Hollywood Arsonist (It’s LA!) by Brian Leiken

This year the 2012 New Year’s celebration didn’t start on December 31st, but on the 30th.

Around 2 in the morning I awaken to the clamor of sirens as an army of fire trucks rush up Fairfax Avenue, shrieking past my apartment like wailing infants desperate for attention.

At first I thought it was a forest fire, but after I spot a squadron of police cars followed by ambulances, I think it could be a riot or zombie infestation.

Do I have anything to fight off zombies? I do have a pair of swords in my closet, a dull rapier main-gauche and a heavy pirate saber, but neither would be effective at fighting off looters or zombies. (Need to stop watching so much Walking Dead.)

Raising my arms above my head I stretch and relax; no need to panic quite yet, time to find out what’s going on; that’s what the internet is for: stupid pictures of epic fails, illegal downloads, and news. Turns out it isn’t a zombie infestation; it’s an arsonist.

An arsonist. One firebug had taken it upon himself to start a jihad against the overabundance of vehicles in Hollywood, lighting them on fire by placing some kind of accelerant beneath the engine, igniting it, and incinerating the vehicle.

For the arsonist, any vehicle was fair game, so long as it was in an area where no one was watching, but this arsonist was unusual for two reasons.

1. He didn’t appear to have any monetary motive, making him impossible to track.

2. He didn’t stop after the first night or leave the area. On the 31st he kept at it, continuing to blow up vehicles all over West and North Hollywood in the same four square mile area.

This is clearly someone who wanted attention. After the second day I saw that the news story of the Hollywood Arsonist had acquired worldwide attention, having being picked up in Japan, Australia and the BBC news.

The LAPD put up police checkpoints, and firefighters deployed into rapid response teams throughout the city, but that was all for show.

How do you catch a man who doesn’t have an obvious motive? How do you protect an entire city from a lunatic?

In a couple of instances the fires that were lit climbed into apartment buildings, forcing people to flee their homes.

My car was in a locked parking garage, so I was more or less safe, but my roommate made sure to keep his vehicle parked on Fairfax, a street with lots of light and foot traffic. (We have a deal, I get the parking spot, he gets the room with a larger bathroom attached.)

On the first of January Mr. Arsonist was at it again, continuing to light fires and prove the powerlessness of the authorities to stop him, an entire city unable to contain one single fire wielding maniac.

A $60,000 reward was posted to anyone who had information that might lead to the arsonist’s arrest. Soon after the police had a tip and arrested a suspect.

A 53 year old Mexican.

Nope. This had crazy white boy written all over it, I knew as soon as they arrested the Mexican they had the wrong guy. White people may not commit as much crime, but when they do, it’s mucho loco. Drugs, car theft, gang violence - Mexicans. Serial killers, multi-million dollar embezzlement, pyromaniacs - Whites.

On January 2nd a volunteer police deputy on his third ever patrol stops a mini-van on Sunset and Fairfax, two blocks north of where I live. In the back of the van, there are explosives. The driver, Harry Buckhart, is a German immigrant that had been flagged as a person of interest.

An immigration official had reported that Harry Buckhart had acted out in court a few days earlier, ranting against America when he heard that his mother, Dorothee Buckhart, was going to be deported back to Germany on charges of fraud.

German authorities claim she had pilfered security deposits from her renters in Germany, but while living in Southern California American authorities discovered she had committed an even more heinous crime. She didn’t pay her plastic surgeon for her breast augmentation surgery.

That may seem like a small deal to those of you who don’t live in Southern California, but breast augmentation surgery is a vital industry in the Southland.

Not paying a plastic surgeon in LA is like stealing from a church, it's just not done. Our entire media is dominated by breasts; looking at them, discussing them, debating which celebrities are real and which are fake, and plastic surgeons make this all possible.

When Renee Zellweger was diagnosed with breast cancer, it made national news, when Janet Jackson had a “wardrobe malfunction,” it sparked a national scandal.

A woman who won’t pay her plastic surgeon is a woman not worthy of living in Southern California. Dorothee Buckhart was going to have to be deported.

Her son went crazy. Fifty-two fires and millions of dollars of damage later, he’s drawn worldwide attention. He lived just over a mile away and was caught within shouting distance of my residence, a modern day John Bardo, the man who stalked and killed TV star Rebecca Schaeffer.

The question is, why? Why has this sparked so much fear and outrage? No one died, the damage, while severe, pales in comparison even to one forest fire. Buckhart has drawn attention not because of what he did, but the manner in how he did it.

Our society, our entire civilization, is built around a basic assumption that people act in a rational manner, in their own self interest.

It just doesn’t make sense for someone to cruise through a city, night after night, looking to light cars on fire; where’s the motive, who is he targeting?

This time, the police got lucky, Buckhart had given himself away a few days earlier through his outburst, but if one 24 year old amateur can do this much damage, how do you deal with a professional who doesn’t care if they live or die but determined to inflict pain?

There are no answers. Yesterday while walking on Hollywood Boulevard I stopped to stare at a half dozen crooning Elvis impersonators singing to tourists, the day after that to watch a fitness instructor in a Laker’s jersey lead a group of 20 attractive young women through an aerobics fitness routine in a Bristol Farms parking lot.

If you want attention in LA, you have to be over the top, blowing up a couple cars isn’t even a footnote - in Hollywood it’s go big, or go home.

Harry Buckhart went big and got his day in the sun, but in a few months or a year, he’ll be forgotten. Notoriety is like a flare, it burns bright, but fades fast. Just ask Tara Reid or Paris Hilton.

Buckhart might be considered an abnormality in most of the world, but in Hollywood his behavior was just a more creative way to get on the fast track to a TV movie.

You want people to stop acting crazy, then stop paying attention to them. Otherwise, pray you don’t get hit and enjoy the entertainment. That’s LA.

Copyright 2012 Brian Leiken


LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of three books for and about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned I Went Into Teaching for the Money about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of all, he's my son:)

Crossed Out, Messed Up and Knocked Down by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

laleiken.tumblr.com

Man on Fire by Brian Leiken, Guest Blogger

"A man can be an artist...in anything, food, whatever. It depends on how good he is at it.

Creasy's art is death. He is about to paint his masterpiece. I have nothing else to say." - Rayburn, Man on Fire

My art is teaching.

Like most men with delusions of grandeur, I'd like to think I'm something other than I am: a writer, a comedian, a pirate, the Indiana Jones of Southeast Asia. But my true craft, my genuine talent, lies withing the realm of teaching.

It's a skill that's been honed through thousands of hours of practice in the heart of darkness, the inner city classroom, strengthened by teaching the inherently "unteachable," Special Ed. Anyone can teach AP, but not anyone can teach Special Ed.

If you can teach Special Ed in the inner city, you can teach anything.

I used to think I was ineffective, a fraud, a fake. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many times I explained and re-explained, no matter how many hours I spent in review or helping kids with their homework, my students just didn't "get it."

But give me a class full of general ed students, and I transform, metamorphosing from a crude hockey player into an elegant figure skater, gliding through concepts with lectures and discussion that borders on high performance art.

Give me a class of honors and AP, and I am no longer a figure skater, but a God.

You are what you teach.

One of the tricks to teaching is learning not to take things personally, to quell your feelings and your emotional frustration: apprehension, rage, angst - gone.

Like a bemused comedian in the middle of a routine, you are no longer an individual but an act, a persona that oscillates between unflappable royalty and Buddhist monk, because no matter how good you are, you have to accept that some things are beyond your control.

No matter how hard you try, your students still have to be willing to learn and listen.

Sometimes you receive a question in class that is so far out in left field it came from the bleachers.

I'm co-teaching in Duran's economics class, explaining how property values can decline in crime ridden areas when a question is tossed from outside the stadium.

"Mister," Fluffy asks, "What happens if a house is haunted? Does the property go down?"

Sigh, it's Fluffy. Duran takes to the plate first. "Well, then you have to call in the Ghost Busters."

The class laughs. "Ha ha ha, Mr. Duran." Fluffy says loudly. "Very funny. I know there is no such thing as the Ghost Busters."

Shrugging, I return to the board. A small interruption, no big thing.

"But seriously," Fluffy interjects, "what happens when a house is haunted?"

My turn. "Normally after the police ascertain a house is haunted, they call in the Bureau of Paranormal Activity."

The entire class looks up. Bureau of Paranormal Activity! What's that? "Seriously, none of you have heard of the Bureau of Paranormal Activity? Section 13?"

Fluffy sits forward. "Section 13! What do they do?"

"They investigate and solve paranormal crimes; hauntings, aliens, that sort of thing."

"How do you get into it!"

"You study to be a para-psychologist. They're specifically trained to handle ghosts. One of the ways they identify ghosts is by the ectoplasm they leave behind." I state offhandedly.

"How does one get to be one of those!" Fluffy pants, leaning forward.

The class is riveted. Time to crush Fluffy's imaginary dream. "Well, you have to go to college and get a degree in para-psychology."

Fluffy deflates. College. I might as well have told him he had to jump to the moon. "How come I've never heard of Section 13?"

"Talk to me after class."

Twenty minutes later, the bell rings and Fluffy's out the door, question and answer forgotten as he heads out to lunch, but the next day he approaches me with yet another question.

"Mr. Leiken, I tried looking up Section 13 on Google, and I couldn't find anything."

"Well it's not like they are going to have Section 13 on the Internet!" I snort. "They don't want the public knowing about it."

"Oh." Fluffy replies, heading back to his seat.

It's probably the first time Fluffy has ever shown initiative when attempting to research a topic.

Later that week I show an English class one of my blogs, Top 10 Movies: 2010.

Working with Castaneda, we've decided to dedicate one day a week to blog writing in an attempt to get the class to write creatively and work on self expression.

On Friday I give them their first assignment: write one page about a movie or TV show they either loved or hated and explain why they either loved or hated the show or film.

On Monday I ask them to hand in the assignment. Out of forty kids, only eighteen turn in their work, and five of the eighteen turned in not papers but three sentence paragraphs. Curiously, the three Special Ed kids in the class have all completed the assignment.

"Can't we turn it in late, Mister?"

"Sorry, I don't accept late work."

"But you can't expect us to do work on the weekend!"

"Oh no, not the WEEKEND!" I exclaim, throwing up my hands. "Oh my God, the teacher assigned homework on the weekend. We're doomed, DOOMED!"

I fall down to my knees, head raised as I beseech the heavens, sobbing. "Why, God, why? Why have you forsaken us? I can't believe you expect us to do homework on the WEEKEND! Why not just kill us now!"

The class is stupefied, not sure whether to laugh or look ashamed. I pop back up to my feet, grinning. "So, what can anyone tell me about constructive criticism?"

The next time I give an assignment, thirty kids turn it in. That's progress, I guess.

Good teaching is like telling a good joke. Anyone can tell a joke, but not anyone can tell a joke effectively. Cracking jokes is not about the words; it's about the timing. A good joke is not just a set up and a punch line, but a story infused with personality.

Teaching is the same way; anyone can recite facts and present information, but not everyone has the passion, the personality, the inner fire.

A great teacher has a heart of flame, a soul animated not with a bonfire but an inferno, a tornado of enthusiasm that tears away the listless and mundane, a whirlwind that rips through the insipid red tape and brainless bureaucracy of standardized testing and meaningless rules.

Without the fire, you won't make it. There's a reason why teachers who have given up are referred to as burn outs.

As the refrain goes from Damn Yankees, "You got to have heart, miles and miles and miles of heart."

Hopefully, your flame catches a spark in those you teach and inspires them to be more than they are, not diploma approved CST automatons, but free willed thinkers who refuse to live in the cave of cultural conformity.

Writer, comedian, pirate, I am all of those things.

But I am also, and always will be, a teacher. Everyday I teach in the inner city, I continue to create my masterpiece.

I am the man on fire.

Copyright 2011 Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of  three books for and about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned I Went Into Teaching for the Money about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of all, he's my son:)

Crossed Out and Messed Up by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Photo: burning match by Stephen Davies
Photo: class full 'o bored students by mexikids
Photo: flames by patita rds

"Stand Up" Biology by Guest Blogger Brian Leiken

Third block biology is a bitch.

The class has improved slightly from the first two weeks, when the freshman capered about like wild spider monkeys as they devoured their sole source of nutrients, small orange bags of red hot chili nachos.

At first they dropped the refuse into the two foot deep lab sinks, treating the wash basins like trash pits.

Now they just stuff waste in the cabinets beneath the counters. I found close to sixty empty nacho bags in one of the back cabinets, complete with candy wrappers, plastic gatorade bottles, and miscellaneous junk food trash worthy of Homer Simpson.

I've never had to follow so many students outside of class wearing my Parrot costume; usually it's an effective deterrent. Embarrass one kid, and the rest fall in line out of fear of the same happening to them.

By the seventh or eighth victim. the class finally catches on that I would follow each and every one of them to their next class, squawking and chirping while flapping my wings, calling out their name at the top of my lungs in a squeaky parrot voice.

I've never had to follow the same kid twice.

Even then we had to call in the Dean and threaten to expel five of them.

And 90% of them had to fail the first half of the course before it dawned on them that they would have to repeat the class again.

So now it's better, if by better they (mostly) remain in their seats and they (mostly) do their work, even if that means copying from a friend. I'll take it.

When I enter the class now, there is a smattering of catcalls, mostly "LEIKEN" followed by two minutes of my making the rounds. Every boy, and some of the girls, want me to acknowledge them with the "ghetto" handshake of pounding hands.

"Mr. Leiken, I've got an important question! Who would win? Iron Man or the Hulk!"

"The Hulk." This is part of our tradition. I've got four boys who are obsessed with super hero match ups. So long as they do their work, I placate them.

Plus I really like talking about superheroes. If my college friends, John, Steven, Vinnie, or even my roommate Christopher were around, I'd be way out of my league, but the kids don't read comics. They only know movies, so among them I'm like a trivia genius.

"Okay, who would win, Superman or the Hulk?"

I grimace. This is going to take a while. "I told you before, Superman. He can fly, and they had a special Marvel vs DC crossover where the two fought and Superman won."

"Okay, who would win, Batman or Superman?"

"Batman." Four boys immediately begin protesting. How the hell can Batman beat Superman? I cut them off. "Batman cheats. He would trick Superman, and failing that use a kryptonite Baterang."

"Okay, who would win? Iron Man or Batman?"

I pause. That is a good question. "I'll tell you.... after you finish this worksheet."

The boys let out a collective awwww.

I make the rounds around the room, talking with students in clumps of two's or three's. Sometimes we can discuss biology; sometimes we go off topic. What can I do? I'm lucky to get them to pay attention for even a few minutes.

"Mister Leiken, Mister Leiken!" one of the girls calls out. "I've been calling your name and you've been like ignoring me for the past five minutes!"

"There is one of me and forty of you. What is it?"

She thrusts the worksheet out in front of her. "I don't understand it!"

I put it down in front of her and have her read the first paragraph. It's about the water cycle. After we read it, I ask her the first question. She answers it.

"Did you even read it?" I ask her.

"No."

"Why not?"

She actually looks embarrassed.

"Hey, Mr. Leiken! Yo Momma so fat when she gets on a scale, it says to be continued!"

I look at the clock, five minutes until the end of class. I should yell at him, I should give him a stern lecture, I should do a lot of things.

But I can't let that pass. My mother's honor must be satisfied.

"Oh yeah," I snap back, "Yo Momma so ugly that when they put a bag over her head, and she looks in a mirror, it still breaks."

The class cracks up and lets out a giant oooooohhh!

Unlike the kids, I've got fresh material. I think of yo momma jokes on the way home.

Don't ever mess with a writer.

"Yo momma so big," I continue, "they had to put in a double wide garage just to let her in the house!"

The class is laughing hysterically. Another, another, they cry! I give the kid a chance to make a come back. If you don't use original material, the kids will call you on it. You can't repeat an old yo momma joke; that earns you no respect.

Time to move in for the kill. "Yo momma is so fat, when she steps on a dollar bill, you get back change, minus fifty cents!"

My heckler is silent. A chorus of boys in the back begins to chant Cu-ler-o! Cu-ler-o! This basically means "girly man," or "pussy."

Who knew that my years of doing "stand up" would someday be useful?

Copyright 2009-10 by Brian Leiken

Biology 9 photo by Sabrena Carter
Hulk photo by Mauro Martins
Man with Michophone photo by Michal Zacharzewski

LA Teacher Blog
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Brian Leiken is an L.A. inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)

Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Guest Blog: "Cap and Gown" by Brian Leiken

Six years, five graduations, nine hundred school days.

A relatively short period of time in the lifespan of a human, 900 days.

If all the hours I had spent teaching in school were added up into one continuous, non-stop marathon, at 6.6 hours a day, I'd be only 247 days old.

Six years teaching and I'm still just a baby.

This year only two of the students on my case load are graduating, but only one will be at the ceremony, only one will walk across the stage. The other should have graduated last year, but doesn't want to "walk" when most of his senior class graduated a year earlier.

But the girl who is walking across stage is a success story. I've seen her grown from a shy, dependent girl into a slightly less shy but independent young woman. It's been a struggle: building her confidence, teaching her to believe in herself, getting her to work on her own.

"Looking forward to graduation?" I ask rhetorically.

"I'm not going to walk," she says flatly.

"Why?"

"I don't want to walk. It's stupid."

Oh no, this is not happening. "Graduation is a rite of passage, it only comes once. In life, there are no do-overs. You should go."

"No, Mister. I don't want to, it's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Everyone is walking across stage. It will be over in like a second."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to. Graduations are boring."

"Of course they're boring!" I exclaim. "Graduation is supposed to be boring! It's for your parents, and your teachers, and your family! Graduation is for everyone but you!"

The girl looks at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze.

It occurs to me there is more going on here than meets the eye; the benefit of six years, five graduations and 900 days experience. "If you don't do this," I continue, "you may live to regret it."

The girl mumbles something. I ask her to repeat herself, leaning in.

"I don't have the money, Mister."

"Money for what?"

"It's a hundred dollars for the cap and gown."

"A HUNDRED DOLLARS! Cold hard cash?"

The girl nods, quietly embarrassed.

"What about your parents?" I ask. "Don't they have the money?" The girl shakes her head. I've known that her family is poor, I once had to "loan" her and her sister money to go see Eclipse. "Do they want you to go?" The girl nods, gaze furtively darting about the room.

"I want you to go the rehearsal today at lunch. You are going to graduate."

"But I don't have the money."

"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."

"But, I don't have the money."

"I'll get you your cap and gown. Go."

I go the special ed department first, explaining the situation. Borquez and Khazani immediately start asking their students; some seniors short on credits have already bought their cap and gown but won't be needing the gown since they won't be graduating.

Nothing.

An aide who graduated two years ago says he'll bring in his blue and silver cap and gown, after all, he isn't using it. Caps and gowns don't really change; South East's 2005 graduating class would fit right in with the 2010.

But his father has already thrown the aide's cap and gown away. Turns out he didn't think his son would ever need to use it.

Ms. Owens finds a website that sells the gowns for $15, but time is short and it will cost me through the nose to have it shipped.

Eventually, I go to the head of leadership and ask her if I can buy the gown at cost, or about $50. The head of leadership agrees. Khazani, Martinez and Solorio all help contribute cash.

I go back to the girl, handing her the money. I could have paid for it directly, but I want her to buy it for herself. She deserves that.

Two hours later she enters my room with a small plastic bag containing the gown, cap, a black sash embroidered 2010, and a small medal. (In today's world, graduation is worthy of a medal.)

"I have my cap and gown, Mr. Leiken."

I nod, looking up from where I am helping a student finish up a paper. "Awesome, so how was rehearsal?"

"It was okay."

The girl goes to my window, looking out over the football field, where students are lining up for the senior photo. She stares in silence, twisting the cap and gown bag in her hands in endless loops.

"Aren't you going to join the seniors for the photo?"

"No. It's too hot."

"You should go. Be a part of it."

"No, I don't want to." she answers, staring at the crowd outside.

I stop lecturing her. Sometimes you have to let people do what they want to do. Nothing is said, nothing is spoken. Neither of us is bothered by the silence, the lack of conversation.

The bell rings, and the girl turns. "Goodbye, Mister," she says, exiting the room.

It's her way of saying thanks.

Six years, five graduations, 900 days.

It never gets old.





Copyright 2010 by Brian Leiken


LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/
Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)

Photo of cap and diploma by Mary Gober
Photo of We're done! by Kati Garner

Guest Blog: The Seven Faces of Dr. Leiken

"The Seven Faces of Dr. Leiken" by Brian Leiken

There is an old Japanese proverb:

Every man has three faces...

One he shows the world.
One he shows his family.
And one only he himself knows.


As a teacher, I have many different faces, personas I adopt to cajole and persuade, educate and sway, discipline or embarrass. Personas are my instruments, my tools, mechanisms of behavioral engineering. Each persona is tailor made for a specific job, a character invented to create a desired reaction.

Sometimes I am the Joker, the comedian, part stand up humorist, part clown. The Joker is used to bring levity, to make light of a bad situation or to deflect potential embarrassment.

"Mr. Leiken," one of the girls flirts, eyes fluttering, "have I told you I love you?"

The class leans in, tongues lapping.
Out pops the Joker.

"I know," I respond cooly, checking my nails. "No need to state the obvious." The class laughs, the situation is defused. I love the Joker.


Other times I'm the Performer. Unlike the Joker, he's mostly flash, eager to make an impact and put on a show. I pull out a banana, peeling off strips as I eat it. I explain that in the old days hogs traditionally cleaned the streets, eating all the refuse dropped by people.

I toss bits of banana peel down the central aisle of the classroom. The class gasps. A second later they start giggling.

I ask rhetorically would would happen if no one picked the bananas up?

"The hogs won't eat them!" someone shouts. "People would slip on them!"

"So how would you solve the problem?" I ask.
The class debates this; finally one brave soul calls out, "Have people throw them in trash cans?"

I nod, picking up a wastebasket as I toss in the banana peels. "Correct. The banana was the reason we have laws against littering and public trash cans." The class applauds. Ta da! The Performer takes a bow.


Other times I am the Fixer, solving the unsolvable with workable solutions. He is a faciliator, a negotiater, resolving conflicts through the art of diplomacy and mediation. The Fixer is calm, cool, and manipulative, the proverbial velvet glove surrounding a fist of steel.

Failing a class? Being bullied? Need to change an elective?

The Fixer takes care of it. He doesn't take "no"; he just finds a new solution.


Occassionally I am the Tyrant. The Tyrant can't be bargained with. He can't be reasoned with. He doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And he absolutely will not stop, ever, until he has removed or disciplined his target.

The Tyrant is a robot dictator, a cold emotionless being with chilly eyes and an icy demeanor. I don't like him much. The Tyrant is a bit of a prick.


At least once a day, I'm the Coach. The Coach is part counselor, part motivational speaker, all cheerleader. The coach never gives up, he constantly encourages and pushes his students to succeed. The Coach is optimistic, upbeat, and relentlessly positive. It's not a role I'm used to playing.

"Mister Leiken, I failed English and Math last semester!"

"But you passed Health and P.E! That's a 50% improvement!"

"But I'm not going to graduate on time!"

"That's what summer school is for!"

"But I don't know how to do my multiplication tables."

I pause. I got nothing. I duck the complaint. When you can't massage the truth, you ignore it completely.

"Try harder!" I grin. "You can do it!"


Rarely, I'm the Critic. The Critic is the fault finder, the muck racker, the smug narrator that writes the blogs you are reading now. He used to appear often, but he gets in so much trouble that in recent years his cries have been largely silenced.

The Critic speaks only in truth, and there is nothing more poisonous than truth in the LAUSD school system. The Critic is a mean SOB. He's the one that makes kids cry.

Truth tends to do that.


Finally, I am the Father. He crosses the line between teacher and parent, possesses unshakable integrity, is eternally patient and just. The Father promotes all that is good in others, he protects his charges and provides the emotional safety net the students desperately crave.

I have never adopted the personality of the Father. It's a persona that's been projected upon me.

It doesn't matter. Because the Father is the Joker, the Performer, the Fixer, the Tyrant, the Coach and the Critic. The Father encompasses them all.

Sometimes you choose your faces, but sometimes the faces are chosen for you.

So it goes.

Copyright 2010 by Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/
Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)