Towed and Owned

I was up in Indiana, PA today. Kate and I decided to go for a walk in the park, but we wanted to stop at the dining hall first. So we're driving around looking for a spot with a meter with little success. A block away, we find a parking lot for a strip mall. I see a sign: "For customers only."

How in the world would all of these stores know where each driver went? Besides, we're only going to be inside for a half hour. A half hour, a bowl of gravy-smothered fries, and a Chicken Caesar wrap later, we return to my car.

It's not there.

First thought: I'm an idiot and parked somewhere else. No, I remember this sign.
Second thought: Someone stole my car. No, it's a piece of shit. Who would want it?

Then Kate realizes that my car must have been towed. So we wander around trying to find some information. We're absolutely baffled. How could they have towed my car so quickly? Did they beam it into space? Was my car something out of a Hitchcock film and just went batshit insane and killed pedestrians?

We get the number for the towing company that got the car. Apparently, the woman at a nearby store told us, someone actually watches people park and sees if they go into the businesses there. What kind of shit job is that?

So we're on our way to the towing place. I'm laughing. I think it's hilarious. This is just the icing on my car fine cake. Four speeding tickets and now my car has been towed. I'm glad the world has conspired to keep this evil car maniac in check.

We get to the towing place, and I'm in a good mood. Even when the woman behind the desk tells me that the fine is $100, I'm still chuckling. This obviously catches her attention. She tells me that most people are pissed when they come in. I tell her that I've been owned by the police over minor driving violations many times. I've always suspected that people were watching me. Now I have proof.

So we're talking to this woman at the towing place, and Kate says, "That must be a really boring job. Just sitting there all day watching for people to tow."

And a voice behind us says, "Yea, you guys just walked right past me!"

There he was - the little prick who towed my car. I could have punched him in the face. That might have been cathartic. But then I thought: this is good business. These are pro-active towing people. They don't wait for business to come to them. They go out and get it. I was sort of impressed. The watchman told me that he just sits in the corner deli all day drinking coffee as he waits for potential targets. The cynical nature of the man's job left me in awe. I'm even a bit jealous.

So now I don't just have to be paranoid when I'm driving; I can be paranoid when I'm parking too.

Total amount of money spent on fines so far in my life: appx. $600.

Standing on Ceremony

Today in my American Literature class, we're going to be discussing Leslie Marmon Silko's book Ceremony. It's not a bad book. I've read it before. It tells the story of a Native American named Tayo who served in the Pacific during World War II. He spent most of his time as a POW of the Japanese, but the entire book takes place after Tayo returns to the reservation with his family. The book is very interesting in how it analyzes the psychology of recovery, identity, and traditions. JP approves!

Then there's the plot. Here's where the troubles begin. Tayo has a lot of personal issues as a result of his time in the POW camp, and he heads off into the woods in the wintertime in search of answers. As he tries to help a woman find her cattle (a woman he slept with - go Tayo!), he encounters a mountain lion. He somehow forms this spiritual connection with the mountain lion, and said lion later saves him from the white police officers. (Summary probably not as good as it should be)

I hate this mystical Native American stuff. Why does every story involving Native Americans have some moment where the character communes with nature, sees through the eyes of the eagle, or becomes one with the wolf? Why does everyone think that Indians have magic powers? Hell, it doesn't even matter which Indians you're talking about. According to American fiction, people from India are all shamans who control mummies and Native American Indians all have this one-ness with nature.

It reminds me of that paragon of virtue, that king of kings, the man of infinite wisdom:

That's right, we're talking about Walker Texas Ranger. Every once in awhile, Walker would get it in his head to go speak to his Yoda-like mentor, an old Native American guy who lived on the convenient nearby reservation. Chief Yoda would give Walker some random advice about speaking to the animals, and this would help Walker out in a decisive moment. Walker would just be about to be attacked by the drug lord's pet puma, but then the camera would zoom in on the puma's eyes and then do a little overlay with Walker's eyes superimposed on the screen. Some mystical flute music would play, showing the viewer that Walker now controls the beast. The puma would then turn on the drug lord and maul him.

Sound familiar? For as intelligent as the rest of the book is, the fact that the climax of Ceremony plays like an episode of Walker Texas Ranger is just sad. Don't misunderstand me. I don't mean to disrespect the beliefs of Native Americans, but spirituality and magic are two different things. Understanding nature and developing a loving bond with a wild mountain lion are two different things. I don't care how centered Tayo is. Wild mountain lions maul freezing Indian boys; they don't help them out in a bind.

I read this book in my senior year of college, and I made the mistake of bringing up this point in class. The professor informed me that she once taught on an Indian reservation, and she thought I was ignorant. I felt like a dumbass. Well, I haven't really done any research on Native Americans since then, so if I was ignorant then, I'm still ignorant now. That's why this goes on my blog instead of on a response for class.

I've learned my lesson. This time I'll just develop a spiritual bond with some passing bald eagle and convince it to crash through the window of our class. That'll show 'em.

Cat House

Not my cat, but this is pretty close to what it looks like

I mentioned in my blog before that I've thought about getting a cat. Well, life found a way to get me one. My brother's girlfriend had a cat who had kittens, and she was looking for people to take them. Given that I'd thought about having a cat, I decided to go for it.

So now I have a little kitty.

It's about 13 weeks old right now. It's a female calico. I think I'm going to name it Cleo. I like the sound of that: Calico Cleo. Sounds like a pirate name. It also gives me an excuse to talk in a Jamaican accent to it as I call it "Miss Cleo."

It doesn't really like me yet, but hopefully she'll get used to the whole situation. On the other hand, I'm always bound by where I can live. This apartment complex allows pets, but what if I have to live somewhere that doesn't? Guess the parents would be getting another feline.

With any luck, it won't come to that. I like cats. They appeal to my innate qualities. They don't require a lot of maintenance. They sit around and do nothing all day. They pretty much just eat and sleep. It's a sweet life.

I'll eventually get a real picture of her and post it on here for those of you who care.

By the Winding Allegheny

Looks pretty nice, doesn't it? It seems like the picturesque little community that only the movies could bring you. In fact, they did. The movie The Mothman Prophecies was filmed here. The producers were looking for a town to fulfill the need for a "1950's West Virginia town with a bridge," and Kittanning fit the bill better than any location in West Virginia apparently.

We're more Appalachian than Appalachia!

Let me give you a few statistics. As of the census of 2000, the racial makeup of Kittanning was 97.31% White, 1.57% African American, 0.23% Native Amrican, 0.25% Asian, 0.08 from "other races," and 0.56% from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino of any race were 0.67% of the population.

Needless to say, we Crackers is common.

In fact, the population for Kittanning is given as "4,787 people." So if you do a little basic math, you can determine that all but 129 people in the entire town are white. We give new meaning to the word "minority."

Kittanning has never had much luck with minorities. In fact, its history is based on quite a remarkable moment in race relations.

Kittanning was settled by the Delaware Indians as they "moved" west. They found this nice little spot on the Allegheny and set up "Kit-han-ne." Of course, these Indians weren't too pleased about being forced west. Hell, I wasn't too thrilled about being in Kittanning, and I lived there most of my life. So the Indians start staging revolts against British troops.

The British, not taking too kindly to this, send Lt. Col. John Armstrong to put the Indians in their place. For Armstrong, "overkill" wasn't just a word; it was a mantra! Armstrong stopped the Indians all right. He set fire to the entire town.

Armstrong, perhaps suffering from bipolar disorder, names the town after the Indians he killed (Kit-han-ne became "Kittanning"), and he names the county after himself (Armstrong County). What I love is that the whole town likes to proclaim its Native American heritage every once in awhile. The entire Kittanning Folk Festival seems to go for that. I've heard unconfirmed rumors that many residents in Kittanning want to recreate Armstrong's attack on Kit-han-ne. I'm not sure that's really something you want to advertise.

It's really tough to get a consistent story about what happened those many years ago. Most of the histories of Armstrong County are written by the people who live there. As our demographics will demonstrate, more residents have tipped a cow than have graduated college.

People from home jokingly ask me what life is like in West Virginia, but you know what? The most redneck stuff happens when I come home.

Well, except for that time I almost ran over a chicken in the road down here. That was pretty hillbilly.

Good Humor Man

Behold the power of cheese!

There's a topic I've been meaning to blog about for several months, but I keep forgetting about it (or coming up with better topics). But now I'm catching a lot of shit for not updating my blog in awhile, and this is as good a topic as any.

I got my teaching evaluations from the fall about a month and a half ago. On the whole, they were very positive. What can I say? I'm just amazing. On the other hand, the comments were pretty nondescript (re: boring). Two of them, however, stood out.

The first was positive:
Mr. P is balling out of control. He is a true playa and he is the English man!

I didn't know how to take that one, but I liked it anyway. Admittedly, I don't know what "balling out of control" means. Maybe my fly was down for most of the semester. I do know what a "true playa" is, and I can assure this student that such a supposition is completely true. I'm such a playa that I'm going to force all of my students to call me Mr. P-Diddy. I'm just that balling!

The second comment was negative. I was looking forward to reading some good hate messages; I thought they'd be entertaining. This one actually kinda hurt my feelings:
His jokes are cheesy and he has a poor sense of humor.

I laughed at first, but then I was sad. Of all the things for a negative comment to focus on, it had to be my sense of humor. I thought that was one thing I had going for me. It sure wasn't my teaching skill. At the end of the day, the best I can hope for is a decent laugh from these melon-brained freshmen.

Cheesy jokes!? What kind of comedic gold were these guys hoping for? I'm not wasting my A-material on them. Most of them couldn't recognize a good joke if gave them a courtesy reach-around. Well, that's not entirely fair. Some of them have a sense of humor. In fact, some of them actually make ME laugh. Last semester I assigned a "supervillain monologue" paper. The reasons for this assignment are fairly dubious - something about writing from another perspective or some bullshit like that. I think it's just a fun paper to read. Some of my students did not disappoint.

One of them wrote from the perspective of the arch-enemy of Snuggles of the fabric softener bear. It was this classic monologue about how the little bastard's laundry legacy was at an end. A more disturbing paper came from someone who was apparently MY archnemesis. This very quiet girl who sat in the back of the room wrote this very detailed monologue describing the various tortures that were in store for Mr. P. I was going to be forced to eat poisonous hot dogs as my intestines were ground into dust and then my toenails would be yanked off one-by-one. I was disturbed, and I gave her an A on the paper for safety reasons.

Maybe my jokes are cheesy. I don't know. But if you can't take the cheese, your performance in my class won't be very gouda.

*Dodges various metaphorical vegetables being tossed for that one*