9:21 a.m. on 2002-01-11
math and arson

Ok, what the fuck do math and arson have in common? Well, for me, they have a strange connection. Firstly, I hate math. I know that makes me a square, and very uncool, but I hate it. Anyone who ever said that gym teachers made their lives miserable, apparently never had math teachers. I read an article recently that said most people's "math-phobia" can be traced back to one single bad episode. Indeed.

For some god-unknown reason, I was promoted in the 3rd grade to advanced math. Didn't they notice me using celery sticks in the 2nd grade when I ran out of fingers? Apparently not. So, off to MS (emphasis on the very bachelorette-correct MS. because no man with blood flowing to his balls would've married this heartless bitch)Rosenblum's 3rd grade math class. Things were off to a bad start when the bitch (as I fondly remember her) said: "By the end of this month, you will all know and recite the times tables, starting from 1x1 all the way down to 12x12." Wait! Did they have enough celery sticks in the school for me? Of course not. This was advanced math.

I developed a severe case of the runs, as I would often during semi-traumatic events to come. Much to my dismay, after two days of class, some kids actually volunteered to recite the timestables. "What dorks!" I thought. David Hunter and Matthew Malter-Cohen (sounds like a dessert, doesn't it) made it all the way to 8x12- the competition continued the next day, a kind of uber-dork tournament. I sweated it out on the sidelines, knowing full well that the bitch would eventually start calling names in alphabetical order.

Malter-whatever and Hunter finished that day. Then, Rosenblum pulled out a plastic chest (no, not hers) and let the little math wizards pick a toy out. The class "ooooh"ed and "ahhhh"ed. I got to go that day. Made it all the way up to 2x6 before the house of celery that was barely standing in my mind, collapsed. Rosenblum: "I guess you don't want a toy?"

I went home and studied my ass of. Weeks went by, and I finally got my chance again. I was among the last seven to complete in the class. Then, the ultimate humiliation. "I'm sorry, Mr. Connor, but we have no toys left. Maybe next time, you'll do better." For the record, I think to this day that what the bitch did was the most humiliating thing that a kid could have done to him/her by a teacher. Anyone, flas forward to the 7th grade.

I had this real slick Italian math teacher named Mr. Dipiazza. He was one of these "I'm gonna make math cool for the kids" but he was really just a sleaze. Another one who berated the slower paced (retarded=me!)kids. I failed three tests and was desperate to pass the final. So, I went out to the library and took out "State Vector Spaces with Indefinite Metric in Quantum Field Theory" in the hopes that Dipiazza, seeing me with such a scholarly book, would pass me along. Well, I brought the book to class and laid it on the desk next to me.

Dipiazza walked by and spotted it. He read the cover. By the looks of it, Dipiazza knew as much about "State Vector Spaces" as he did about, say, "The Hole in the Ass of the Great Kodiak Bear." I failed that class and ended up losing state vector spaces.

In my sophmore year of high school, I hit rock bottom. I was placed in bi-lingual remedial math. Why was this the absolute dregs? Because I speak no other language than English. There was a whole lot of "dos"ing and "cuatro"ing going on and I just sat and stared. On the bright side, the whole class failed, and a record curve was set. Luis, Jose, Miguel and the rest of my latino brothers (in math)had done good. Real good.

Four years ago, my neighborhood had a bonfire during the halloween parade. Residents were invited to "feed the fire" and also view the kiddies of PS 321 (my old school) show off their costumes. I called up the school and made up some cockamamie story about needing to know if Mrs. Rosenblum would be taking her class there. Of course, all the classes would be there. I then proceeded to make the best symbolic investment I've made to this day. I bought some cheap math study books at the local store.

I went up to the bonfire by Prospect Park and waited for the 321 classes to arrive. I saw Rosenblum, older, but she still looked like a bitch. I walked up to her and said, "Do you remember me?" Like an angry cunt, she said, "No, why should I." I explained who I was and that I had had a class with her..blahblahblah. You know, the bitch never even cracked a smile? So, I turned to her class and announced, "I'm a former student of Mrs. Rosenblum's and I'm here to show my appreciation for math." I chucked the math guides into the bonfire. Burn baby burn! The kids all laughed, and a few dumb ones, like I was, got all giddy and excited. "At next years fire", I said. "I want all of you to do the same." Rosenblum looked pretty fucking furious. Laughed all the way home. I still use celery sticks if I get stuck.

in the slammer - up for parole