A few months ago, making my way home down 13th street, I was approached by a tall, relatively attractive woman around my age, wearing glasses, clothes from the clearance section of Urban Outfitters, and a look of distress. She had red hair and a ton of freckles, spoke confidently and looked me straight in the eye when she said “My purse and backpack were stolen while I was trying clothes on in Bloomingdales, they had my wallet, passport and plane tickets in them and now I can’t get home, or anything to eat in the meantime. Do you have any change?” I did. In fact, I had more than change, I had singles. I gave her two and wished her good luck, and she snatched the bills from my hand in no more an attractive agency than Gollum for his precious ring.
That was back in May, and the creepy way she nabbed my two clams, should have prompted more than an afterthought that there may have been something fishy about my encounter. Visiting Portland, I learned it’s all too common for rich kids to play poor punks, just so they can get some cash they don’t have to “work” for. From what I observed, debasing yourself regularly is a lot of work, unless, I guess, you think it’s all a joke or a game. Once their change is in hand, these kids with self-applied cheek-dirt drive off in mom or dad’s Benz. Some friends on the west coast have grown accustomed to saying “get a job” to beggars on the street. These kids looked like they could kick my ass, so I was never so bold to accuse them of slacking, nor ever will be.
So today, with the NYU semester almost back in session, I saw the same girl; red hair tied back, turquoise hipster-clearance-rack-shirt, glasses, walking painfully slowly around my neighborhood begging for change again. I wanted to say something. Or stop her in the middle of her lies as she approached everyone around me and scream “HALT!” or something equally medieval. Could I have called the police? In the end, I decided there was really nothing I could do, so I blogged about it.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Well, This Happened
My roommate and I have had some rough patches in the past. Like the time she came back from Peru and the light was out in the kitchen – she nearly had a heart attack. Or the time she flipped out because one of my guests accidentally used her toothpaste. I mean, she like, really flipped out. Given that such small things have sparked some near-earth shattering dialogues, I’m really surprised she did the creepiest thing ever.
I stumbled into my very very small apartment at 5am, having noshed at Yaffa Café and drank enough Jameson and diet cokes to leave me too inebriated for bar scrabble. The lights were on in the kitchen, and my roommate’s door was completely open, with, again, the lights on, but sheets and blankets thrown all over the place. The door to the bathroom was closed, so my logic suggested that she too had been drinking, and was rather sick at a rather late hour of the morning. I went to open my room to find my door locked.
“Silly me,” I thought. “In a rush to meet my sisters for dinner, I closed the door to my room not realizing it had been locked, and now I’m locked out of my room and drunk, and may have to sleep in the bathtub when my roommate is done vomiting in there.” Fortunately, or unfortunately, this was not the case.
Suddenly, my door swung open, to reveal my roommate in nothing but her underwear, holding my makeup compacts. Without an apology, she just kept saying she didn’t know how she wound up there, and then retreated to her own room, lamenting over drunk text messages she sent to her not-boyfriend.
Walking into my room, lights still off, I noticed my bed covered with clutter left there from before I went to dinner. She must have slept on uncomfortable plastic objects, and without a blanket. I still have no idea what she was doing there, or why she was holding my makeup, or why she had locked herself in.
She apologized this morning, giving some sort of half-assed hypothesis as to why or how she could justify my finding her naked in my room, including theories of "too much booze" and “nightmares.” Having just returned from two very long vacations, it makes me ask myself if she does that often, or maybe, out of spite, if she’s ever done anything else with my toothpaste.
I stumbled into my very very small apartment at 5am, having noshed at Yaffa Café and drank enough Jameson and diet cokes to leave me too inebriated for bar scrabble. The lights were on in the kitchen, and my roommate’s door was completely open, with, again, the lights on, but sheets and blankets thrown all over the place. The door to the bathroom was closed, so my logic suggested that she too had been drinking, and was rather sick at a rather late hour of the morning. I went to open my room to find my door locked.
“Silly me,” I thought. “In a rush to meet my sisters for dinner, I closed the door to my room not realizing it had been locked, and now I’m locked out of my room and drunk, and may have to sleep in the bathtub when my roommate is done vomiting in there.” Fortunately, or unfortunately, this was not the case.
Suddenly, my door swung open, to reveal my roommate in nothing but her underwear, holding my makeup compacts. Without an apology, she just kept saying she didn’t know how she wound up there, and then retreated to her own room, lamenting over drunk text messages she sent to her not-boyfriend.
Walking into my room, lights still off, I noticed my bed covered with clutter left there from before I went to dinner. She must have slept on uncomfortable plastic objects, and without a blanket. I still have no idea what she was doing there, or why she was holding my makeup, or why she had locked herself in.
She apologized this morning, giving some sort of half-assed hypothesis as to why or how she could justify my finding her naked in my room, including theories of "too much booze" and “nightmares.” Having just returned from two very long vacations, it makes me ask myself if she does that often, or maybe, out of spite, if she’s ever done anything else with my toothpaste.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
My Friend Robyn is a Better Blogger Than Me
So check out what she had to say about our costumey day on Governor's Island:
http://queuedpaper.wordpress.com/2008/06/09/acting-my-jazz-age/
http://queuedpaper.wordpress.com/2008/06/09/acting-my-jazz-age/
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Here We Go Gajabbling
When a 7th grader interrupts a lesson to tell you that a word you’ve just used doesn’t exist, your instinct is to disagree.
“No, fantastical is a word. Punk.”
The bigger problem? Well, I make up words all the time. For example: Shaarkvark-noun-a cross between a shark, and an aardvark. Used in a sentence? "Hear about the shaarkvark that attacked a surfer and then hid itself among a group of traveling gypsies? It used its proboscis like a thief in the night." No one ever argues about the existence of the Shaarkvark, so why argue about "fantastical"?
A way for any teacher to discover dozens of new words is to read spelling mistakes out loud when grading papers! These words will sound, to the human ear, like other words that actually exist, but because these words don’t exist there’s an innate hilarity to the ridiculousness of their pronunciation. In one instance, a student of mine attempted the word "gaugeable" but came up with "gajabble," which I quickly took to be some sort of expletive. "Gajabble! I forgot my lunch money at home!" or simply just "Gajabble!" Go ahead and say it out loud. This whole process is a lot more entertaining than it sounds, and, whatever, you just don't know what you're missing.
But back to fantastical. So, at first I was confident in my decision that, yes, fantastical is a word, but then I thought “Gajabble! What if I’m wrong and he’s right and I’m just the stupid drama teacher that makes up stupid words that sound like they should only be used when referring to unicorns or Sasquatch.” The class must have seen this cross my mind. Maybe I looked confused or afraid of being wrong, or I simply hesitated when I gave my answer, because then they collectively used the Jugulator (Jugulator-noun-a form of attack specifically aimed at the jugular of any individual, though most often used towards drama teachers).
Student: “No, Ms. Silvestri, there is no way in hell that fantastical is a word. You just made that up.”
Teacher: “No, I didn’t, and for being so sassy about this whole thing your homework is to look it up.”
Needless to say, he “forgot” about his homework.
I didn’t.
I walked into my next class with three dictionaries and a printout from dictionary.com.
He walked into class, read all of the definitions to the class out loud, and then, again, for being so rude about this whole thing, I told this fantastically-challenged student to write a paragraph for homework using the word fantastical in every sentence.
Here is what he wrote:
“Drama 7 – Ms. Sylvestri – 4/10/08
I am a fantastical person. Yes, fantastical is a word. I found that out from my drama teacher the hard way. I was not in a fantastical mood the day when I said fantastical wasn’t a word. But, I was wrong...fantastical is a word.”
I like that “finding out the hard way” implies simply “using a dictionary.” Also, it always goes without saying that the teacher is always right. Also, kid spelled my name wrong. Gajabble!
If nothing else comes from this venture into language, this drama class will never forget the word fantastical. And they’ll also learn to never challenge anything I say in class again. Ever.
“No, fantastical is a word. Punk.”
The bigger problem? Well, I make up words all the time. For example: Shaarkvark-noun-a cross between a shark, and an aardvark. Used in a sentence? "Hear about the shaarkvark that attacked a surfer and then hid itself among a group of traveling gypsies? It used its proboscis like a thief in the night." No one ever argues about the existence of the Shaarkvark, so why argue about "fantastical"?
A way for any teacher to discover dozens of new words is to read spelling mistakes out loud when grading papers! These words will sound, to the human ear, like other words that actually exist, but because these words don’t exist there’s an innate hilarity to the ridiculousness of their pronunciation. In one instance, a student of mine attempted the word "gaugeable" but came up with "gajabble," which I quickly took to be some sort of expletive. "Gajabble! I forgot my lunch money at home!" or simply just "Gajabble!" Go ahead and say it out loud. This whole process is a lot more entertaining than it sounds, and, whatever, you just don't know what you're missing.
But back to fantastical. So, at first I was confident in my decision that, yes, fantastical is a word, but then I thought “Gajabble! What if I’m wrong and he’s right and I’m just the stupid drama teacher that makes up stupid words that sound like they should only be used when referring to unicorns or Sasquatch.” The class must have seen this cross my mind. Maybe I looked confused or afraid of being wrong, or I simply hesitated when I gave my answer, because then they collectively used the Jugulator (Jugulator-noun-a form of attack specifically aimed at the jugular of any individual, though most often used towards drama teachers).
Student: “No, Ms. Silvestri, there is no way in hell that fantastical is a word. You just made that up.”
Teacher: “No, I didn’t, and for being so sassy about this whole thing your homework is to look it up.”
Needless to say, he “forgot” about his homework.
I didn’t.
I walked into my next class with three dictionaries and a printout from dictionary.com.
He walked into class, read all of the definitions to the class out loud, and then, again, for being so rude about this whole thing, I told this fantastically-challenged student to write a paragraph for homework using the word fantastical in every sentence.
Here is what he wrote:
“Drama 7 – Ms. Sylvestri – 4/10/08
I am a fantastical person. Yes, fantastical is a word. I found that out from my drama teacher the hard way. I was not in a fantastical mood the day when I said fantastical wasn’t a word. But, I was wrong...fantastical is a word.”
I like that “finding out the hard way” implies simply “using a dictionary.” Also, it always goes without saying that the teacher is always right. Also, kid spelled my name wrong. Gajabble!
If nothing else comes from this venture into language, this drama class will never forget the word fantastical. And they’ll also learn to never challenge anything I say in class again. Ever.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sorry I'm Late; I Got Distracted by Your Fridge
It’s not unusual to read out loud when you’re tutoring. A student may find they take notes better from listening. It’s faster for them. They remember it better. Whatever the reason, reading out loud is not an issue.
On Friday morning, however, at maybe 8:30 am, my tutoree approached me with a packet of information for which she couldn’t wait to take notes. She was rushing, worrying about a quiz only 35 minutes away. She also needed to learn different parts of the body in Spanish.
“No Problem,” I said. “There’s plenty of time for both.”
But then I looked at the packet. As my student set up all of her materials to take the most thorough notes ever, I froze at the sight of what I would be expected to read out loud.
Was it childish?
Yes.
Immature?
I sure am.
But can you blame me?
An entire office, full of colleagues and students, was about to listen to me read out loud a very long packet on “The Male Reproductive System” or “The Meat-Whistle.”
At 8:30 am, the office was completely silent. The faint clicks of a keyboard, the almost silent but all-too-vocal adolescent complaints about the strong smell of egg-sandwich; these were all that could distract from the pre-pubescent giggle-inducing words I expected to read out loud, and surely, neither would be as distracting as the words “scrotum” or “testes” at such an obscene hour.
So I started to read, and my student saw me blush. “Keep writing,” I said “if you know what’s good for you’RETHRA.” We had a good laugh. We learned all about the penis. She diligently took notes on balls: what temperature they’re most comfortable in, why they shrink up when they’re cold, and why they hang low when they’re hot. We discussed how semen and urine come from the same place, and how disgusting that is. In the end, it was kind of fun. “Vas Deferens” is even kind of fun to say!
But the best part of everything was on page 4, when the packet encouraged you to check your balls once a month. “As a reminder” the packet suggested, “write a message on an index card to yourself, and keep it in a place where you’ll see it often. The front of your refrigerator works very well. Laminate the card to keep it from wearing out.”
To translate, someone was suggesting to carry around an index card that said, “check your balls.” Laminated, no less, to keep it from wearing out? WEARING OUT? What would you be doing that your index card would NEED to be laminated to keep yourself from ever making a new one? Up until now, the wear and tear of a thorough ball-check-reminder never crossed my mind. I mean, why would it? I don't have balls to check. But now it's ALL I can think about. I'm nonplussed.
Let's face it, if the well-being of your index-card-ball-checking-reminder is your biggest concern, then you have other big concerns you just don’t know about. If you own a machine that laminates things, however, you have an extreme business-advantage in the ball-check industry. Good Work, and good luck.
If you don't own a laminating machine, you have a very awkward experience at the Office Max awaiting you. Good luck, and don't wear a trench coat.
Also, don’t forget kids, HANG IT ON YOUR FRIDGE. It’s not just a reminder for you: it’s a reminder for everyone who ever wants a chilled snack.
I guess what makes it even better is that the packet then suggested that you make one for your dad, too. Imagine this “look what I learned in school today” moment: “Here dad, I made you this card that will remind you to check your balls once a month. You can leave yours on the fridge, with mine!”
Of course, the packet preached abstinence. I don’t know why it bothered. That’s like saying, “look at this new toy that aches to have fun, but don’t use it.” Instead of saying don’t have fun, it would have been smarter for my student read about how to have safe fun. I think the importance of condoms outweighs the necessity of a laminated-ball-reminder, but maybe, just Maybe, that’s the next section I get to read out loud.
On Friday morning, however, at maybe 8:30 am, my tutoree approached me with a packet of information for which she couldn’t wait to take notes. She was rushing, worrying about a quiz only 35 minutes away. She also needed to learn different parts of the body in Spanish.
“No Problem,” I said. “There’s plenty of time for both.”
But then I looked at the packet. As my student set up all of her materials to take the most thorough notes ever, I froze at the sight of what I would be expected to read out loud.
Was it childish?
Yes.
Immature?
I sure am.
But can you blame me?
An entire office, full of colleagues and students, was about to listen to me read out loud a very long packet on “The Male Reproductive System” or “The Meat-Whistle.”
At 8:30 am, the office was completely silent. The faint clicks of a keyboard, the almost silent but all-too-vocal adolescent complaints about the strong smell of egg-sandwich; these were all that could distract from the pre-pubescent giggle-inducing words I expected to read out loud, and surely, neither would be as distracting as the words “scrotum” or “testes” at such an obscene hour.
So I started to read, and my student saw me blush. “Keep writing,” I said “if you know what’s good for you’RETHRA.” We had a good laugh. We learned all about the penis. She diligently took notes on balls: what temperature they’re most comfortable in, why they shrink up when they’re cold, and why they hang low when they’re hot. We discussed how semen and urine come from the same place, and how disgusting that is. In the end, it was kind of fun. “Vas Deferens” is even kind of fun to say!
But the best part of everything was on page 4, when the packet encouraged you to check your balls once a month. “As a reminder” the packet suggested, “write a message on an index card to yourself, and keep it in a place where you’ll see it often. The front of your refrigerator works very well. Laminate the card to keep it from wearing out.”
To translate, someone was suggesting to carry around an index card that said, “check your balls.” Laminated, no less, to keep it from wearing out? WEARING OUT? What would you be doing that your index card would NEED to be laminated to keep yourself from ever making a new one? Up until now, the wear and tear of a thorough ball-check-reminder never crossed my mind. I mean, why would it? I don't have balls to check. But now it's ALL I can think about. I'm nonplussed.
Let's face it, if the well-being of your index-card-ball-checking-reminder is your biggest concern, then you have other big concerns you just don’t know about. If you own a machine that laminates things, however, you have an extreme business-advantage in the ball-check industry. Good Work, and good luck.
If you don't own a laminating machine, you have a very awkward experience at the Office Max awaiting you. Good luck, and don't wear a trench coat.
Also, don’t forget kids, HANG IT ON YOUR FRIDGE. It’s not just a reminder for you: it’s a reminder for everyone who ever wants a chilled snack.
I guess what makes it even better is that the packet then suggested that you make one for your dad, too. Imagine this “look what I learned in school today” moment: “Here dad, I made you this card that will remind you to check your balls once a month. You can leave yours on the fridge, with mine!”
Of course, the packet preached abstinence. I don’t know why it bothered. That’s like saying, “look at this new toy that aches to have fun, but don’t use it.” Instead of saying don’t have fun, it would have been smarter for my student read about how to have safe fun. I think the importance of condoms outweighs the necessity of a laminated-ball-reminder, but maybe, just Maybe, that’s the next section I get to read out loud.
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