1986 - The Year That Everything Blew Up

I was on a coach bus heading back north from Champaign-Urbana. As far as I can remember this was before we stopped at a Bakers Square and Alex Imas and I attempted to devour an entire french silk pie. Alex and I were talking to the seniors about all sorts of things: cheating, girls, gambling, college. Eventually we got around to the great burden resting on the seniors' shoulders, the senior research paper. That's when some guy named Leo talked about his recently-turned-in masterpiece, with a title I'll never forget:

"1986 - The Year That Everything Blew Up"

It changed my life. As I recall his essay was about Chernobyl and eating enormous mutant rats for dinner. I don't think he passed. But boy, what a title.

I bring this up, well, because in general I've been nostalgic lately, and I'm remembering all sorts of little details from my past. I also mention it because I've been looking back at the year that just passed, and there's a pretty strong current that runs through it. It's just That Time for my peer group. That's right, this year was:

"2009 - The Year that Everyone I Know Made Plans to or Did in Fact Get Married"

Like, everybody. I don't know what socks I'm going to wear tomorrow; I can't imagine knowing who I want to spend the rest of time with. Actually, that's a cliche response to marriage. That part of it doesn't befuddle me so much. It's more that even if I was at the point where I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with someone, I can't imagine marriage being the best option at this point. I feel like there's so many other things I need to figure out first. So many things I need to become before I can even be qualified to be a husband, and, even more so, a father. I'm not even talking about material things, necessarily (although I can barely afford a box of Cracker Jack and the ring inside let alone an engagement ring). I'm talking about character things. Responsibility things. Life-decision and career things.

I've eschewed concrete paths and plans for awhile now. Life seems too chaotic and unpredictable for them. I've long preferred to take a passion and run with it. I must be getting older because I realize that I need to come up with some concrete goals and develop tactics to work towards them. Winging it doesn't work when someone else's life is involved. I think I've learned that lesson as a teacher, and I'm finally starting to apply it to my own life. I hope that all these newly married couples - or those who soon will be - have figured these things out for themselves. I hope they're at some sort of peace with themselves as individuals. I don't think I'm there yet. I hope to be, someday. I wouldn't want people to remember my marriage as the One Where Everything Blew Up.

Past and Future do a Delicate Dance at a Kosher Dunkin Donuts

About an hour ago I was sitting in a (recently, I assume) kosher Dunkin Donuts, sipping a cup of coffee and reading V. by Thomas Pynchon. Ah, to be home again. I kept my schedule wide open this time around because I wanted to have as much time as possible to spend with my dad, who is undergoing treatment for cancer, my sister, who recently graduated from Columbia College, and my momma, who I just don't get enough time to talk to. As a result, I found myself in a kosher Dunkin Donuts at noon on a Tuesday reading Thomas Pynchon. I think the reason why I like reading the modernists and post-modernists like Pynchon is because I'm forced to chew on the text. I have to work at them to figure out what they're getting at. Consequently, this practice helps me dig through all the things going through my head so I can figure out what I'm getting at. My walk home (I am insurance-less and therefore car-less) afforded me plenty of time to do just that.

I'm not sure I can quite put my finger on what I'm experiencing right now. Unsurprisingly, being home at the same time in which so many of the people I grew up with are home has brought about a sense of nostalgia. But it's not a nostalgia filled with memories. It's not a nostalgia for things that happened. It's more a nostalgic feeling for things that never happened. It's a memory of impulses not acted upon and promises unfulfilled. It's not regret - not at all - but rather a curious cascade of what-ifs and what-nows.

Part of it comes from being so far away from New York and so far away from the life I've created there. The work I'm doing in the South Bronx means very little in Skokie, and it's difficult to communicate what it is I do when my audience has no understanding of the environment in which I work.

Part of it is that I feel more connected to the person I was when I was living in Skokie, which I suppose was back in high school. Throughout college and the year after I generally felt lost and directionless. I didn't have the same sense of purpose that I did when I was a high-school student, and I couldn't escape the feeling that I was missing out on something. Teaching, for reasons I've written about in the past, has renewed my sense of purpose, and I think I'm starting to develop some longer-term ideas of what I'm trying to accomplish. In general, I feel pretty good about myself and I want to build upon what I'm doing now into something larger. What that is, exactly, I haven't quite figured out, but I'm working on it. This is more than I could have said in any of the past five or six years. So the what-ifs come from this sense of lost time in my twenties, and the what-nows come from what I plan to do with myself over the next few years.

It's interesting to hear about the people you grew up with and all the different paths their lives have taken. I'm overwhelmed by all the possible directions I could have gone, and to think of all these other people, with their own stories and their own lists of could haves and should haves, is mind boggling. I imagine that a lot of people my age are going through the same thoughts as me, taking stock of how they got to where they're at and wondering if that's a good place to be. Maybe they're even drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee as they do it.

Another thought strikes me while I'm in this reminiscent mood - I really like the people I know or have known. I'm interested in their stories and I'm happy to be associated with them in some way. I have this line from Finnegan's Wake popping up in my head from time to time: "Here Comes Everybody." I think that's what it feels like for me as I come home and listen to all these different stories of what people are up to, and I start to think back to how I remember them and the feelings and images I associate with them. Everyone rushes back into my consciousness, and I wish I could tell them all that I think of them and that they matter and that I wonder how they're doing now. Here comes everybody. Welcome home.

And there it is. I feel it so plainly with every word I type. A sense of wonder. That's what connects me back to those long-gone days and what endears me to Skokie in spite of it being, well, Skokie. I like the people here, the people that came from here. I like that they're a part of who I am. I wish I had a better way of letting them know.

The story of Jon and Sheila's wedding

So I recognize that my last blog post was just over two months ago, on June 16th, or as literary dorks like me like to call it, Bloomsday. Good things seem to happen to me on the 16th (e.g. I was born on that very day in April of 1985), and I've got another great day to add to that list, courtesy of this past Sunday. I will fill you in on all the big things that happened since mid-June (reflections on my first year of teaching, saying goodbye to students for the summer, grad school, and NYC adventures to name a few), but I might as well start off with what's fresh in my memory and work backwards from there.

This past Sunday, August 16th, Jon Proniewski married Sheila Swartz. Allow me to explain why this was such a big deal. Jon and I met at Northwestern and have remained close friends ever since. He's one of the few people who knows what the hell I'm talking about when I say things like "Bloomsday" because I weaned him off his steady diet of Romantic lit for a few quarters and got him to take some Irish lit courses with me. Jon and Sheila met three summers ago at "institute" for Teach For America. They spent the next year dating long distance--Jon was in D.C. and Sheila in Chicago--before Jon returned to the city of broad shoulders in 2007. This was quite lucky for me as I got to spend the better part of a year with my good friend a stone's throw away, and I became acquainted with the extraordinary Sheila Swartz.

About a week after I moved to New York (i.e. the beginning of last summer), Jon called me and started off the conversation by asking, "So, will you be my best man?" His timing couldn't have been worse (I wasn't able to share a celebratory bottle of champagne with him for another few months, in New Jersey no less), but his news couldn't have been much better. Jon was the first of my close friends to get engaged, and I was honored that he tabbed me to stand beside him at his wedding.

I saw Jon and Sheila's relationship evolve over the course of our year spent together in Chicago. It was pretty incredible that they were able to make it work for so long from long distance, but I was more impressed with what they managed to overcome while living together. Both are overachievers with tremendous workloads, and I know that Jon was pretty used to living alone. They navigated through highs and lows, and my last impression before I left for New York was the two of them laughing together and holding hands walking down the twilit sidewalk in Lincoln Park. They were never ostentatious about their love, but I had more than enough images like this in my memory of them being secretly sweet to each other.

Now, why do I mention this detail about Jon and Sheila? After all, this is my blog, not theirs. Perhaps to explain what happened between Jon asking me to be his best man and the actual wedding.

Much like what happens when you go from coach to first class (which has never happened to me, by the way), I was bumped up. Upgraded. Several months ago, Jon asked me to "officiate" his wedding, meaning that I would be the person to lead the ceremony and make it official in the eyes of the law. You may be saying, "Jeff, I know you were Bar Mitzvahed, but I don't think that makes you qualified to go marrying people off" or, "Don't you need to be a priest or rabbi or tribal shaman or something to do that sort of stuff?" And you would be right. That's where the internet comes in. You see, Jon did this officiating business for his friend Grant's wedding, and he was able to do it by becoming an ordained minister for the Universal Life Church Monastery (Dot com).

Apparently it went well, and, since they're not particularly religious, he and Sheila decided that they too would prefer someone close to them to guide their wedding ceremony. Someone who knew them both well, someone who could handle writing a sermon, someone who had spent the last year in Chicago with them, someone who looks dashingly handsome in a suit, someone like ... me.(Okay, maybe they didn't think about the last part, but it didn't hurt).

With Jon and Sheila's wishes clearly presented before me, I went about the strenuous task of becoming an ordained minister through the Universal Life Church Monastery (dot com). It consisted of typing my name AND my e-mail address into their database. Once this was done and I was an ordained minister, I had to go through the much more difficult process of typing my mailing address and credit card information in order to obtain my certification certificate, which I then sent to the State of Ohio along with some other minimal paperwork and a ten dollar check and voila! I was free to administer as many marriages as I wanted--albeit in Ohio. I thought about ordering the ministerial wallet card as well, but I didn't want to look like an amateur.

Let me tell you, becoming an internet-approved minister is a hell of a conversation starter. I would introduce my new status by telling people, "I'm a reverend now. Like Al Green." (FYI Al Green is an actual reverend at the Full Gospel Tabernacle in Memphis, Tennessee). But the gleeful irony of a Catholic Church-raised Jew becoming an ordained minister of a pan-religious organization that exists solely on the internet only lasts for so long. (I trust that it will wear off soon). It was time for me to get down to business and write the text for the wedding ceremony.

This proved to be rather difficult. Jon and Sheila, for all their sarcastic wit, are fairly serious people. The text Jon provided for me in his framework of the ceremony was sparse and succinct. I knew they wouldn't be up for any grandiose saccharine testaments to the majesty and beauty of love, filled with unicorns and mighty white steeds and eternal bliss (because so many other weddings are chock-full of that stuff...). I had to keep it corn-free, but I didn't want it to sound like a funeral. It was very important to me to do a good job on this, too. For all my joking about becoming a minister, I took my responsibility very seriously. I wanted to present something worthy of the occasion, worthy of their relationship to one another. It took me forever to come up with ideas (again, I haven't been to very many weddings), and it took even longer to pen those ideas down. I didn't actually have a final draft of the ceremony that I was confident with until the day before the wedding.

The sermon ended up being a near-perfect balance of gravity, humor, and optimism. I started off a little light so no one would be surprised if I stuck in a joke later on. I talked about what I liked in their relationship, and then I spoke briefly about what I admired in each of them. I waxed poetic on Sheila, expounding on her intelligence and good will with the best words my vocabulary could muster. I then turned to Jon and pretended to be at a loss for something good to say about him, eventually concluding that he has really great hair (which in all actuality he does). The delivery was perfect, especially as I quickly transitioned to the next part of the sermon, leaving the eloquent and accomplished Jon with praise only for his coiffure. The guests loved it, and I had to wait a few seconds for the laughter to die down. It rolled perfectly into the rest of the sermon, which was far more serious. I talked about the importance of love as a verb rather than a noun (thanks, Zev!), about how the action of loving someone has the capacity to make boring, everyday things a little bit wonderful. I thought it was sweet. But not too corny.

The rest of the service flew by. (This was a good thing; it was 90 degrees outside and the sun was shining its demonic, er, angelic rays on us for the entirety of the ceremony). They each said "I do" before exchanging their vows in private. Sheila's astonishingly heartfelt words just about melted me (with the sun's help). I let out a deep sigh at one point, which wasn't such a good idea because I was wearing a microphone headset, and the guests were treated to a big muffled whooshing noise coming from the speakers. They exchanged their rings, and then came the really fun part. I got to say, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

But not before prefacing it with one of the all-time great lines you can ever say at a wedding service: "By the power vested in me by the State of Ohio... and the internet, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." Everyone was laughing and applauding and crying. It was awesome. And Jon and Sheila were married. And I was the person that made it so. That still hasn't quite sunk in yet.

The whole experience was nothing short of wonderful. Their friends delivered readings during the ceremony that were funny and sweet and lovely. The groomsmen were great to be around all weekend, and Sheila's friends were thoughtful and interesting (and devastatingly attractive). I love Jon's family, and they were great to me the entire time, even driving me back to the east coast. Sheila's mom threw the whole weekend together, and her father, as it became readily apparent to me, was a man of exceptional character and humor. Jon and Sheila themselves were remarkably relaxed throughout the whole wedding and the days leading up to it (I was with them since Thursday). They took such comfort in each other, and they were working together as a perfect team. Watching them all weekend made Sunday just a little more special for me.

After the ceremony, both Jon and Sheila's fathers came up to me with heartfelt thanks and congratulations. That meant quite a bit. Guests who didn't know me were surprised that I didn't do this sort of thing for a living. Jon and Sheila said they wouldn't have had it any other way. I think everyone enjoyed it, and I hope they were able to catch even a small glimpse of what makes those two so good for one another. I loved every minute of it, and who knows? Maybe it could be the beginning of a beautiful new career. Now if only I could finagle it so I can do Bar Mitzvahs....

Pondering the ineluctible modality of Ulysses

Today marks the 105th anniversary of the day James Joyce first "stepped out" with his wife-to-be, Nora Barnacle, the day he later turned into the longest day in the history of literature. My all-time favorite novel Ulysses takes place on June 16, a day that is now known as "Bloomsday" after its famous protagonist Leopold Bloom.

I was planning on doing a series of blogs today recounting my thoughts and experiences as they transpired, but as I write this in the dwindling minutes before my grad class on geometry begins I realize that it wouldn't have been all that varied or interesting. I have been grading papers for what feels like the last five years. Practice state tests, unit tests, final exams--you name it, I've graded it. Today was the big state test on geometry. I spent the morning hyping my students up and then administering the test, and the last 4 hours of my life were spent grading all the tests. The good news is that the results have been encouraging so far. The bad news is that I still need to finish grading tonight and tomorrow morning. Then I might finally be done.

Ulysses is a story about everyday mundanities, but there wasn't much of an arc to my day. At least not yet. The night is still young. So many more papers left to grade....

Actually a lot has been going on, and I have a lot to say. I just can't seem to find the time. I'll try to write more--maybe tonight. Hopefully I'll have a pint of Guinness in my belly as I drink to Stephen Daedalus and Leo Bloom and the magic of the ordinary.

Just like old times

There are so many more important things I could be doing right now, but I'm going to take a moment to go back to the 4th-grade version of myself and indulge in an old whim. You see, as a precocious youngster I faithfully read the sports section of my local newspaper, the Daily Herald, every day. Sometimes I would become so excited after another thrilling Michael Jordan performance or so distraught after some loss--that was surely due to poor officiating--that I would write a sports column and send it into the paper. Sometimes they were re-tellings of pivotal points in games, other times they were well-thought-out pleas for why guys like Ron Harper and Scottie Pippen deserved more credit. None of my articles were ever published, but who could blame them for not realizing they had a 10-year-old Mitch Albom on their hands?

Anyways, I gave up the entirety of my afternoon to watching game 4 of the 1st round series between the Bulls and Celtics. By the end I was rooting for the Bulls more because I didn't want this series to end than because of my borderline-obsessive love of the team. For those of you who haven't been paying attention, the Celtics were leading the best-of-seven series 2 games to 1. The Bulls pulled out a thriller in Boston in game 1, then lost an equally compelling down-to-the wire match in game 2. Game 3 brought the series back to Chicago, but the Bulls laid an egg and were never in contention. Thus the pivotal game 4 that would determine the direction of the rest of the series. A Celtics win would virtually lock it up for them; a Bulls win would mean that it was all even.

The first two games were enough evidence to realize that this series is something special. The Celtics are the defending champs, but they're playing without the guy who is really the identity of the team. The Bulls are a somewhat discombobulated group that has a lethal amount of great scorers that are just now learning how to play together. The Celtics are led by veterans who have seen everything. The Bulls are lead by a rookie phenom and a coach who before this season had never coached at any level in his life. The result has been nothing short of phenomenal. Watching the Celtics refuse to cave despite their injuries and despite having played 180+ games the past two seasons is inspiring. Watching the Bulls come together before our eyes and fight through the growing pains of not having been here before is special because this only happens once in the evolution of a team.

But the best part is watching the two point guards duke it out like heavyweight champions. The Celtics' Rajon Rondo and the Bulls' Derrick Rose are so fast that no one can stay in front of them. They're strong and tough and in total control of their teams, despite being the youngest players. Rose tied Kareem Abdul-Jabbar for the most points ever for a rookie in his first playoff game, and Rondo has notched a triple double (one of the most difficult things to do in basketball) in THREE out of the four games.

Which made today's game so special. The Bulls were hanging on for dear life and somehow managed to have the lead at the end of the game. The Celtics missed a shot that would have tied it, and one of the young Bulls players made the mistake of not passing the ball to a better free throw shooter before getting fouled. He naturally missed one of the two free throws, which allowed the Celtics to tie it up on a wide open three pointer from Ray Allen, one of the deadliest shooters in the history of the league. (He was open because Derrick Rose completely blew his assignment defensively.) Youthful mistakes seemed to have cost the Bulls a game that they really didn't deserve to win in the first place, as they came out flat in the ensuing overtime and were quickly down by five.

Or so it seemed. A bizarre turn of events let the Bulls back in the game, and they now found themselves down by three with 10 seconds left. Enter Ben Gordon, the bite-sized dynamo who promptly hit a fade-away three pointer over the outstretched arm of a taller defender to send it into a second overtime. The Bulls almost blew another golden opportunity here, but John Salmons blocked a last second three point attempt that would have tied the game once again. The buzzer sounded, and the Bulls had prevailed.

Just like in the first two games, no team could seem to manage a lead larger than four or five points. The game kept going back and forth so every possession felt like the balance of the game rested on its shoulders. Both teams have dynamic scorers that do impossible things on a regular basis, which makes the actual viewing of the game that much more enthralling. And both teams never give up. Ever. They put their hearts out on the floor and give everything they can. The game wasn't perfect. Mistakes were made on both sides. But if you like basketball, it's impossible not to love watching two teams that match up so perfectly with each other. It makes it more special for me that my beloved Bulls are one of those teams. Here's to at least two more games in a series that I don't want to end any time soon. For a few hours today I was in fourth grade again, and that feeling is why we watch the games in the first place.

Ruminations upon my return to New York

Note: I started writing this post 4 days ago, and I'm finishing it now. I don't think the first part is any less true now than it was then.

I often find it difficult to de-clutter my mind sufficiently to write a coherent post. I have something like five different posts swirling through my head right now, and I'm trying to write whatever comes naturally out of my fingertips. Sometimes writing about the difficulties of writing is a good way to get myself started.

I returned to teaching yesterday after 2-plus weeks of vacation. I left myself virtually no time to prepare my lessons, but my experience differed immensely from my return after winter break. I barely slept that Sunday in early January, wracking myself with irrational anxieties about my fitness as a teacher. This time around it was smooth sailing. I slept peacefully, entered the oddly distant-yet-familiar school with confidence. My lessons were crisp and cool as the April air, and my enthusiasm for seeing my students again carried me through the day. I realized that I've got a decent handle on this whole teaching thing, and I genuinely love working with these kids every day. I missed them. I didn't necessarily miss the work and the planning and the exhaustion, but I missed them.

This provided some much-needed relief. It's comforting to know, to feel it in your bones, that you like what you do day in and day out. Feeling purposeful is a tremendous state in which to be, one that I've come to value after years of feeling something less. But it's not enough. For awhile it was; it had to be. I dedicated the entirety of my focus and energy into becoming a decent teacher, into learning the ropes and paying my dues. I didn't have time or energy for much else. I spent the last ten days surrounded by family and friends who are as good as family to me, and I couldn't help but notice the vacancy when I came back to New York.

It was my third trip back to Chicago, and for the first time I didn't experience my typical excitement and yearning for home. I was almost sad to be leaving this city that had taken me in with such open arms. Then I went to Chicago and it all felt so natural, everything slipping back into place as if I hadn't ever left. Then I went to Las Vegas and saw the family that I hadn't seen in so long, and I remembered why I missed them so much in the first place. And then it was over and I was back in New York City wishing I had even one person I could care for as much as I care about those I left behind. Like I've said in previous posts, giving of myself to all these students is an experience wholly unique and thrilling and gratifying, but it occupies a different realm from what I experienced during my travels over break. There exists a space, a vacancy, and I long to bridge the distance.

A few moments stand out for me from the past couple weeks:

(1) Leaving Chicago. I was surprised by my realization of how much I was going to miss that drizzling, freezing city (it had been in the 30s for the past couple of days before I left). It hit me rather suddenly. I had a very early flight to Vegas, so I was leaving my house at 5:30 in the morning. It felt secretive because no one was awake besides my cat Lola. The dark expanse of the living room between us, I waved goodbye to her as she darted her eyes between me and the bright lights of the car outside. For some reason, the scene made me really sad. Maybe leaving the cat behind reminded me of leaving something so comforting and domestic as the family home. Maybe I realized that if I was getting that choked up about a cat, it was going to be rough sailing not seeing everyone for awhile. I'm not sure. But I felt extremely attached to the feeling of being back in Skokie, and it hurt a little to let go.

(2) My birthday. My birthday was last Thursday, and I spent it in Las Vegas. While Vegas can be an ideal place to spend a birthday, I've realized over the years that the people make the birthday far more memorable than the place or the circumstances. So it was sort of strange to be in Las Vegas where I had lots of family, but family I hadn't seen in 3 or 4 years. I was worried that I would get in one of my overly contemplative moods and start to feel lonely and out of touch. My cousin Mike took me out to a bar just outside the strip, and we spent the evening shooting the bull (not riding it, although we could have at this place). His lovely girlfriend was there along with his band mate Kane and their friend Robert. I barely knew most of the people there, but I felt welcomed and ended up having a great time. Then I met up with Cherie, the art teacher whom I adore from school in the Bronx, and her extraordinary girlfriend Sam, and we lived it up on the Strip. Cherie and I enjoyed birthday shots of Patron before going on a tear and winning big bucks at the blackjack tables. Being with her also reminded me how good I have it back in New York. Going back for a moment to the beginning of the evening, I love getting to know people, and there was something, I don't know, extraordinary about hanging out with my older cousin Mike after all these years and recognizing that as much as we've changed it still feels like family. Family is an incredible thing, and I get blown away by how they're so good at it in Vegas. It's a gift. They know how to make family feel like family.

And along those lines, (3) a big family dinner on my second day in town. The stars aligned, and a bunch of people ended up being in the same place at once. We all had dinner on Wednesday evening, and I left feeling unabashedly good. I saw family that I hadn't seen in probably 10 or 15 years. A little background info: growing up, the now-Vegas family that I spent the most time with were Aunt Pat and Nana Betty, Uncle Mike and Aunt Kim, and my cousins Mike, Kath, and Allison. Sort of on the periphery for me were my Aunt Lil and her family and my Uncle John (who everyone calls Butch). I saw both Uncle John and Aunt Lil at this dinner. It was, quite simply, wonderful to see Aunt Lil. The wonder of the internet has unexpectedly made us closer than we ever were when we both lived in Illinois as the blogosphere allows us to follow each other's lives, which happen to be going in sort of parallel directions. We've both embarked on life-changing adventures in the past year--hers on the open roads across the country, mine in the vast avenues of New York City and its Department of Education. You can read her blog at . Anyways, it was cool to finally see her in person and meet Jim, her partner in crime. Equally exciting in a way that I find difficult to put into words was seeing Lil's daughter Amy, her husband Matt, and her daughter Kayleigh. I can't remember the last time I saw Amy, and if I ever met Kayleigh it was when she weighed about 15 pounds. (Although I remembered how to spell her name.) It was great because Amy is super smart and sweet, and 6th-grade Kayleigh is obviously following in her footsteps, and the three of them seem so happy together. I felt happy just to be related to them. Plus, it was keenly nostalgic to see this friendly, articulate, intelligent (straight-A's), Beatles-loving kid in the middle of a family gathering because the last time I saw everyone that's pretty much where I was at in life. I wish nothing but the best for them; it was a brief dinner, but I'm already a huge fan.

So it's with these experiences that I came back to New York with something of a heavy heart (if only because it was filled to the brim with so many good moments). Wait, sorry, one other thing before I move on: I am amazed by my Nana Betty. At 89, she's still the life of the party and has an infectious energy about her. Thank you, Nana Betty and Aunt Pat, for everything while I was staying with you.

Okay, back to coming back to New York. It was a little strange being back. By now, the week's flown by and it was great and I finally saw my teaching fellow friends from over the summer, and I just ate the greatest taco I've ever tasted, and I'm having a great time. But, as you can see by the length of this post, I'm still thinking about everyone back home and in Vegas. It's that strange duality of living in New York. I'm here to explore who I am, but I also know that I am most me when I'm with those I've left behind.

But I'll leave that thought for another post.

Until next time.

The Breakfast Club

I'm heading out to Laguardia in about 10 minutes, but I have an irrepressible urge to write about my last few days. I'm going to do my best to capture as much as I can. Let's start with what I found most interesting. A series of bizarre events led to me taking the role of this man for the entirety of yesterday:



Let me explain. I served as a chaperon on the 10th grade trip to Philadelphia. We take the students around to different colleges in the area for 3 days. It was a blast because the 10th graders happen to be an exceptional group of kids. We were scheduled to play mini-golf Monday night, but torrential downpours changed our plans. The staff decided to hang out in a college dining hall for about 2 and a half hours instead. There's only so much soft serve ice cream a 15-year-old can eat before he or she starts to look for mischief.

"Mischief" came in the form of a legitimate sex education seminar across the hall in the student union. Apparently some students went to the seminar under the misguided notion that they had permission (not from me - when one student asked me about it, I responded, "Where? In some guy's dorm room? Uh-uh. No way.") These were some of our best students. When one of the teachers stormed into the seminar and dragged them out, a couple of them protested their innocence a little too heatedly and earned the privilege of spending the rest of the trip in something of a lock down with a faculty supervisor. That faculty supervisor? You guessed it. Yours truly. I immediately started humming "Don't You Forget About Me" when they told me I would be spending Tuesday in the college library with the two students held in contempt. I found the entire scenario to be incredibly amusing, especially considering I have a lot more in common with this guy than Principal Warren:



I have to fly home to Chicago right now, but I'll fill you in on the thrilling conclusion to the story as soon as I can.