This is a Faux Update

Updates are forthcoming. I've had homework up the wazoo and drunken revelry to attend to at the State Firemen's Convention (Kittanning Firemen's Band took 2nd place). But I have four posts already in various stages of completion saved as drafts on Blogger and several more ideas floating in my head. For once, I'm not hurting for ideas... just time.

So bear with me, gentle readers, for soon you too can share in my charmingly witty misery.

----------------------------
"Now hear this, now hear this. This is your Captain speaking. My fine pinioned pirates, we're approaching the tricky buoy! Sharpen your cutlasses! There may be skullduggery ahead!"

Weight Weight... Don't Tell Me!

Reasonable approximation of JP's physique

I'm shoutin' it from the rooftop bitches! As of today, I've lost 100 pounds! I started out at 336 lbs six years ago. Now I'm at 236. That's 17 lbs less than what I was the last time I was bragging about my weight loss and 100 pounds overall. Woot woot!!

Of course it's a completely meaningless figure (unlike my actual figure, which is GORGEOUS!). I didn't even realize the significance of the number until hours after I weighed myself this morning. I still haven't achieved the weight necessary for jumping out of an airplane, and my medically ideal weight is 210. But dammit, I'm proud of myself, and when I'm feeling good about myself, I get to celebrate!

And today is Talk Like a Pirate Day, so I be a slender scalawag ne'er so large as the yardarm of me vessel. Ye be celebratin or ye be feelin the wrath of the keelhaul. Yarr!!

-----------------------------------
"I'm so hungry I could ride a horse....... I don't get it...... Well, I could ride it to the store I guess."

In Which Our Protagonist Creates His Protagonist

Since going back to school, I've been reading books, writing essays, and making lesson plans that would dazzle the writers of even the most inspirational movie about teachers. But one task that has fallen woefully by the wayside for the last three or four weeks is that pinnacle of creative manuscripting... my novel.

I haven't touched the damn thing since moving to Pittsburgh, and I'm annoyed. I was really hitting my stride near the end of the summer. I'd knocked out about 30 typed single-spaced pages, and I'd figured out most of the ridiculously derivative plot. But when instructors cram deadlines up your ass with the force of a sadistic proctologist gleefully giving an enema and prostate exam (I've been working on my imagery), the temptation to concentrate solely upon that which will earn you a winning smile of approval or harsh tongue lashing of scorn becomes overwhelming.

Timing, of course, has a way of putting everything in perspective. Just two days ago while sitting in my Teaching Writing class, the class discussed the importance of encouraging students to write and demonstrating that writing is a continuous process, and we as teachers are constantly working on our own writing as well. The hypocrisy bubbling in my throat tasted of despair and regret (remember: imagery practice). While the discussion continued, I quietly bemoaned the fact that I'd been shamefully neglecting the life of Eugene, the gleeful protagonist from my novel. Through cosmic coincidence, Virgil mentioned just today that she sets aside time to write every week - a writing day as it were - and suggested I do the same. I must admit, the temptation is palpable. A day spent immersed in my fictional little hamlet based rather derivatively upon Morgantown sounds tantalizing.

Somehow though, I have trouble figuring out my main character's deal, which makes the writing process really hard to get into right now. Not understanding the main character's motivations results in my brain crashing head first into the writer's block. Eugene was originally loosely based upon me. Naturally, I made him dashing, charming, wildly intelligent, and a gripping public speaker with a wit that would make Oscar Wilde jealous. He enjoyed blogging, singing karaoke, and discussing the finer points of comic bookery with his Indian friend. Basing Eugene on this admittedly idealized vision of myself seemed fun at the time, but in the greater scheme of the plot, there was nothing for him to do. When your character starts out awesome, he has nowhere to go but down. I had no interest in creating a tragedy in which I destroy the fictionalized version of myself (delightfully masochistic though that may be). So I started adding faults to Eugene. Now he's rather arrogant... and socially awkward... and a milquetoast office assistant with no career ambitions... and he has a string of ex-girlfriends with bizarre character quirks that have left him emotionally battered. Now I have the opposite problem. Now he's too much like real JP. Confronting all of my own crippling social inadequacies on a weekly basis through this written prism (or perhaps "prison"... oh I'm so witty) seems even more daunting than just hammering out a few pages. Why does writing have to be so personally goddamned draining to my soul?

I think I need to split the difference. Eugene needs to be less like me and a bit more fictional... someone who can go through the ringer without it becoming an exercise in self-mutilation.

Then maybe I can leap back on the creativity wagon and churn out this novel that will earn me a Scrooge McDuck-sized money bin full of gold doubloons. Maybe I should make Eugene an angsty vampire if I really want to rake in the greenbacks.

--------------------------------
"Meanwhile, back at the Hall of Justice..."

Caution: Student Teacher Aboard

Today marked my first official day of observation at the high school where I'll be student teaching in the spring. For the fall semester, I go to my high school once a week to observe the ways of the English teacher (Grammaticus Pedagogicus) and help out as the semester progresses. Once the spring semester starts, I'll get to be Teacher-in-Training guy, sharing wisdom and witticisms with my young charges and training them in the ways of the Jedi arts.

My co-op (education shorthand for "cooperating teacher" or "she who can make or break me") teaches five sections of Gifted/Honors 9th grade English and two sections of what they call "Inclusion" 9th grade English at a very well-to-do school in the region.

The Gifted/Honors classes run the gamut from tedious zones of close-lipped shyness to the off-the-wall antics of smartasses who are bright enough to wield their cheeky wise-assery in an entertaining way. While I was certainly in the former group when I was actually in high school, I much prefer the latter gang now. No wonder teachers didn't like me in high school; I was too boring.

The inclusion classes provide a theoretical "safe environment" for kids with emotional and learning disabilities that prevent them from understanding the subject matter. These are not the severe cases (those with official mental retardation) or high-functioning folks, but the average students who happen to have IEPs for various reasons. My favorite of these folks so far is a creepy little bastard with a shaved head and thick coke-bottle glasses who, upon my co-op's introduction of me at the beginning of class, promptly turned around to stare at me for no particular reason. I'm not talking about a casual glare. This kid was bug-eyed, leaned forward, and shooting lasers into my forehead. More intrigued by this looney kid than anything else, I stared right back at him in the same manner. I'm be damned if a ninth-grader is going to best me in a staring contest. The showdown finally ended when one of the kid's friends said, "Jeez, Pat, quit staring at Mr. P. It's weird!" Apparently my response to the situation impressed my co-op as she thought it demonstrated my lack of fear in the classroom. If only she knew it was my childish desires fueling my ego rather than any noble desire for respect and trust.

My co-op has also warned me of some girl in the class who is apparently "boy crazy" and will attempt to seduce me at her earliest convenience. Sweet statutory! Why can't I find these women when they reach adulthood? Or maybe I have, and those ones in the crazy classes grew up to become my colorful minefield of ex-girlfriends.

For a few classes, I simply sat back and observed as my co-op led a discussion and quiz of "The Most Dangerous Game." I fondly remember this story from my own high school English days, and while sitting in the classroom listening to this discussion again, I realized just how many hokey action flicks sprung from this premise. Predator and The Running Man jump to mind immediately, and that magnificent dandy popinjay Trelane hunted Captain Kirk for sport in "The Squire of Gothos." In fact, Star Trek loves human hunting episodes; the franchise is littered with them.

But aside from letting my imagination regress into childish fantasies, my co-op also asked me to try my hand at grading some vocabulary quizzes. Now I realize that grading quizzes becomes an integral part of the English teacher's day, but I couldn't help but think that Ms. Co-Op was taking advantage of my presence by using me as a workhorse to finish the tedious grading.... because that's exactly what I'd do in her position. I mentioned this to her at the end of the day, and she laughed heartily..... but didn't deny it. As a nice bonus, I now have a flawless command of ten vocabulary words from "The Most Dangerous Game." My affable, disarming, and venerable persona certainly leeched away my solicitous ennui and indolence, which felt palpable and tangible in an opaque way.

So I left the building at 3pm feeling completely drained but oddly invigorated; confident but terrified; arrogant but humbled; and smart but overwhelmed by my own ignorance. Any annoyance with the traffic on the way home paled in comparison to that quadruple existential crisis.

And waking up at 5:30am blows a big ballsac. Man was not meant to rise before the cock crows. I leave it up to you to decide which of the two previous sentences is more lewd and offensive.

------------------------------------
"Do you know what the chain of command is here? It's the chain I go get and beat you with to show you who's in command."

My Heart is All Atwitter

I'm now on the TWITTER, bitches!!

That's right. I've expanded my hold on the interweb by moving to its OTHER form of completely worthless communication. You can find me at www.twitter.com/undesirablement. I thought "Undesirablement" would be a cool amalgam of "Undesirable Element"... by which I mean that it meets their 20-character maximum requirement whereas "Undesirable Element" does not. Foiled by linguistics!

I figured I could branch out given how timely and highly viewed my posts are here. Why not give myself something else to do?

-----------------------------
"Where is the chase, and how do I cut to it?"

The Employer Giveth...

I don't know if I mentioned this enough, but Mr. and Mrs. Employer are very VERY generous to me. Despite our plentiful differences, they practically treat me like a member of the family (albeit not in any way that would leave me with a sizable inheritance), and if I ever needed anything -- money, lodging, concubines -- they'd be happy to help me out. Mrs. Employer gives me baked goods at every available opportunity, and they allow me generous access to their fruit cellar, which is filled with all manner of tasty fruits, vegetables, pickles, and the most delicious tomato sauce you've ever sampled.

I've worked for them every summer, and every year they give me a very generous bonus before I go back to school. Occasionally I get a card or some really cliched book of poetry (because they think I'll appreciate it with all of my mad English skillz), but typically it's a handsome monetary sum. For a man in my tenuous economic position, that's always a really big help.

This year, I once again received a generous check to help me out; however, this year they added an extra tidbit as a token of their appreciation: a new hard cover copy of the Quest Study Bible.

That's right. Mrs. Employer, the power pastor that I've religiously (pun intended) complained about for her overly conservative religious beliefs, felt it necessary to give her resident atheist a goddamn BIBLE as a parting gift. And not just any Bible, but a version complete with annotations and insights from the world's top biblical scholars.

Actually, from a completely academic standpoint, it's a pretty valuable book. Religious or not, one can't deny the impact that the Bible has had on Western literature, so it's worth having a usable copy around. But seriously! This was a present... from a pastor to her atheist underling. What could she possibly have been thinking!? I have two theories:

1. She has no idea that I don't believe in God and genuinely believed that I would like this book.
2. She's known all along that I'm a godless heathen, and she's out to save my soul from eternal damnation.

I tend to lean toward the second option, but I can't completely rule out the first. Maybe I really did hide my utter disdain for her entire occupation better than I thought. But even if the second option is the real case, maybe I should be flattered that she thinks enough of me to believe my soul is worth saving. Well the joke's on her! I sold my soul five years ago for a bologna sandwich and a stale doughnut. Nobody's getting my ethereal essence when I croak.

Still, Mr. and Mrs. Employer are highly influential people with money, power, and a predilection for tasty baked treats. They can just as easily taketh away, so I politely and graciously accepted her gift, and thanked her for everything she'd done for me over the years. And believe it or not, I genuinely meant that. Just goes to show you that you can't pigeonhole anybody. Even folks who hang on Rush Limbaugh's every word, believe an old bearded man is judging their eternal souls, don't care for "the negroes," and use some of the shadiest business practices this side of Bernie Madoff can still be kind, generous, and damned nice people who want me to go to heaven and chill with Jesus.

As long as I stay away from the Jews, blacks, and queers.

---------------------------------
"Maybe you should read your Bible."
"Any particular passage?"
"Oh, it's all good."

Lost in Transition

No longer an acceptable method of teaching grammar

Sorry I've been remiss in my posts, faithful readers. It's been a busy week or so. Since I last posted, I've recoiled from the world of sermon typing and bulletin copying back to the hovel from whence this blog emerged: graduate school.

Granted, it's not the same graduate school. I'm at the University of Pittsburgh this time instead of West Virginia University. And it's not the same program. Secondary English Education Teaching Certificate instead of straight English. But even though the lyrics have changed, it's still the same old tune. Still, much has changed, and I have stories aplenty. My adventures with public transit, my new apartment, and an angry gentleman in Quiznos can be saved for another day; today I'm going to talk about the new program that I'm in.

For those not in the know, I'm back in school to earn my teaching certification so that I can find gainful employment as a high school English teacher. This is the exciting turn that my life has taken. Unlike many other certification programs, Pitt's program consists of 7 graduate classes (five in the fall and two in the spring) that can eventually be applied toward an M.Ed. (Masters of Education). You may be wondering, "But JP, you already taught college-level English with HI-larious stories pouring onto the internet as a result. Why would you need additional schooling to teach high school?" That's a very good question, Reader X. But sadly it's misdirected. The more pertinent question should be, "Why didn't I need additional schooling to teach college." Now that I'm trying my hand at teaching, reflecting back upon my previous teaching experience fills me with regret, shame, and embarrassment... and that's just in remembering the comely female students who didn't sleep with me.

Teaching high school requires an extensive commitment to lesson plans and teaching goals. Such was the case in college as well, but my advisor -- bless his apathetic and spineless heart -- never really gave a rat's ass. Consequently, my planning often amounted to typing endless but sarcasm-laced handouts and consulting with Batmite over the best way to incorporate my Green Lantern plushy into a discussion of genres. Such chicanery and tomfoolery won't be tolerated by principals and managing teachers during my training. Now I have to be JP: Official Teacher of Wordsmithing.

Actually I lucked out in my teaching placement with a great school and great student teaching adviser, but I'll talk about that in another post. At the moment, I'm now three days into the delight of graduate classes in education. They run the gamut from truly fascinating to incredibly insulting. Some of the professors really seem to want to challenge the traditional methodology for teaching, and they explore very contemporary themes in literature and pedagogy. In one class, however, I had to make a name tag for myself out of construction paper and magic markers and then spend an hour and a half listening to a group of bickering former English majors (we do bicker well) argue about where prewriting ends and drafting starts. And how does that make us feel!? It made me feel like a goddamn simpleton, but then I remembered that a week ago I was doing the work of a trained monkey and I felt better.

I can't believe how modest the reading load is. The one professor (the same one with the construction paper name cards and infantile discussion) divided up our reading assignment for next week because 100 pages was just too much. Jesus Fucking Christ! English professors don't bat an eye when assigning a 400-page novel for next week. Granted, I wouldn't read it anyway, but the expectation was there for me to cavalierly disregard!

But on the flip side, the number of little nagging projects increased four-fold. No more giant research papers. In their place are a hundred little mini-lessons for me to plan and several faux discussion groups for me to lead. And those classes of zoning out for three hours and coming up with some catchpenny profundity on the fly every once in awhile by cribbing notes from Virgil and Batmite? That shit probably won't cut the mustard with their mandatory reader/writer journals where I have to compile my readings, notes, and observations for every goddamn class. I haven't taken notes in class in almost four years. It's like they peered into my brain, recognized my sloth and cavalier attitude, and adjusted their syllabi accordingly. Curse their effective teaching methodology!

-------------------------------------------
"I fail to see the educational value of this assembly."
"Ah, it'll be one of their few pleasant memories when they're pumping gas for a living."