To the parents of P.S. 128 Students:

Reports have come in from the last year and they are distinctly not as depressing as we had expected them to be.

For children in grades 3-8, math scores have remained approximately the same, which indicates that, if you ask your child in grade 3-8 to compare his or her math score from last year to this year, s/he will likely be unable to tell you what, if any, change has occurred. That said, s/he will more than likely use numbers in some fashion in whatever explanation s/he gives to you, a not unencouraging fact from the educator’s standpoint.

Don’t worry about your child being upset by stumbling across that information; reading scores have likewise attained approximately the same levels as last year, with nearly 1/3 of our students not-failing, and another 42% showing at least some understanding of the fact that a test was underway.

Over 86% of students tested managed not to be ejected from the test facility, and of those 86%, our estimates indicate that the vast majority stayed awake throughout the duration of the test. This is a sharp rise from last year’s rates, though it must be noted that we chose not to ban handheld-gaming devices from this year’s tests.

On the math test nearly 80% of students spelled their names correctly or close-enough to correctly for their classroom head to figure it out, a number we nearly matched on the reading tests, where 72% of students managed the same.

Like we said, we here at P.S. 128 are very not-disappointed in all of these results.

To put these numbers into perspective, we’re getting close to reaching city-wide average levels of proficiency, a number we arrived at by asking one of our “passing” math students to puzzle it out. Compared to the state as a whole, we’re still well below average levels, but thanks to cuts in statewide educational funding, which have particularly affected rural areas, we’re closer to the statewide-average than we have been in years past.

If all other factors remain the same, our math head believes we should be able to meet in the middle with students statewide in as little as 4 years, though it would be good to temper her optimism by noting that she was a graduate of P.S. 128 herself.

When I was a senior in High School one of the biggest assignments I remember having to do was to create a Senior Anthology.  We were given guidelines on how many pages it should be, and some basics on what we should include, but we were pretty much given 100% creative freedom on the project overall.  The only requirement was that it include a one-page essay in which we were to discuss one of the major literary works we studied that year, explaining what it was about and why we chose that as our focus.

Now I had always wanted to be a writer, but in High School, my focus was not entirely on expanding my literary repertoire, nor at any point was I focused on scholastic achievements overall.  So, as I sat up all night the night before the assignment was due throwing shit together at random, I was completely freaking out that I had saved the serious essay part for last.

I now bring you, verbatim, the only article within my entire Senior Anthology I was to take seriously, which instead, I started writing about 3 hours before the first period bell rang.  I had furiously flipped through my collection of Cliff’s Notes at the 11^th hour only to come up with the idea to compare Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex to modern day society by drawing parallels between it and the Jerry Springer show.  As you will read, it was at this point I literally throw the towel in on any chance of passing this class.  Thank God my English teacher had a sense of humor or I definitely wouldn’t have graduated and gone on to college, and would probably still be working at the mall or something… wait…

Of all the stories we’ve had the pleasure of reading this year in AP English, the classic Greek tragedy, Oedipus Rex, was by FAR my favorite.  I mean, it was a little easier to understand than those poems, and the story line was much more interesting than some of the other stuff we had to read… I mean Araby? Really? Just pick something up from the gas station, she’s not gonna know the difference.  And get some confidence.  Anyway, I think the reason I liked this story so much, was because it was so crazy.  I mean how does all that happen to a person?  It’s totally like an episode of Jerry Springer.  Let me explain…

Ok, so the story begins with the King of an ancient Grecian City named Oedipus Rex.  He totally hates his life because everyone in his kingdom has super strep throat, and they all want to come complaining to him about it… like he’s a doctor or something.  This same exact thing happened like twelve years ago, and he bailed everyone out then too, so he kind of saw it coming.  Anyway, Rex decides to do a little investigating and discovers that this time, all the bad mojo is going down because the previous king had been murdered and no one had thought to avenge his death.  Come on people, this is ancient Greece; you have to avenge the death of your own king.  Well, he isn’t really able to get the buy-in with everyone calling in sick, so he has to take matters into his own hands.  He gives this blind guy a call who is supposed to see the future and the past and all this stuff, to see if he can get some clues or something and the guy totally accuses him of being the murderer!  WTF!?  He is totally ready to kick his ass for throwing around these wild accusations, hello, he’s the King.  Luckily his cougar lover Jocasta shows up and is all “chill Rex, fighting doesn’t solve anything, besides, prophets aren’t always right”.

So, Oedipus doesn’t end up fighting… but he is totally weirded out, because the blind guy was also going on and on about a prophecy or something about a baby being left in the mountains and growing up to kill his father and hook up with his Mom which casts a plague upon all human kind or some crap.  The story is definitely a little far-fetched, but it totally gets him thinking, because he doesn’t exactly know who his Dad is, and he did actually kill a guy a few years ago, and he was just really starting to get this creeping feeling about Jocasta, like maybe she had a lot more fun in her youth than she originally disclosed when they first started dating.  So, the story progresses and it turns out that Jocasta actually had a kid that she had just dropped off in the mountains, and she was pretty sure her baby daddy of that kid was the guy that Oedipus killed that one time, and this all happened about the time that Oedipus would have been born.  So, I think you can see where the story is headed from here.  Jocasta totally freaks out because she was wrong about EVERYTHING and has been doing it with her long lost son all this time, which is totally gross, so she hangs herself.  Oedipus can’t even cope, so he cuts his own eyes out and just disappears.  There’s a sequel though.

Anyway, I’d say that beats an out of control teen transsexual midget paternity test mixup episode of Jerry Springer any day, am I right?

All in all, I can honestly say I am very appreciative of this class, giving me the opportunity to study this work of literature.  I know exactly what I am going to do if anyone ever tries to tell me the Classics are boring… throw a chair at them!  JERRY!  JERRY!  JERRY!

In the words of the immortal Prince, “Dig if you will the picture”: I was in the 8^th ave. subway terminal trying to catch the late night L train to Brooklyn. An older gentleman clad in a denim jacket with matching jeans was a few steps in front of me as we both rushed to get into a train which was about to depart. We were both at a full run and just about to make it through the doors when this man suddenly came to a dead stop to hold the door for his… ahem… larger friend who was still huffing and shuffling his way down the stairs. So, with the reflexes of a leopard, I sidestepped the geriatric and squeezed into the train just as the doors closed.

Now let’s pause for a moment to make something absolutely clear. I did not bump into this man. I did not touch him. I did not shove him out of the way nor did I stab him with a homemade shiv. I merely slipped into the train as the doors closed, sat down, and peacefully started reading my book. That being understood, I shall proceed.

While I was waiting for the train to begin moving, I began to hear muffled shouting from outside. Intrigued, I turned to look out of the window and was surprised to see Levi Strauss’ Grandfather and his friend the human Bullfrog screaming and making obscene gestures at me. Bullfrog’s jowls flopped and shook in a mighty rage as he raised his sausage-like middle finger in flaccid defiance while Metamucil clutched his chest with one hand (obviously overwhelmed with the excitement), and wheezed the words, “fuck you jackass” in slow, methodical, easy-to-read-the-lips manor.

A brief wave of confusion washed over me. What provoked these two men to cause such a rude and barbaric scene? Then, like a flash of angry, stupid lightning, it hit me. Amphibian Andy and Harry Hip Replacement were livid that I was on the train and they hadn’t made it. These two human tumors were lashing out viciously at a complete stranger, presumably because he had not stopped to help hold a door. “Well…Fuck… That”, my internal monologue calmly stated, speaking in the subtle yet powerful voice of Clint Eastwood circa 1979. I suddenly erupted into a Viking furry. My own erect middle finger, like the phallus of the god himself, cleaved the heavens and my thundering roar caused the women and children on the train to weep, and the bowels of the men to evacuate. Confident that I had emerged the victor from the altercation, my laughter bellowing like a champion, I returned to my book, and waited for the train to leave. It would only be a moment before Alzheimer’s and Swamp Thing would be nothing more than a story to laugh about with friends over a few beers. But then…

“DING!”

Shitdick motherfucker.

The doors slid open again and the now dangerously enraged individuals entered the train. “Wonderful,” I thought, “Now I have to deal with this.” Toadman let out a primordial groan and his voice croaked, “Punch him!” His eyes, which were situated as far apart as they could be while still remaining on his face, were wild with excitement as he encouraged what honestly looked like a nursing home fugitive to take a swing at me. “Lets dance then, old man.” I snarled, brandishing my switchblade and mace.

With an effortless flick of the wrist, I carved a calligraphic D into the weathered paper-like skin of Father Time’s forehead as he hobbled towards me. Methuselah collapsed, no doubt soiling his depends, And Toad-Creature leapt towards me, morphing the fat of his hands into something vaguely resembling fists. Without thought the mace can, like dangerous metallic extension of my body, acted on its own, releasing its toxic and putrid contents directly into the dull, dead eyes and gaping maw of this abomination. My bloodlust engorged I roared “I will end you!” as I pummeled both men savagely.

Just kidding. Like the little literary pussy I am when the two men got onto the train after the doors reopened I buried my face into my book, pretending not to hear them mutter insults at me. However I immediately decided that I must passive aggressively write about this situation to get it out of my system.

Upon reflection, this strange situation certainly gives one pause. It indeed takes a very specific type of person to scream at and threaten with violence a complete stranger over absolutely nothing; however, unfortunately it is not as uncommon as it should be.

Being a “writer” these days really means “working shit jobs in the service industry”. So since I am a “writer” I have been employed in most human doormat positions you can possibly imagine. I have encountered innumerable types of people, and what shocks me, what absolutely floors me, is that people will without hesitation straight up scream at you.

Now I know that as a server, lifeguard, valet or whatever it is you sober up and realize you’re doing, most of these brutes have little to no respect for you. But I thought we had made it out of the jungle where mindlessly flinging our shit at one another was an acceptable way to resolve conflict. That night the Bullfrog and Methuselah reminded me that sadly, I am quite mistaken.

Despite my best efforts, none of the following offerings were accepted at the various greeting card companies I optioned them to:

Option 1:

Front Cover: Happy Earth Day!

Inside: What better way to commemorate it than with a paper card.

Image Suggestion: A powerful, ancient oak wreathed in the delicate mists coming out of the tailpipe of the flatbed it’s laying on.

Option 2:

Front Cover: Happy Boxing Day!

Inside: Because you’re not worth the extra cost of shopping before the real markdowns.

Option 3:

Front Cover: (In flowing script) Waking or sleeping, I hear your voice/I see your face in every flower./No other woman catches my eye,/There’s only you; such is your power./So hear my plea/This very hour/And follow me to/Love’s sweet bower.

Inside: Happy Mother’s day!

Option 4:

Front Cover: Image only

Inside: Even though we both know you do a secretary’s job, I’ll refer to you as a “PA” all day long. Happy “More Than A” Secretary’s Day!

Image Suggestion: The pot of coffee that no amount of “personal assistance” has ever made drinkable. I mean, she’ll deliberately fuck things up if I don’t give her this damned card, but really, it’s like rewarding a child for wetting the bed.

Option 5:

Front Cover: Image only

Inside: Polish up your pole for Flag Day!

Image Suggestion: A very, very shiny flagpole. And long. And ramrod straight. And see if you can’t find one that looks a lot like a penis.

Note: Variations, including “Spit-shine your pole for Flag Day,” “Give your pole a good, attentive rubdown for Flag Day,” and “Like many iconic American images, flagpoles are incredibly phallic,” were likewise rejected.

Option 6:

Front Cover: Let’s bury the hatchet…

Inside: That way they won’t be able to tie us to her body.

Image Suggestion: Whatever you use, I’d strongly suggest it’s not a map of the woods just off of Rte. 115. I strongly suggest something else.

Option7:

Front Cover: Happy Birthday, to the love of my life.

Inside: There’s nothing like just getting a card to let you know how much that’s worth.

Image Suggestion: Whatever. Who the fuck cares?

“This is a city, after all, where people are willing to do just about anything to pay cheap rent. Among recent Craigslist offerings: a windowless cubby in Williamsburg, alternately described as a ‘torture chamber’ and a ‘unique dungeon,’ for $525, and half of an East Village bunk bed, for $550.” – The New York Times

That Old New York Complaint…
You know how they say there’s never enough closet space in this city? Well you’ll feel exactly the opposite in this charming West Village room/share!

The closet you’d be taking is big enough for a mattress, but full disclosure: other furniture would be a stretch.

Fuller disclosure: when I say “big enough for a mattress,” I mean “positioned vertically, and bent in the center.”

Okay, so maybe you’d agree with the complaint, but really, just having a space to call your own in this city is priceless.

For you, though, the price will be $650/month

Spice up our condo!
Some time ago the wife and I bought a unique bed – specifically one made out of nails – to spice up our marriage.

Now the marriage is saved, but our mortgage is at risk –  even though we paid $3000 for this bed, we’re willing to sell it to you for as little as $2250!

Better yet, if you don’t have a love nest of your own to pin this bed down to, we’d be happy to rent you the corner of our Brooklyn Heights bedroom, where the bed currently sits, for as little as $450/month!

If you choose the renting option, we will unfortunately not have space for you to sleep next to the bed on the floor – my wife gets up to use the bathroom regularly in the night. We also won’t be able to allow you to simply buy the bed and dispose of it, renting the space it currently occupies for your own sleeping-bag or cot-bed purposes, since the low-low rent price is contingent on occasionally letting my wife and I use our little dungeon device.

But hey, on those nights, you get to sleep on our perfectly good mattress! Until we’re done and want it back, that is.

Location, Location, Location!
They always say you pay more for your address than your place, but with this charming room/share you’ll get the best of both worlds.

The room is just at Penn Station, and is going for a mere $575/month, not including utilities, bathroom tokens, and locker storage beyond the single 6′x2′ unit that comes with the room.

To clarify, by “just at Penn Station,” I mean “inside Penn Station,” and by “room,” I mean “the bench outside the third-floor women’s bathroom.”

Act fast – this room will be gone faster than the next Acela train!

Upper East Side Doorman Building
We’re looking for an additional roommate to make our stunning pre-WWII Upper East Side apartment affordable!

Apartment has built-in shelving in every room, 14-foot high ceilings, full kitchen, 2 baths, and free wireless. Your room would cost just $500/month, utilities included.

While all of the floor space has already been carefully divided between the 38 roommates you’ll be meeting soon, and while the aforementioned shelves already house 7 of them, you’ll have your choice between the 2′x2′ shower-stall in the second bathroom or directly-on-top-of-Tom, who promises he won’t do anything that weird, at least not on purpose.

Before making your choice, be aware that we call it the “Number 2 bathroom” for more reasons than one, and that Tom refuses to address his mother-issues with therapy.

Can’t wait for you to move in!