program. Before her DUI, Carlee worked as a teacher on an Indian reservation, dedicating her life to trying to improve the lives of those who are less fortunate. A graduate from UCLA, Carlee has no criminal record and no history of violence, she would blend into any college campus.

But the moment that Carlee was declared a felon was the moment she ceased to be a person.

All societies require sacrifices - we may not plunge daggers into a victim’s chest cavity to pull out a beating heart, but declaring someone a felon destroys the individual all the same. Hester could move to a new town and remove her scarlet letter, but with computers Carlee’s brand will follow her no matter what she does or where she goes. Her freedom to travel, her ability to get a job, to vote, even to volunteer to work with children – gone.

My father explained that the more savage district attorney's are to drunk drivers, the more popular they become. When it comes to drunk driving, no amount of punishment is excessive, the more drunks DA's lock up, the better their chances of getting reelected. Drunk driving isn't just a crime, in the eyes of American society, it's a sin.

And like all sinners, Carlee can’t be redeemed without first being purged. The DA isn’t out for justice, the DA is out for Carlee’s blood - with a 96% conviction rate, Carlee’s fate is sealed.

For breaking her boyfriend’s arm in a car crash, Carlee is charged with a felony. The boyfriend doesn't want to press charges, but to the DA, that’s immaterial. He hands Carlee the standard eight months, but will let her out in four with good behavior. Carlee is charged for the cost of cleaning up the crash, her DUI classes, and is given three years probation which she has pay for her out of her own pocket in addition to thousands of dollars in fines.

The Indian reservation, with its strict child protection policies, fires her. She's a felon - she'll probably never teach again. How she’ll find work without a driver’s license or start a career with a felony on her record is not the state’s problem. As far as society is concerned, she screwed up, and now she has to pay for it – forever.

Two weeks ago I made the trip out to Riverside to visit Carlee in the county jail. Dressed in prison blues, Carlee’s hair is a tangled mess, skin ghoulish and pale, eyes bloodshot and riddled with pain. I pick up the black receiver and we talk. Separated by two inches of bulletproof glass, I press my hand up against the pane. Carlee counters by raising her hand up as well, and for a moment, there is no conversation; nothing is said, nothing is spoken, for there are no words in English or any other language that can fully express our mutual sorrow.

By the time I leave I’m angrier and more disappointed then ever before – disappointed at the system for locking up good people, disappointed for not being able to do more to help my friend, disappointed at feeling powerless to prevent injustice.

But mostly, I’m just disappointed in myself. I can’t save my students, I can’t save Carlee, I can't stop the war in Afghanistan - I can’t seem to do much of anything.

But the worst part is that after visiting Carlee, I can’t even indulge in one of my favorite pastimes.

I can’t even feel sorry for myself...

...I'm in a funk.

Master Teacher

Year seven.

Among teachers, year seven is an unofficial "turning point" - your time and experience has transformed you from a neophyte into a battle hardened veteran. You've survived the first year trial by fire and weathered years of bureaucratic indifference; against the limitless hordes of wild, hormone driven teenage larvae you've proved yourself to be more durable, more resilient, more seasoned. Almost nothing surprises you, even the most obnoxious and difficult student leaves you unfazed.

Wannabe gangsters, hyperactive adolescents, outraged rebels, attention starved hecklers, the emo who wish they were vampires - come one, come all - their classroom antics mean nothing. A sharp glare, a stinging rebuke, the no nonsense frown - one by one they fall into line.

By year seven the art of teaching has been programmed into your neural hard drive, you operate not on conscious thought but instinct. You are a psychic savant, intuitively predicting outcomes and neutralizing trouble with an enchanted sixth sense. Like a magician fooling an audience, you are seven steps ahead, you know where to push and when to pull back - you are the foreman, the manager, the drill sergeant, the boss - except you don't have the authority to "fire" anyone. Nor can you write a "ticket" or make an arrest, you have no badge and you have no gun.

All you've got is a mouth and attitude.

On the second floor of the B building I spot two semi-circles of students standing idly in the hallway. Like a sea captain who can spot a typhoon on the horizon, I tack into the midst of the crowd, stopping between a pair of boys glaring at one another.

"Boys," I state calmly, eyes squinting, "I need you two to move along. You can't fight here."

There is a long pause, the onlookers holding their breath in anticipation. A second later one of the boys shuffles down the hallway, glowering fiercely at his rival. The crowd begins to dissipate, the typhoon has been averted.

"Awww...Leiken, you ruin all the fun."

"Aye," I reply, "That be true."

In U.S. history I give a brief lecture about individual rights versus state rights. I radiate energy, pulsating with enthusiasm and humor as I hook the class into the lecture, seizing their attention like a virtuoso performer who cannot be ignored.

At lecture's end, they applaud.

I give a guest lecture to a World History class about colonization and slavery - they're riveted. By the end, they applaud.

The following day I am working with a group of 11th graders, encouraging them, pushing them, expounding the importance of believing in yourself. "I don't teach you, ladies and gentleman, you teach you! You may not be the next Shakespeare, but that doesn't mean you can't graduate! Everyone can make the team!"

And they applaud.

I've paid for that applause, earned every single clap minute by sweat driven minute, crossed the River Styx on a boat of gravel and grit, my paddle an increasingly sardonic sense of humor.

No document or credential can create a "master" teacher, no amount of training or books can adequate prepare any individual who wishes to cross the River Styx to teach in an inner city school. It's a journey each teacher must take alone, an odyssey of restless evenings brimming full of nightmares followed by anxious mornings filled with silent dread; long months of being quietly petrified at the thought of having to face down class after class of unruly, mean spirited students.

The master teacher is born not out of the classroom but a journey crossing a thousand moments of uncertainty, guided not by conviction but doubt as they ask themselves the same question, over and over: "Could I have done it better? With just a little more effort, could I have nudged that student in the right direction?"

There will be no trophies, no awards, no medals, no ribbons; your reward is to inspire others.

Hey, Mr. Leiken, I just wanted to tell you I got into Polytech! Mr. Leiken, did I tell you I entered culinary school? Mr. Leiken, you're awesome, history isn't boring at all. Mr. Leiken, thanks for encouraging to save up my money and go to Hong Kong, it was like the best trip ever! Hey Leiken, you were right, I started my own moving business. Hey Leiken, are you going to run a comedy club again, we want to be funny like you. Mr. Leiken, I hope one day I can be a teacher, because you like make learning fun.

And to think that seven years ago I went into teaching for the money...

It may be true that you'll never obtain riches teaching, but its taken me seven years to learn that a master teacher is never poor.