I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff-box from an emperor. ~Lord Byron
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
Name: Sian
I paint, write, and dance. Also cook vegetarian food.
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I had a really bizarre night last night. For some reason, a guy who I met once, almost two years ago, popped into my mind, and then, I couldn’t get him back out again. The worst part of it was that I couldn’t remember his name, and it really bugged me that I couldn’t remember his name. So, I spent a really long time staring at the ceiling, and thinking to myself, “Christian?” No… I don’t think so. “Sven?” Uh-Uhh. I know it was something trendy and a little European—you know, closer to Christian than Gunther—and that he shortened it to something monosyllabic and also European.
It got so bad that I finally got up to go look it up in my journal, only to discover that I had never mentioned him by name.
The details of the day came back to me in Technicolor. Fascinating, isn’t it, the trivia that gets trapped in the cerebral folds… The story he told about loosing his AK-47 in the wilds of while he was a Blue Beret… The employee we bumped into who insisted on giving him a map of the corn maze we were in… The way both of my roommates managed to get lost within ten minutes leaving me alone with “Team Mailbox” which rapidly dwindled to just me, the Belgian, and one other couple, who all had the same bizarre sense of humor.
There are about six hundred forty two different school districts in the state. And where did my little(say, half a million or so) town come in? Yep You guessed it. Lucky Six-Forty-Two. The Superintendant of schools has been getting on TV for commercials extolling the virtues of the district. A couple of months ago, when parents were supposed to be enrolling their kids in schools, it was "Don't judge us by the mistakes of the past," and now, as we approach Gulping Down Federal Funding week, he's on TV telling us all about the money that the school system is going to loose for each student who plays hookey for even one single day next week.
I went to high school--and a little bit of college--out on the west coast. One of those metropolitain meccas which is supposed to be a haven to all things cultured and intellectual. And the same kind of things were going on, there. We had Thursdays which were "Double Count" days, meaning that the school took attendance twice, because the kids always skipped more on fridays. We had an assortment of different things that were intended to leech out as much money as possible from the Federal Government, while actually doing as little as possible to actually improve the school system.
I believe that if the United States survives long enough to have a rennaisance--and if anybody dares compare anything artistic that's come out of this country to Dante or Michelangelo, I'm going to start making voodoo dolls--that rennaisance will take place in the central part of the country. There are several reasons for this, and frankly, I feel the need to inflict at least a few of them on you. First let's take a deep breath, and try to come up with a realistic nominee for "Great American Novel." Okay? Are you done now? No comments left on that front? Good.
There are regions of this country where the influx of immigrants weighs down the school system. We can refer to those as "Texas" and "California." Notice that this is not an opinion on immigration, illegal or otherwise. I'm just observing that this creates a system with the same problems as social security--too many people being supported by too few tax payers. Naturally, I'll be refering to Oklahoma as a buffer zone us and them, and naturally, you're welcome to nominate whatever other states you care to into either the "immigrant drain" or the "buffer zone" states. Should we even mention the south? Do any of us really believe that the south was ever truly "reconstructed?" Do any of us actually believe that it ever "caught up" after having been beaten down and burned to the ground? Of course not.
Traditionally, schools are supported through property taxes, which means that the more people you stack onto a peice of property, the more students that come out of it, the worse the education for tax payer dollars ratio is, even if it's a really nifty peice of property like New York or Los Angeles. And heaven knows that cities are really great at stacking people into teeny, tiny little spaces. Add to that the general idea of suburbs--that is, a nice, sprawling upper-middle class bedroom community which is more or less an entirely separate and distinct school system. The people here work in "the City" but they pay (lower) taxes to their housing division, and wind up going to nicer schools. Oops, more tax dollars and supportive parents walking out of a school district. There are only a few states which allow a larger town to absorb it's bedroom communities, when they touch. And you know what I mean, whether you're living in Aurora (Denver) or Mission City (Kansas City) or fill in the blank.
More liberal areas are going to get hit hard, too. That means, if you instantly label every problem kid in the district with some horrible learning issue instead of considering expelling their ass, you're going to be spending more money on getting Billy to sit still than on teaching little Albie Einstein string theory. Fine. Learning disabilities, autism, hyperactivity exist. No problem with that here, but so do bad behavior and rudeness, and it's a heck of a lot cheaper to treat "obnoxious little bratism" and usually more effective. Far be it from me to advocate child abuse, but "sit down and shut up" is hardly abuse.
You're looking for states where the school system isn't already bankrupt. States where the average high-school graduate knows how to read. States where more people "own" than "rent". And that leaves a very few, very flat central states.
God bless professors. They make life so much more dismal and depressing. Today, for whatever reason, the subject of becoming a professor came up... huh, well, it could just be because that's what alot of us are in this school to do. So, of course, the dutiful, symmetrical latin instructor took time out from his busy schedule to see to it that we're all aware that the path to graduate school, and consequently to becoming a college professor is long, and difficult, and that ninety percent of us are going to be hanging from plant hooks with our faces blackened long before we get anywhere close to the end of it. He went on to say that the pay sucks, and if we'd ever had so much as a B in any language course, ever, we probably just weren't graduate school material. I think we've all heard that lecture, before. The, if there's anything else you can possibly concieve of being happy doing, go do it... lecture.
I'm going to be honest here, for a second. I've had my share of Bs in my life. Heck, if you dig for it, you might even find a C. And frankly, I've had a few profs who have reputations for never, ever handing out any grade higher than a B. Some of them even admit it. And the professors I had as an undergrad, the ones who actually know me, seem to think that I will be able to get into school somewhere, with a little more Latin.
I know that the actual message here is something along the lines of "It takes hard work and dedication, and you should carefully consider" but it still bugs me when they do the whole tear down every element of hope you ever had schtick.
One of my few really useful skills is that I can cook. Given enough time and ingredients, I can actually feed myself, and do it better, and cheaper than most restaurants. This is especially important as a poor college student, because otherwise, it would be easy to spend four years on the pizza and pasta diet, and let's face it: who really wants to graduate looking like an Italian matron?
I've been working on coconut curries, lately. There's enough variation in the spices that I put into them that I never quite seem to get sick of it. So far, the last couple of weeks, I've curried the crap out of vegetables, tofu, chickpeas, and anything else I can get my hands on, and I'm having a blast with it.
This weekend, I woke up early one morning, only to discover that there was only enough sugar for one cup of coffee. So, naturally, I decided to walk to a store to get another box of sugar. About eight thirty in the morning--even on weekends, I'm not much for sleeping in. So I got up. I threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Not a nice pair of jeans. Not even really a nice T-shirt. Pulled a comb through my hair. And walked out the door looking like a welfare child all grown up.
So, as I was walking down to the store--it's a bit of a hike, but well worth it in the pursuit of sugar--I bumped into a man. Visually, you couldn't really tell all that much was wrong with him, but he was whistling at me like I was a hearing-impaired crack dealer, and the more I ignored him, the louder he whistled. In fact, as I walked past him, he walked beside me, and whistled down at me from probably about a foot and a half away. That's the point at which I decided that "ignore" was probably not the best course of action, and I asked him what he wanted. The response, "You're supposed to whistle, if you see a girl with nice boobs and an ass." Yes, he actually used the word "boobs." Oh? Really? You're supposed to? He went on to inform me that he was waiting for his ride. Well, at least I could see him and both his hands... That's something, isn't it? So, anyway, the conversation went on, with me booking it as fast as possible down the street, hoping to get to where all the cabs park and wait for passengers, and him talking. Not really slurred, not really especially offensive... But then...
Just as I was almost to those wonderful, non-felonious cabbies...
He asked me if I had ever seen a man with a thirteen inch dick. Seriously. Thirteen. (That's why girls are bad at math, by the way.) And he was ready to whip it out right there on the spot. Ala P.T. Barnum.
Which leads me to the first major point in my campaign for everything.
The death penalty.
I whole heartedly believe that the death penalty should be abolished, not only for the current murder-treason type crimes, but also, for any future "Annoyance of Sian" crimes, which, following my election, would most certainly be prosecuted under existing treason laws.
After all, death is inevitable. Sooner or later, whether we choose to use it as a penalty or not, the fact is that this unfortunate waste of skin is going to die.
We should never use the inevitable as a punishment. If we do, the average housewife winds up with the same de facto punishment as Eichmann or Ted Bundy. This is absurd. Moreover, it is not the dying which is a deterent to others, but the pain that comes before it. I will replace the so-called death penalty with far more appropriate pain-based punishment. This should keep both sides of the debate happy. The state will no longer be taking people's lives in the name of the liberals, and the conservatives can rest assured that the criminal will never re-offend. In order to regulate and control my justice system, all such punishments will be broadcast live on the major network and cable channels, so that any and all corruption will be open to public scrutiny.
In all cases, the question of death will be left entirely up to the free choice of the criminal, 100% and entirely optional, but highly recommended.
Since it seems that the only thing anyone can agree on durning the election season is that somebody's fucking up royally, I would like to solve the problem by running for office. Any office. Every office. That's right. I am announcing my candidacy for every office in the entire United States and outlying areas, including Puerto Rico, Guam, and Canada. So, the next time you walk into that election booth, please write me in. If you have a vote, I want it--whether it's for homecoming queen or President of the United States.
Over the next few weeks (or, until my very short attention span and I get bored, as the case may be) I will be posting on political subjects. I will mark these posts as being "Political," which means "read at your own risk. " Since I'm really not all that political, common sense may sneak into some of them.
Please do not make me post the definition of the word "satire."
If you're over the age of twelve, and still don't get it, you probably never will.
So the question today is, is it possible to be wry and not sarcastic. Wry and something else. Optimistic, for instance. At first, I was absolutely positive that it wasn't; then again, I'm not sure if I've ever tried... however, evidentally, by the majority of definitions, 2, 3 and 4, the answer is yes! You, too, can be wry and optimistic! For example, it would be quite possible to make a wry face, when you hear about global warming or when an enemy politician says something you simply do not believe can happen. Some of you may recognize this phenomenon from the mirror, whilest reading this very blog. And I'm sure we've all known many many people who are horribly, lopsidedly disfigured who are also very, inexplicably optimistic. For example, my philosophy professor--the one with the two nostrils which were not the same size--was always very upbeat and positive, and we loved him for it. And as for definition # 4, being optimistic and perverse, or at odds with society, seems to be a specialty of most of the aging babyboomers of the world. Take all those happy hippies running around naked at Woodstock. Absolutely at odds with the society of the late 60s, and very optimistic. It's very possible that the most optimistic political philosophy ever devised by man is: smoke enough weed and **poof** the war will end.
Unfortunately, since all three of these definitions are rapidly becoming obsolete, this has to be a limited time offer.
Sign up now!!
I woke up early this morning. With the cows early. Unfortunately, all the cows got downsized, and there's absolutely nothing to do at 5:30 in the morning, in this town or probably any other. And after I decided there was plenty of time to get in another coupleof hours, I wound up staring at the ceiling for a really long time. Then, my mother called. To tell me I didn't need to call her, when I got up. Then, my roommate (who has been babysitting a friend's teenaged cousins) got home. Then, I actually got some sleep, but by the time I woke up it was too late to make coffee. So, I got to school, to that class, absolutely caffeine free.
So, I stopped in the little convenience store on campus to pick up some caffeine and sugar before class.
No, I wound up with some very nutritious dried fruit. Dried dates, dried bananas, dried apples, and about 4 different kinds of nuts. Almost trail-mix stuff. Yay. Breakfast. And a bottle of water. Well, and a bottle of Mountain Dew first, but if I don't drink enough water, I feel it later.
Went to the computer lab to look at my blog. This is beginning to get to be a habit with me. Computers before class, a little bit of talking after class. Then more computers.
Well, anyway... evidentally the sound of wrappers crinkling bothers Dr. Symmetrical. I'm not sure whether that's just today, or every day, or what (first time he's noticed it, as far as I know.) Minimal caffeine and no breakfast... Huh. Wonder what the sound of my strangling someone who gets on my under-caffinated nerves would do for him. Then, again, it could be his undercaffinated nerves that started the whole thing. Do you think I could get a couple hundred miligrams of caffeine in an anti-tranquilizer dart? That way, you could see someone showing up looking as though he hasn't had his cup of coffee, you could actually do something about it.
Scientific fact of the day? Science has proven that humanities majors should stay the hell away from science. No... er, wait... Science has proven that swearing is good for you. Sounds a bit spurious to me.
You know that chick from Bridget Jone's Diary? The one who likes to say "fuck" alot? Well... I think she's currently posessing Dr. Symmetrical. He does. Swears like an English chick on crack. Not really like a sailor, not even really like a man. It's almost an empowerment thing with him.
In my opinion, the only use for most profanities is as intensifiers. i.e., "That was fucking awesome." Yes, I know that there are other parts of speech you can technically use them as--interjections, nouns, verbs, etc... but the truth is that as intensifiers is the only place where they're indespensible. "That was very, very awesome" would not be quite as intensified.
So, I'm beginning to get all these wonderful quizzes back. I hate vocab quizzes, because you get a word, with no context. Trying to figure out what, exactly, one does with four million half sheets of paper. The responsible thing would be to paper clip and store them, at least until grades are back in the class. What I'm probably going to do involves cramming them in various books and in the bottom of my backpack, and hoping that no one ever notices.
On the bright side, I hear that nobody ever got less than an A.
There's a guy in town who wanders from bus stop to bus stop "Spreading the gospel." Which wouldn't be all that bad if 1) he got any part of it right and 2) he exhibited any real signs of sanity. In a previous era, you'd probably say this guy was a saint, or that he was demon posessed, depending on the particular brand of nuts on any given day. Now, (without wanting to offend any psychopaths or schizophrenics who do manage to get through an entire day without annoying me) in the modern world, we would say he's generically nuts, and pull our kids just a little bit closer when we're walking past him. Today, he managed to preach against the Lord's prayer of all things. I will say, however, that I'm extremely grateful to whatever demons may be posessing him for bathing regularly, as it does result in a much more pleasant variation of insanity.
His general message is that you should talk to Gd like he's a friend, and that whatever you ask in Jesus name, it will magically appear on your doorstep in six to eight weeks, plus shipping and handling.
There's something about this kind of person, and I'm not really sure what it is, that makes me want to mess with their head. Maybe it's the way he treats Gd like some cosmic waitress... Yes, I'd like 3 cheese steak sandwiches, a jumbo order of fries, and a vat of coleslaw, with a hot-fudge sundae for dessert--no nuts. Maybe it's the fact that he's loud. There's something jarring about loud people; I never like them early in the morning, and I especially dislike them, if there's some reason (i.e. waiting for a bus) that I can't walk away. Maybe it's the rudeness involved in choosing a captive audience. The polite lunatic always considers the comfort of others.
This is a recurring event--you bump into this guy every now and then, and he never has anything new or interesting to say.
So, I sit, and I listen to him, and I think of the various things I could say to make him turn purple.
Really? My heart's desires? No kidding! So, what I'd really like is three well-greased men and a goat in a hammock, please.
No? Well how's about one not so well-greased man, hog-tied and gagged, and a scalpel?
Huh. No on that, as well... Huh... so, what, exactly can I ask for? Pizza oven? Juke Box? Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich?
So, as I was getting on the bus, this morning, our lunatic was handing out tracts, up and down the line. You can imagine. And I'm there, biting my tongue, and ecstatic at the prospect of getting away from his man. Just get me out of here.
Oh, I'm sorry, young lady...
Fuck.
Well, I'm all assertiveness, today. I just turned and looked at him and said, Don't. Seriously. That's it--exactly one word--just don't. Get away from me. Don't make me say any of the things I've been thinking. Go away, now.
I am not a diplomatic person. I think that's probably why I've never taken a lot of creative writing classes, before. I just finished with what we're calling "selective discussion." Wouldn't you know, the poems that we were "selectively discussing" were absolutely the best and the worst in the class. Yes, I know that the prof on this particular class says that there's no judgement involved in his choosing these poems... I'm not sure I believe him.
What the poem most reminded me of, when all's said and done... well, it reminded me of a phonecall from my boss's schizophrenic neighbor. There was no real core to it, nothing to hang onto, and if I were reading it in a bookstore, not only would I not have finished reading the poem, I'd have put the whole anthology down then and there.
And then, the prof added, (no doubt because he couldn't think of any, himself. Heck, I'm posting this stuff on the internet from a really long ways away, and I'm still having trouble complimenting the damned thing with a straigth face.) He asked what things we admire about this poem. What do we admire?
The fact that it finally ended?
The fact that it's flamable? Actually, I find the flamability of this particular peice of shit to be incredibly reassuring.
The fact that once the writer finally marries **the boyfriend** (i.e. the cause of all suffering on the face of the Earth, and probably Mars) she will get pregnant, have kids, and quit having time to write? Also reassuring.
I spent fifteen minutes staring at a blank computer screen, and then finally wound up complimenting her on the bravery required to talk about something that was so important to her with strangers. The bravery required to let something like this see the light of day is, of course, somewhat more awe inspiring, as is the bravery to try to write poetry without first checking one's supply of lithium (not nearly enough.)
I'm going to consider it a good year, if none of my classmates wind up hanging themselves in the gymnasium after reading my "selective" opinion.
An excellent year, if none of them wind up involuntarily committed.
My whole political philosophy can be summed up in one word. Ennui. It's possible that I used to have more constructive, or at least more optimistic opinions on the subject, but certainly in the last couple of years, I've managed to boil down every thought, every remote impulse toward activism that I ever had into a sort of restless boredom. My landlord (who lives upstairs) has put out his mayoral candidates sign. Ho hum... Not only have I not heard of the guy, I don't care. Not really. Not enough to actually get up and go do anything about it, either way.
I think maybe the main reason for my ennui is the fact that no matter who you vote for, it always seems to be a matter of balancing the good with the bad, the desirable with the undesirable. I've never seen a candidate with whom I agreed on enough to jostle me out of my complacency. I've never seen someone declare his or her candidacy, and thought to myself, "Oh, good, here's somebody who can really get something done." "Now things are really going to change."
For me, politics has always been a matter of the lesser of two evils. Is it worth it, that this man will do this, knowing that he will also do this other thing? What if we vote for three really liberal congressmen to balance out the one conservative president... what if...
So, I don't have a flock of political signs about to land in my windows and lawn. I can't vouch for anyone, really, because there's always something unpleasant to be weighed in the mix.
Got through yet another day of Latin class. This makes how many in a row where we were completely consumed by the 451 class? In any event, we're beginning to see a pattern of going to class, working through what he's assigned to them, and never getting around to going over what was assigned to us.
Maybe, when you get down to it, what I hate about language classes is the same thing I hate about math classes... Too much time listening to a professor explain to other people what you understood quite some time ago. Too much boredom. The fact that whatever pace the rest of the class seems to be moving at, it isn't ever, ever, ever going to be the pace you were moving at. Could be too fast. Could be too slow. But no, it certainly doesn't take you into account.
He says that someday, we are going to get to both classes on the same day. I'd be thrilled if we just got to my class, one day.
They're both small classes, and everyone else has known eachother for years, probably. It's a little hard to break into the group, or at least, a little hard to break into conversations that have been running for years. When I think about the classes that I came from, it was the same way, but I was on the inside. I liked that better.
It was also more social, in a strange sort of way... We used to get to class early and crash in the hallway, down in the basement. Spend an hour or so going over translations before the professor arrived. All seven of us, in Greek that first year, so we streamlined the process, before there was any outside involvement. Even in a Greek class, you start to learn who you can take in a fair fight. Hmmm... and if a stranger had walked in on the seven of us...
Had the first quiz... and didn't like it. Probably passed, but barely, although I was thrilled that none of the labels I'm fighting my way through were on it.
We're supposed to have one quiz every day... this was the first. In two weeks.
Why is it that whenever you say you do not want to hear about something, suddenly everyone in the world wants to talk about that one, particular thing? I had this experience a while ago with the latest Russian Submarine... (Can you say lead balloon?) I'm one of those people who likes to get up, read the news paper, and then not hear one more word about any of that shit until the next newspaper, many, many hours of sleep later. My family, however, is into round-the clock news channels, or, as I like to say, Soap Operas for people with brains.
Just because the topic was intelligent, the first time doesn't mean that it's still intelligent after you've beaten it to death.
I especially despise those news stories where the outcome is obvious, to any remotely functioning human being, three months before it actually happens. That sucks! It's like putting a little kid on a railroad track, and tying a video camera to his belly. You can see the train coming, but there's absolutely nothing that you can do about it. Shit happens. It may even be news for a fraction of a second, but it hardly requires round the clock coverage.
But, no matter how many times I ask people to shut up, I still wind up hearing about this kind of thing. I don't want to hear about Submarines, hurricanes, brats kidnapped because his/her or its parents can't adjust their social calendar to exclude Pederasty circle on Fridays, or any variation of the latest dumb blonde to get drunk and fall off a penis in Aruba. (Far be it from me to blame the sainted victim, but honestly.)
This goes double for people in my own life. If any given relative is doing something stupid, don't tell me, and don't ask me to clean up the peices, later. It isn't that I don't care. It's just that I don't want to watch. Just tell me, when you have a clear idea of when the funeral will be, and I'm fine.
This is one of those moments when you really realize that you're meeting and exceeding your personality profile. I'm watching the first meeting of the University's swing dance club, and debating whether I feel the need to join this club. I was involved during my lovely undergraduate years, although that was a different school. And it was ballroom dance, which includes, but is not limited to swing.
I tried getting involved with the various dancers when I first moved here a couple of years ago, and the truth is that this is more or less an extension of a group I wasn't all that impressed with. But damn it, they're my age...
Unfortunately, they meet at the same time as the ballroom dance club down town, so it's an either/or choice.
Given a choice, I would probably not spend an entire night swing dancing.
Then again, given a choice, I would prefer a social circle which includes people within twenty years of my own age-group.
I took a Balboa class, when I first got here. Is it is or is it aint swing, nobody knows, but the thing we all know for certain is that it isn't ballroom. When I suggested... actually invited... various people to come to the ballroom club with me, you would have thought that I'd taken out handcuffs and a wire coat hanger. Is Paso Doble really that perverse?
So, the problem is this... Do I do swing, only with people my own age, or do I do swing (and everything else) with people my parents and grandparents age.
And I'm here, in sniper position, trying to figure out the answer to that question.
Counting the number of shoes I see... Do character shoes count?
Waiting to get a look at the skill level later on.
Calculating the lead/follow ratio.
Do I see anyone I'd like to have stripped naked and gift-wrapped?
And I'm not sure what I'm going to do.
Technique down there is not good. No, not even the instructors' technique. And it will be a while before the rest of the club gets to anyplace good.
I'm always a little nervous about bad technique.
So, what do I do?
I set up another blog... Here's the first post off it--the explaination for having it around-- so if anyone is interested (may Gd have mercy on their soul) they can help themselves.
Okay... So, here's the deal. I'm taking a creative writing class by distance learning this semester. I'm evidentally supposed to write about ten poems during the course of it, with the final project being preparing a manuscript for publication. The problem is that every time someone says something about preparing a manuscript, what they wind up meaning is, "We're going to be submitting manuscripts this semester."
The problem with that is that I'm a firm believer in intellectual property rights. A professor has no more right to tell me to submit a poem than he has to tell me that I have to auction off my purse, or sell my house.
So, here's a compromise... I'm going to publish said poems, on the internet, of my own volition. See? Not only have they been submitted, they've also been published. Letter of the law followed. Check.
Yes, I know that publishers pay for "first publication rights" and I'll probably never see any money for any of these, but given a choice, I'd much rather give them to you guys than sell them at three cents a word anyway.
On my way to class, today, I bought a candybar. It is an organic, dark chocolate bar with real bits of coffee beans in it. That's probably what attracted me--the coffee. It always has a way of doing that. I got to the checkout stand, and by that time, I was envisioning this thing melting serenely in my mouth... Four bucks!!! well, $3.69, anyway... It'll probably be the last organic dark chocolate coffee bar I have in a while. If it had been neatly labled, it wouldn't have been the first, either.
As you can probably guess, if you've been reading this blog for any length of time, I'm not actually going to apologise for much of anything that I or any of my many and manifold evil twins type here. If I wanted to spend my life apologising, I would have gotten married, when I had the chance. ;)
Then again, I'm also not trying to convert anyone to my particular belief system, and frankly, if Gd can't forgive you for whatever the heck it is you're doing, I'm in deep shit. I have unpleasant corners of my psyche, just like anyone else, and you're not invited to them.
I've heard, somewhere, that the only crime someone can't forgive you for is the one they would commit, themselves.
I'm not going to drop out and become a stripper. Web crawl or not, it's a turn of phrase to blow off frustration. And you'll note that it's still there, because I'm still frustrated. I find it disturbing that we're living in a society where if your only talent is popping out bastard children, you have government agencies tripping all over themselves trying to support you and your kids, who, having been raised with your own dead-end value system will then continue the process of breeding like rabbits, as soon as they turn twelve, but if you're genuinely intelligent and have some kind of motivation to do something with your life, you have to fund it.
If you knew how many girls on campus--and more and more, guys, too--were paying their way through by stripping (&c) you'd be shocked.
And even more shocking, is the fact that for every dollar the government spends on education, it collects THREE in taxes. That's one hell of a return on an investment. Taxes, people. It doesn't even include paying back student loans and interest.
I have friends who would kill me, if I ever mentioned what they did in college.
Smart friends. Not pat them on the head and tell them they're doing good friends, but real, intelligent friends.
There are other options, of course. But you can still see the allure.
And meanwhile, if you've been keeping track of your scientific news, weekly, you'll notice that the average I.Q. in this country--thanks to the governments selective breeding measures--has fallen to an all-time low. Around 80 the last I checked.
So, you'd better hope that those of us who still have brains care enough to figure out how to fund our educations.
Doesn't that sound impressive?
At the very pinnacle of the Heirarchy, we have the Didoskaloi. These would be the professors who awe and inspire, while at the same time, nurturing the hope that you, yourself, may someday be numbered among their learned ranks. They affect more than just your academic portfolio, they change the way you view the world. They're the ones you'll remember forever--along with their quirks, their eccentricities, and large sections of their lectures verbatim.
Somewhere beneath them--and this is one of those things you know, just because you know--are the Virtuous Mortals of the academic world. They know their subject. Some of them may know it as well as the Didoskaloi, but for whatever reason--personality, or lack thereof, or inability to inspire--they will be forgotten... They are the names on transcripts which are adequate, and even impressive, but eventually, their memories fade, and their legacy, such as it is, is one of originless fact.
Then, we have the Instructors. These are professors who have fallen out of love with their subjects, who have fallen into a rut, or graduate students still working their way up the heirarchy. There is a lack of either depth of knowledge, or enthusiasm, but you get what you pay for. Nothing more, and nothing less. They are adequate. In the world of teachers, they are the people with 1.97 children and so on. They're bored and boring, but still adequate.
So, as we work our way down through assorted levels of insufficiency...
And I admit that some of these areas overlap.
We have Arrogant Jerks. Right or wrong, they're sure they're the best thing since sliced bread, and that there is no possible way that you could ever, ever, compete with them. You'll meet a lot of these. They are the primary cause of psychosis amongst students, and probably contribute to the development of the homicidal impulse in serial killers. Rumour has it that BTK was a perfectly normal High School Senior, until he wound up taking Chemistry 101 from a researcher.
You have Big Ol' Hornballs... you'll know them because any time you walk into the room, their wives will quit understanding them. Just don't leave them alone with your lab rats. Strangely enough, this is the only batch that mixes with each and every other level in the heirarchy. If you can come to an understanding (say, agree to sacrifice three virgins every month) you'll get along just fine.
And Proselytizing Progressivists. A large section of anything that doesn't require actual skill or intelligence--English, art, political science, history. They don't know what they're doing. They want you to echo back their opinions. This is the guy who stayed in college to avoid the draft during Vietnam. The atheist who absolutely can't figure out why you believe in anything, or admit that you're not psychotic, if you do. Figure out what the hell they want, and you'll be their star pupil, but be aware that it doesn't involve anything resembling fact. These are the people who have "creative methods" I had an English teacher who tried to teach an entire semester entirely based on Frida Kahlo paintings. No, not with captions. Just the paintings. An excellent example.
Thank Gd his nostrils are both the same size. One of my philosophy profs had a habit of sitting on the edge of the desk, dead center, in the front of the classroom, and practically right on top of the first row, and we all wound up spending most of the Spinoza class thinking about what lop-sided nostrils he had. One was about 166% of the other. It was freakish. This guy does the same thing, but his nostrils are within one standard deviation of eachother, and besides... due to a stroke of luck, I am not in the first row.
I spent most of today working my way through class using a different grammar than everybody else in the world. The one he assigned is satanic. The one I have--love, adore... the grammar which would be permitted to father my children, if it shewed any inclination... well, it's different. I'm going to spend the weekend trying to figure out how to mesh what I learned, what I rely on, what I really am devoted to--with the other one. Well, at least I have some idea of where to start. I'll call somebody, and hash it out.
Not him. Not Symmetrical Nostril Man.
Worst part of it is that when I realized what was going on, I realized what I had done.
I'm working, more or less from a manuscript of an old prof's (still unpublished book).
And the particular point I wound up bringing up--the one I was called on--the one that-- and I really am shouting praises to Gd here--he didn't catch, and told me I was wrong on... That point. It's got to be one of the major innovations of the book.
So, maybe I won't be selling the Satanic Grammar back.
I could be in such deep shit, if I keep talking about the other book.
And yes, the pseudonymn "Dr. Symmetry" is probably going to stick.
I'm beginning to realize that part of the reason I'm not in graduate school at this very moment is that I do not jump through hoops well. I don't like doing things just because someone told me to. The reason that I didn't take more Latin while I was an undergrad is because--and I'm probably the only Classics major in the world who believes this--ancient Greeks did not speak Latin. I want to study ancient Greece. (As opposed to modern Greeks, who are an entirely extracurricular interest) I have very specific reasons for this, and very specific areas I want to study, but the major deciding factor in all graduate admissions is whether you speak Latin. Never mind my GPA, recommendations, or GRE scores (Psych. Major friend, who's already in grad-school --evidentally, schizophrenics don't speak Latin, either--informs me that I rock, by the way) they want Latin. So, now, I am taking Latin. Hoop of the year, I think.
Day one? Okay. Day One: Professor goes over some basic Roman Cultural stuff. Short version? The Romans' main areas of innovation were civil engineering and bureaucracy. If you want to study literature, art, music, or anything else which is good and holy, study the Greeks. He assigns the introduction to the book (yes, that book) and about two paragraphs of the actual text. Three for those of us who enrolled in the 400 level class.
Oh, good. Nobody else speaks Latin, either.
So, then, he gives us instructions on the correct way to take notes--he's going to check up on this, by the way-- he wants a modified cornell note thing, with three columns instead of just two. Naturally, I looked at his system, added a column, and then wrote the whole thing out in mirror image.
I was being facetious.
Now, my general annoyance at being told how to take my notes is beginning to wear off, so I'll probably re-copy the damned thing with the appropriate number of columns this evening.
It's not that his way doesn't work, it's just that I've been doing translations in one, particular way since I was eleven, and I have no real intention of switching to humor one, transitory professor. Plus, I have a tendency to be very, very syntax oriented, and now, he's doing the vocabulary thing, with a slash-and burn-attitude toward syntax. So, I'm doing it my way, banging out something to keep him happy--is five words enough for his vocab list? No? Well, I'll add a few more.
And, I guess that the general idea--to make students comfortable with reading latin--is sorta... well, not horrible. But I want precision.
At least I want a dictionary that doesn't look quite so cute next to my Giga Liddel.
Hell, this thing even looks cute next to my Little Liddel.
P.S. For those of you who are completely out of touch with all things classical, Liddel and Scott compiled the most brilliant Greek Lexicon ever created. It comes in three levels of abridgement--Giga, Middle and Little.
So, I e-mailed one of my old profs to tell him what was up, since my little applying to graduate school episode. And it's already almost 5:00 How the heck do you go to a 1:30 class and wind up still on campus after 5:00?
I have a personals account that I've kept open for more than a year, despite the fact that I've never actually met anyone off of it... Never really been interested. That's mostly because most of the people on it simply cannot follow instructions. Or maybe they like a challenge. Then again, maybe they're just a bunch of masochists. There are about three instructions that I would like people to follow, and all of them are very clear in my profile.
1. I don't want kids. When I change my mind, it's usually fleeting, and generally remedied by borrowing someone else's kids. If you have kids, they shoud be a.) motherless b.) grown up and out of the house and c.) at least 25 years younger than I am. B and C usually cause problems. Why the heck would a guy who doesn't have his own uterus feel the need to contact me?
2. If you're an uneducated grease monkey, cowboy, or race-car driver, please go away quickly. I actually come out and say this. Hell, I actually come out and say that no, community college degrees--even that elusive AA in underwater basket weaving you've been chasing for ten years--do not count.
3. No. I don't believe that you can change. If you're an out of work, alcoholic community college drop out, that's pretty much what you'll be next week, and next month, and next year.
Follow the instructions.
This weeks selection of men includes... let's see here... a Catholic who wants children. A (thirty year old) community college student who thought I was "entertaining" when I said that community college isn't enough. And a writer. A published writer. Actually living in the city where I live. He actually left a website which, naturally, I'm going to pass on to y'all. http://www.geocities.com/rvroush Go ahead. Take a look.
I'm not sure whether I should be tempted (after all, that's sorta the cream o' the crop, so far) or horrified. Did you read those exerpts?
Yes, that's right: the literati of my world seem to be writing books about re-animated corpses' civil rights.
If anybody's actually read this guy's books, and can point to any redeeming elements, whatsoever, please hurry up and tell me. Otherwise, this poor, unfortunate creature could wind up being passed over, yet again.
So, here I am, again, fresh from my Latin course. Not too bad, actually. But... I found out what "personality" means...
It means that if you crossed my old Phys anth professor with my insane ancient history professor--the one who, himself, was a cross between Groucho Marx and P.T. Barnum-- with Chachi Arcola, you would probably wind up with something very much like my new Latin professor. Managed to ask two of us--the ones who didn't have prereqs directly from this school-- to stick around after class, and then completely forget about it within twenty-five minutes. Then, when he was reminded, he changed his mind. Says we'll talk next time. Odds on that?
The moment the guy picked up a dry-erase marker, I expected him to damn the thing to hell, and fling it accross the room over the tops of our heads, but he never did. And, believe it or not, it may be possible to wind up missing Groucho. I'm not yet. Just recognizing a hitherto unknown possibility.
Wish me luck...
I checked for the book one last time, before class. And, with twenty-seven minutes to spare, I am walking into class with every single one of the books that we've been ordered to buy.
Randis on I'm really beginning...
alohalani on I'm really beginning...
today
October 2006
July 2006
June 2006
May 2006
March 2006
February 2006
January 2006
December 2005
November 2005
October 2005
September 2005
August 2005
July 2005
June 2005
May 2005
April 2005
beauty parlors suck
dancing
food
intp personality
italy
my campaign for everything
nanowrimo
political views
puh-chah jazz hands
quest for graduate school
sex scandal
things which dont lend themselve