I Hate Teenagers Very Much

That is all. 1.33

A Brief Story From Last Semester About Bruce Lee

It was probably back in October or so when we had this free day and I had to entertain my advisory (which consists of 12 9th graders) for an hour and 10 minutes. I found a movie on youtube called Spirits of Bruce Lee and put it up on the projector.

We spent the whole hour trying to figure out which guy was Bruce Lee. Every time a new Asian appeared onscreen, we had another argument about whether he was Bruce Lee or not. Someone, either one of the kids or me, invariably thought that every new guy who showed up was Bruce Lee. We never really settled on which one was him.

Just today, I looked on imdb and it turns out that Bruce Lee was not even an actor in the film. No one was Bruce Lee. The whole time we were just grasping at spirits.

Hot Doug's, The Sausage Store and Encased Meat Emporium

I am not generally a fan of hot dogs.

Almost every hot dog I've ever eaten has looked and tasted like the amalgamation of meat it is. Doesn't really matter how you dress it up: chili, mustard, onions, celery salt peppers. The hot dog is American food at its finest: cheap, processed, and very nearly tasteless. I probably eat hot dogs about three times a year, and even then it's usually just to be polite.

After moving to Chicago, which is a place sort of obsessed with hot dogs, I only ate one of them in the first six months of living here. One "Chicago-style dog" left me unimpressed and not exactly eager to eat another.

Which is why Hot Doug's caught me by surprise.

Monday was MLK JR day, so we (we being me, two friends, and a new acquaintance) decided to go out and enjoy some unhealthy food. The plan was to go to Kuma's Corner, which is a heavy-metal themed bar/restaurant that allegedly has some of the best burgers in the United States.

So, we drive out to Kuma's, de-car, and go inside. At exactly 2:11 on a Monday afternoon, the wait time at Kuma's corner was 2 hours and 30 minutes. I would've personally been happy to wait (they did have beer, after all), but my companions had no interest in waiting that long for food, even if said food was America's Best Burger. So, I found myself in the car of my new acquaintance, en route to this place he suggested called Hot Doug's.

This place, claimed my new acq., had delicious, made-in-house hot dogs. I bit my tongue.

We arrived at Hot Doug's, which is surrounded by parking lots and warehouses, and grabbed a parking spot. Then we got in line. Yes, we got in line. The line for these weenies snaked out the door and around the building for maybe 60 feet.

I attempted to stereotype the people waiting in line, but couldn't. These people were black and white, rich and poor. Young Puerto Ricans jostled among middle-aged white businessmen. Perhaps the only thing these citizens shared was a love for encased meats.

So we waited 40 minutes in this line in the freezing cold and finally entered the building, where I was able to appraise the menu. Hot Doug's has your general selection of hot dogs: the Chicago-style, Polish sausages, Bratwurst, etc.

But it's when you turn your attention to the 'weekly specials' board when things really get interesting.

A preview:

Foie Gras and Sauternes Duck Sausage with Truffle Aioli, Foie Gras Mousse and Sel Gris

Pepper and Onion Pork Sausage with Sun-Dried Tomato Mustard, Roasted Yellow Tomatoes and Ricotta Salata

Spicy Thai Chicken Sausage with Thai Peanut Sauce and Toasted Coconut

And, of course, the Game of the Week:

Bacon and Cheddar Elk Sausage with Half Acre Beer Mustard and Moutardier Cheese

Well. Doug certainly had my attention. The menu left me with more questions than answers (How does one make chicken sausage? Or bacon sausage? Where does one buy elk meat in Chicago? How do you even pronounce those words?)

After much debate, I ended up getting the elk sausage (And how could I not? It's elk sausage). After ordering, it took less than five minutes for my food to come out.

And then I ate it. I'm not gonna lie: it was delicious. The sausage itself was superb. The mustard was tangy and flavorful. And the cheese, which was cut into little cubes and stacked on top of the sausage, was a perfect compliment. Even the bun was toasted to a light brown.

Okay, so no, it wasn't technically a hot dog. It was a sausage dog. But still. Hot Doug's has changed the way I'll view encased encased meat products from this day forth.

Shannon's Rhymes

Some lines composed by one of my advisees.

My name is Shannon

I'm almost perfect

100 grand but I'm still working

with ya girl u no I flirtin

To da crib u no Im workin.....

yea Ima kill the game with this one

aim fo ya so un I won't miss ya

I stack cake deeper than lakes

keep talkin **** and get yo *** raked

To play wit da top gun

whip out the nine and make yo *** run

Hell Hath No Fury Like a 17-Year-Old Scorned

Today during 2nd period there was a quick knock on the door and a lady stuck her head in the door. She looked like a psychologist, and, as I found out later, she was. A light-skinned black lady, well-put together, wearing all brown. Boots, a skirt, and thick-rimmed glasses.

She asked to speak to T, one of my (female) students. T is a junior and the emotional equivalent of a black hole and a tornado combined.

So, I told T to go out in the hall. She initially refused. "I'm taking a test," she said, which she was. I told her to cancel it (it was one of those computerized tests). After basically prying her hands from the computer and sending her into the hallway, I continued class.

About one minute later, T waltzed back into the room with one of those smug looks on her face. Since she always looks like that, I just told her to have a seat. But no sooner had she sat down than the psychologist burst through the door. She was almost crying.

"Excuse me," she sputtered. "I hate to interrupt class, but I want to give this girl a demerit." She gestured at T.

It was sort of an odd request, but I didn't even have time to respond before T exploded.

"What she be talkin about? This woman be tweakin! Don't come up in here with that! She a clown!"

And so on and so on.

Amazingly, the psychologist fired back. "This girl is being disrespectful towards me and blah, blah, blah."

"T," I said. I gave her my best teacher look, which isn't saying much. "Just stop. Just stop talking." She did, for a second, and then kept going. She was literally insulting this woman by calling her a clown and other ridiculous things.

The rest of the class was both interested and embarrassed at the same time. They sat quietly. The woman just kept yammering, at me or at anyone who'd listen, and T just kept on and on.

Finally I was able to get T to be quiet and extricate the psychologist from the room. I had a whispered conversation with T that would make no sense to any rational person, but at least sort of calmed her down.

The whole thing was insane. I mean, who's the crazy one, really? The psychologist who was reduced to tears by some 17-year-old girl? The girl, who is perhaps the most angry person I've ever met in my life? Or me, for putting up with this and acting like this is any kind of normal job?

The odd thing is that it was barely a big deal to me. T acts like this pretty much every day of her life, and I have to deal with it. The only difference today was that instead of mediating between T and some random girl in class, I was mediating between T and some 40-year-old psychologist who should know better. I'm no teacher, I'm a babysitter.

West Chicago Ave is a Vision of the Coming Zombie Apocalypse

Lincoln Park has newly paved streets, organic grocery stores and salt on the sidewalks.

Humboldt Park has gaping potholes, crumbling corner markets and sidewalks slick with ice.

Trash is strewn everywhere. In the roads, on the sidewalk, in the tiny yards. People lurch around in half-aware states, wearing overlarge clothing. A constant smell of frying food and burning plant matter hangs in the air. Everything is gray. Signs are hand-painted and the words on them are misspelled. Intermittent gunshots.

You can stand on West Chicago and watch the drug deals go down. Puerto Ricans in windowless fifteen-passenger vans selling to stumbling black men in black jackets.

This is the wasteland. Just be happy you only have to look the other way when you drive through it, and not live in it.

In Which I Meet a Fellow Traveller

I was able to convince a student at my school to read Feed, one of my favorite books that I've read in the past year or so. He took it home on Friday. Today I asked him if he had started (most of my students never read at home).

"I'm about 20 pages from the end," he said. He went on to explain that he really loved it, and we were able to talk about our favorite parts of the book (imagine!).

This kid, Michael, has read the Lord of the Rings trilogy. We talked about how much we loved to read books, and he said that I should start a book club at Rowe-Clark.

I wanted to kiss him on the face and thank him for being such a beautiful person. These moments are what make me keep going. I love my life.