I spoke on the phone with my father yesterday afternoon. We discussed dating and education. Separately, that is. Although, majoring in love would be kind of cool if it existed.
He asked me what I looked for in a partner. Is it appearance? Values? Common interests? I told him appearance is important, for sure.
He agreed and admitted that appearance was his only criteria for a partner when he was younger which led to future calamities in his personal relationships.
It makes sense, though. When you’re younger, especially in your twenties, you look good. I remember my man, C, used to tell me — we’re young, and good looking. We should capitalize on any opportunities that this benefit provides, whether that means shacking up with as many girls as possible or getting VIP passes into lines at ritzy clubs in Buzios.
He went on to say that while appearance should still be important when choosing a partner, I should also consider, financial stability, common interests, similar values, and education level. That last one is a problem.
Because as much education as a girl has, as many credentials as she may have earned, as many books she may have read…she’s still a girl. She may be intelligent, but emotional compatibility might be a problem with any girls I date.
I can be a robot, which isn’t to say I don’t have any emotions; I just tend to think rationally not just sometimes but more like all the time. I don’t think this makes me anymore intelligent than any girl I’ve been with, it just makes me a guy.
So what girl would be compatible with me? I think Jerry Seinfeld said it best when he found the female version of himself —
No, no this woman is different , she’s incredible. she’s just like me. She talks like me, she acts like me. She even ordered cereal at a restaurant. We even have the same initials.
Wait a minute, I just realized what’s going on.
Now I know what I’ve been looking for all these years…myself!
I’ve been waiting for me to come along and now I’ve swept myself off my feet.
I am listening to Janet Jackson.
Painfully aware of my recent levels of testosterone, I am channeling my inner R&B this cloudy Saturday morning.
Although I’m getting kind of sick of it as there’s only so much running man I can possibly take.
Need to run errands.
I am in my 2nd week of summer vacation and the past 10 or so days have been splendid. The freedom to ease into the morning without having to teach an 8AM class full of 37 teenagers has made me more productive during the day.
6:45AM - Wake up.
6:55 AM - Coffee at the Farmers Market
7:00AM - 8:30AM - World Cup, Newspaper, Water, Cereal, Stretch
8:30AM - 10:00AM - Run/ Lift/ Shower/ Breakfast.
Yes, I spend over 3 hours in the morning to get ready for my day which then comprises of basically Calculus HW, Dodger game, a glass of wine, eating, and in bed by 11:30PM.
Another 5 weeks of this same schedule. Love it.
The World Cup is easily my favorite global event. Much better than the Olympics (summer or winter), much better than World Baseball Classic, much better than witnessing the Milky Way pass through the sky (although I was too young to remember that).
It’s pretty cool to think that somebody 12,000 miles away has his eyes glued to the same televised match placing all his nationalistic pride on the single foot of a hairy Slovakian footballer.
This is the 5th world cup I’ve payed close attention to and I can’t remember so many blown calls from the referees. What I do remember is that with every world cup, US soccer advocates are always saying how this will bring more attention to the sport in America.
No, it won’t. Attention to the sport has always been the same and always will. Probably a step below the NHL and probably 5 steps above the WNBA.
In a nation where we want to see people annihilate each other and perform feats of super human strength (the dunk, the homerun, the crushing safety blitz sack), soccer just has too many quirks for us to get into.
Anyway, go Uruguay!
I went out with a 19 year old girl the other night who I met in class. Way cute, way smart (at least mathematically), and way nothing to talk about. We had studied a few times together this past week, and I thought, hey she’s cute…why not ask her out?
And she said yes. Walked around the promenade. Had dinner. I drank. She couldn’t. Because it would have been illegal, and last thing I wanted to do was be that guy who caters to underage drinking. Conversation? Kinda boring, probably on her perspective as well. I mean, what does a 30 year old have to say to a 19 year that would really capture his attention and vice - versa.
Prior to the age of 20, I had no anecdotes or political stances or critical opinions as in pertains to race, diversity, and how people behave in this world. I, as well as my circle of peers, have truly evolved in the past 10 years to the point where I’m sure I have much more in common with those that are 10 years my elder rather than the opposite.
What to take out of it? Start dating women my own age or at the very least a +/- 5 year age differential.
I don’t think this kid said one word in class all year but he aced all the tests and wrote me this card. Pretty cool!
Yikes, one week without posting. Between NBA finals, world cup soccer, end of the year finals, a trip to the Griffith observatory, enrolling at SMC, looking for a job, and napping…how’s a dude supposed to tumbl?
So, what’s on my mind this Monday morning? Outs.
Outs, as in poker outs — unseen cards that will complete or improve your hand to make it the winning hand. There are many times I’m chasing a card and just happen to hit the right out on the river. There are numerous time that river card shuts me down.
And now I’m wondering what my next out in life is. What card needs to be dealt so that I don’t have to hear:
“Mr. Doan, can I use the bathroom?”
“Mr. Doan, can I do extra work to bring up my grade?”
“Mr. Doan.”
“Mr. Doan.”
“Mr. Doan.”
SHUT UP NOW!!!!!! There’s a strong correlation between teaching low level math classes and annoying high maintenance kids. I’m hoping that my next out is teaching another year of crappy students and then getting a good teaching assignment.
Or I could just go big, get a thoroughbred, and say F.U. to his whole teaching thing.
That would be one helluva river card.
I worry about rap music, math, race, and kids. This is because I care deeply about rap music. So I’m listening to Nas’s Affirmative Action, and in particular Foxy Brown’s verse where she breaks down the math of drug deal:
Thirty-two grams raw, chop it in half, get sixteen, double it times three
We got forty-eight, which mean a whole lot of cream
Divide the profit by four, subtract it by eight
We back to sixteen
A mathematical analysis of Ms. Brown’s lyrics —
32/2 = 16. Check.
16 * 3 = 48. Check.
48/4 = 12. Check.
12 - 8 = 16. O god.
And what makes this even more painful is that the name of the song is AFFIRMATIVE ACTION. Those that are against affirmative action say that students who are denied access to higher institutions of learning shouldn’t get in because they are unqualified and not because of their skin color.
Foxy, you’re basic addition and subtraction skills are not helping this cause.
Dope beat though.
Lots of Laker haters out there and for reasons I can comprehend. So, my man, how is that you grew up watching 80’s showtime AC Green - Grab Board - Outlet to Magic - Full Court Overhead Baseball Pass to Worthy - Streaking Down The Wing - Statue of Liberty Dunk - and not be a Lakers fan today?
Kobe Bryant.
Enough said. He was a little punk 17 year old kid with an arrogant swagger. Today he is a role model to millions. Which is interesting…not long ago he was accused of rape and lucked out of a trial because, by all appearances, he was able to buy off his accuser in a civil settlement.
But who cares really, I don’t root for the character of a player. I root for the ability. What he does for the name, the history, and the legacy on the front of the jersey is important to me. You’re talking to someone who grew up absolutely fascinated by these larger than life players. When my Dad first took me as a 9 year old boy to the corner of Manchester and Prairie and I saw the stadium lights shining on the majestic pillars of the Forum, I knew I was a Laker fan for life.
And so you hate Kobe. You hate his arrogance. You hate his Prima Donna attitude. You hate his manufactured image.
But what does he do for you as a fan of basketball? Does he entertain you? Does he leave you in awe? Does he knock down last second threes so you get free Jack in the Box tacos? Yes. Yes. And Yes.
All Kobe does is provide you with a truly great fan experience when you watch him play.
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There is something very settling and peaceful every time I hang up the phone after talking with my father. I can’t say that my sisters feel the same way about him:
He’s sneaky. He’s shady. You can’t trust him.
Which is understandable. There were poor decisions made on his part as a husband to my mother. But where I differ from my sisters is that I ignore the decisions he made as a husband and look at his actions as a father to his son.
Did he feed me? Did he watch my soccer games? Did he give me an education? Did he call from work in 1988 when I was in third grade and tell me to turn on the TV to watch the Lakers Championship parade?
Absolutely, he did.
All my Dad ever did was provide for me, which is what fathers are supposed to do for their children. He saw early on that I had an interest in sports, he nurtured those interests…and one day, I hope I can do the same for my future kids.
Meantime, I’ll just have people over and make Beer Can Chicken for all my friends while we watch the game.
Job I would really love to have after I ride this whole Math Teacher wave out:
Bullpen Catcher.
I mean, how awesome would it be to play catch for a living? But I guess dude has more responsibilities than just warming up his pitcher and letting him know if that slider is breaking in the zone. Bullpen catchers have to throw batting practice, be the psychologist for the starting pitcher, and set up those $2.25 plastic white K-Mart patio chairs in the ‘pen.
Also, one other duty I never knew about until checking out the Dodgers last night. Bullpen catchers have to break open the gate and lead the charge out the bullpens as they empty onto the field when tempers flare.
I know I’d be the first guy out in full sprint, shin guards and all, trying to protect my teammate. I sure as heck wouldn’t throw a punch because really, let’s be honest, I’m a wuss…but I’d know I’d look super intimidating with my gazelle stride charging the diamond like only a little Vietnamese brother can.
Meantime, as I fantasize about my dream career, reality sets in and I realize the peons I’m teaching probably have never looked at a box score in the paper because:
A) Read…what’s that?
and
B) There are “like decimals and stuff.”
Losers.
