Rattled
10-15-99 F 8:10 PM
Is it really eight ten pi em? Todd Pratt is up in the bottom of the ninth at Shea in Game Three of the National League Championship Series. I'm watching it at the bar in El Coyote. It has been an extraordinarily weird day. Extraordinarily WEIRD. Where do I start? Butt and I are having our problems, which is not out of the ordinary except that I'm pretending to take them seriously. I left the house without kissing her today. I went with Florelle to the corner market for some grape juice and a bran cookie. In class, we corrected our statement/question homework and started our book reports. It's the bottom of the ninth. The Braves just won one to nothing. Mike Ribitcha sucks. Tangents. A woman at the bar rubs her face. Tangents. I took my class to the library. Two kids forgot their books. No big. Ozhyaday had to stay in at recess because she wouldn't say, "Okay, Teacher." Call me a despot. We took a math test before lunch. Or the kids did; I read the paper. I grabbed Taco Hell at lunch. When I came back, the Assistant Principal and the Title One Coordinator, and the Senior T. A. were waiting for me. One of my third graders had, pulled a girl into the bathroom, bound her hands with tape, gagged her with tape, and fondled her before she escaped, I was told. None of them speak Spanish, so it came upon me to reprimand the boy. He was sobbing. I said, "Calmete." He copped to it all. Blech. End of the world. I don't know how to express this. Maybe it's how kids play doctor in the nineties. I explained to him what he did was wrong, and he said he knew and was sorry. Maybe it's a forgivable mistake, something he imitated from some rated-R movie playing on cable at three o'clock in the afternoon. Bondage? In third grade? I'm rattled. ~~~
I was riding my bike up La Brea to drink at El Coyote. I happened to pass Miss Villasenor on the street. Bless the traffic this once. I told her I was going for a drink and invited her. She said she had to go to the bank. When I passed her again, she said she'd meet me at El Coyote. More later.
Is it really eight ten pi em? Todd Pratt is up in the bottom of the ninth at Shea in Game Three of the National League Championship Series. I'm watching it at the bar in El Coyote. It has been an extraordinarily weird day. Extraordinarily WEIRD. Where do I start? Butt and I are having our problems, which is not out of the ordinary except that I'm pretending to take them seriously. I left the house without kissing her today. I went with Florelle to the corner market for some grape juice and a bran cookie. In class, we corrected our statement/question homework and started our book reports. It's the bottom of the ninth. The Braves just won one to nothing. Mike Ribitcha sucks. Tangents. A woman at the bar rubs her face. Tangents. I took my class to the library. Two kids forgot their books. No big. Ozhyaday had to stay in at recess because she wouldn't say, "Okay, Teacher." Call me a despot. We took a math test before lunch. Or the kids did; I read the paper. I grabbed Taco Hell at lunch. When I came back, the Assistant Principal and the Title One Coordinator, and the Senior T. A. were waiting for me. One of my third graders had, pulled a girl into the bathroom, bound her hands with tape, gagged her with tape, and fondled her before she escaped, I was told. None of them speak Spanish, so it came upon me to reprimand the boy. He was sobbing. I said, "Calmete." He copped to it all. Blech. End of the world. I don't know how to express this. Maybe it's how kids play doctor in the nineties. I explained to him what he did was wrong, and he said he knew and was sorry. Maybe it's a forgivable mistake, something he imitated from some rated-R movie playing on cable at three o'clock in the afternoon. Bondage? In third grade? I'm rattled. ~~~
I was riding my bike up La Brea to drink at El Coyote. I happened to pass Miss Villasenor on the street. Bless the traffic this once. I told her I was going for a drink and invited her. She said she had to go to the bank. When I passed her again, she said she'd meet me at El Coyote. More later.
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
posted by johnz at 6:28 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home