This post will mostly be pictures. It will document the Sunday Funday I had with my friends wherein (after I ran a manly twelve miles) we drank a healthy amount of soju and beer and danced and sang in a dark, cramped room, got Thai massages, and ate a large quantity of beef.
Archive for March, 2010
Remember that old line of verse, Pizza in the morning/ Pizza in the evening/ Pizza at suppertime? I believe Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote that one after a weeklong bender’s hangover was cured by a fine lass and a large ‘za from Papa John’s. (The second verse was something like, Whores in the morning/ Whores in the evening/ Herpes at suppertime.) Well, he (or whoever) was so right. I’ve figured out that there is no better breakfast than a cup of coffee and a couple slices of the good stuff.
“How did you learn this?” you surely ask. For snack time this morning, the children and I were given slices of pizza, and I had a cup of coffee from Paris Baguette* to accompany the food. This snack time looked especially promising, since one of the four children in my class did not want her slice of ‘za. So, let’s do the math: five slices, and only four individuals want theirs. That means good ol’ Mike Teacher gets two. Sweet serenity.
I quickly finished my first child-sized slice and my fingers were mere centimeters away from meeting that awesome combination of crust, sauce, cheese, and toppings. Suddenly, a tiny voice piped in:
“Teacher, can I have pizza?” Annie asked.
My heart sank. I’ve never so wanted to violently throttle a child. (Just kidding! Of course I’ve wanted to violently throttle children much more on previous occasions. Why, just yesterday, I was dreaming of what it would be like to have these two annoying children tossed down a flight of stairs. A flight of fancy is what it would be like.) I reluctantly gave the last slice of pizza to Annie. As I watched her eat what was rightfully mine, delighted with the perfect mixture of tastes that only comes with pizza, my heart rose up to its original place (a quarter-inch above my greedy stomach); I had learned a lesson. As satisfying as it is to enjoy a slice of pizza on one’s own, it is rewarding just the same to see another person partake in such satiation. Pizza: the greatest teacher the world has ever known.
*Three or four of the five days a week that I work, I stop in at Paris Baguette to get coffee. I always just get the Cafe Americano, because it is the closest thing to a regular cup of coffee. I think the women who work there at first found it funny, kind of charming, and maybe even somewhat admirable, that here I was, an American myself, always ordering the drink of my homeland. Lately though, I think they’ve just started mocking me to each other in their indecipherable language when I am there.