the Belles of the Ball

I can honestly say my heels were killing me.

Lebanon explained

Hezballah: poke-poke-poke
Israel: Cut it out!
Hezballah: poke-poke-poke
Israel: I'm serious, cut it out!
Hezballah: poke-poke-poke
[Israel hits Hezballah]
Hezballah to UN: Mom! He hit me!
UN: Stop whining. I have other things to deal with.
Iran: (whispering) don't worry, uncle is here.
Hezballah: Poke-poke-poke
[Israel slaps Hezballah again]
Hezballah: You wanna piece of me? Come and get it.
USA: Stop that fighting back there! Hezballah, try to stop poking, OK? You're bothering your mum. And you, Israel, keep your hands to yourself.
Israel: Yes, dad.
Hezballah: poke-poke-poke
[Israel slaps Hezballah again]
Hezballah: Mom! He hit me again!
UN [distracted]: mm hmm
Iran: heres a quarter, keep it up.
Hezballah: poke-poke-poke
[Israel beats Hezballah to a bloody pulp]
Hezballah, touching his nose and then staring at the blood: Oh Sh*t! What did you do that for?

My homie ain't got a ride or no loot

I have no idea whatsoever what that subject line means but that song has been playing on a loop for about fifteen minutes now. I'm at a computer terminal inside Queen Ethelburga's College (seriously) in the boonies outside of York, England, where I'm teaching a 3 week summer camp. Since it's summer camp and three weeks is no long enough to get boring, it's passing by fairly well so far (on day 3 as we speak). As always, the fun part will be wether or not I'll get paid. The wages are a princely 225 pounds per week, which they have the gall to tax but the food (which is not bad) and the housing (which, after Korea and Poland, is downright majestic) are both free. Plus we're way out in the sticks so there is no place to go and nothing to buy. Think of it as a high-class interment camp. And best of all--there will be Koreans!

Yes! Starting next week, legions of kimchi-stained youth whose worldview extends as far as Dokdo, will descend upon the masses to pull their armhair and poke their bottoms. Not mine however. Oh no....

I'm teaching hormonal Italian and French teenagers. Anyhoo, camp goes until the end of the month and then I will try for another camp or maybe even a respectable job. If there is such a thing.

I am learning heaps about the most quintessential of all English traits, namely looking down on others. York and Leeds are in the north of England an area viewed by those down south as an economic and cultural wasteland populated by drunken incestous unemployed men with bad hair. Clearly those who hold this opinion have never been to Arkansas.

On another note, I am glad to see Ari has introduced himself to readers of this fine piece of literature. He, in turn, may be either glad or disturbed to know that my acting skills are being put to use at tonights' talent show where I have been selected to perform as a cross-dresser. Pictures will follow.

Taking a pierogi break

Finished classes and slept about 12 hours. The train for Budapest leaves at the super-convenient time of 1:17 A.M. This means I'll be hanging out with the local homeless population and will have such stimulating conversations as:

HGWS (Homeless Guy With Shoes): Czesch, czesch. (Hello, hello.)
AHB (Autistic Hungarian Boy): Czesch. (Insert insincere smile.)
HGWS: English?
AHB: Hungarian. English little.
HGWS: Oh! (Big toothless smile.) Magyar!
AHB: Uh huh.
HGWS: (Stands there with said smile, trying to think up ways to hit me up for dough.)
AHB: (Stands there uneasy and guilt-ridden beneath super anti-social exterior.)
HGWS: My friend. Meet my friend.
HGW/OS (Homeless Guy Without Shoes): (Ambles over. Slowly.)
HGWS: (Pointing a finger in my general direction. Finger is a bit shaky due to alcohol consumption.) Magyar!
HGW/OS: Oh Magyar!

I can honestly say that I have about as much zlotys as they do, thanks to the amazing non-paying work-study job I found myself with during the last four months. Since the director of the Uni (a wisened Priestly sort) does not speak English and his chief bootlicker/assistant only speaks it when convenient, I have been unloading my tales of woe on a Polish-American lad who set up the program in the first place. We have an amazingly opportunistic relationship where he sometimes likes me and sometimes hates me, depending on his immediate goals. Currently we have an excellent fight brewing over wether my tuition will be paid as it is supposed to be under the bilingual contracts I signed. For the last four months I lived on an average income of 300 dollars per month (about 4 dollars/teaching hour) all because of the notion of a fully subsidized M.Ed. (The tuition is $1250.) At first the Uni offered to pay half. We are now up to 75%. Within time, they will surely promise 100%. Me and the lad have conversations which go like this:

PO'D&UP'd (Pissed off and underpaid): So did you guys pay the tuition?
MNLYTF (Me no like you today fella): Well the thing is...
PO'D&UP'd (Now displaying his renowned social skills): Yes or no?

Onto the good news. I am officially halfway through my M.Ed. Of course when asking about grades, the Profs took the non-committal approach, having been warned of my propensity of starting every conversation with "But if I remember correctly, you promised that...." Still, I have my fingers crossed until they are every bit as twisted as the rest of me.

Even better, the class titled "Special Education in the regular classroom" is over. For someone whose mother regularly threatened him with being institutionalized, this is excellent news. When in BP, I must find a girlfriend with a Psychology degree.