The Undesirable Element

Inclusion Not Included

2009-11-06T23:12:00.007-05:00

Friday, November 6, 2009
12:07 p.m.
A High School Somewhere in Allegheny County, PA

As the honors students smile and wave goodbye for the weekend, their promising and bright futures radiating like the warm glow of hope, a new wave of student crashes upon the shores of my English classroom. Well... not "my" English classroom - technically it's that of my cooperating teacher. But that's semantics... they have no place in an English class. Anyway, these new students are of a different breed. They smack each other in the head; I can't tell if they're being playful about it or not so I tell them to stop. As though I'd simply waved hello, they shout, "MR. P!! What up, fo-shizzle!?" They are white. They care not. They do care about the laptops that are on their desks for the research they're supposed to do today. Several make highly suggestive comments regarding websites that they've visited. One young redheaded gentleman strolls in with his bookbag under his shirt and turned backwards giving him the appearance of a pregnant woman. This is exactly the look that he's going for and riles up the class with his shenanigans. I attempt to smother a chuckle, but the bastard is funny and quite the showman. My co-op returns from the restroom with the Special Ed. teacher in tow. They attempt to restore order, but this is where the wild things are. They too can't resist smiling at the faux-pregnant ginger in the back row who is moaning loudly that his water broke and praying loudly for another set of twins.

So begins another 9th grade inclusion class.

I've mentioned these inclusion classes before, but elaboration is necessary. Many schools around the country have created "inclusion" classes wherein students with emotional issues and learning disorders are placed in with the general student population (though severe cases are still separated). A special education teacher assists in these classes to ensure that the included students' needs are met. In theory, the class would then proceed as though these included students were not, in fact, actually there.

In practice, this is bullshit.

"Inclusion" class is a total misnomer. EXCLUSION class might be more appropriate. These special needs students are not mixed in with the general population. They are mixed in with the troublemakers, loudmouths, slackers, and other undesirables that no one else wants in their classrooms. These students, rather than providing support for each other, actually feed into each other's neuroses and distractions. The narcissist will loudly start shouting about his day. This aggrivates the kid with Asperger's who is trying to focus on some doodles in his notebook. His doodles draw the attention of a gent with chronic ADD who wants to know what the doodles are before asking about the window locks. The ADD kid inadvertently flirts with the girl whose sex drive is turned up to 11 and interprets everything as a come-on. All of this is absorbed by the gentleman in sweatpants who is gouging his name in the desk while singing a bawdy sailor's tune.

My co-op teacher, her addled brain clear turned up to "crazy," actually volunteered to teach these two inclusion classes because she wanted the challenge; however, I strongly suspect that she's been challenged enough with these folks. Now, lest you think I'm being elitist here, I did not get into teaching so I could only teach the best and the brightest. I have no qualms about helping special needs students. But when you toss them all together in a big pot and allow them to simmer into one big vat of Crazy Stew, you cannot create what we in the biz call a "learning environment." You know that scene in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest where Jack Nicholson gets the patients all worked up and they feed off of each other's symptoms? Yeah, it's like that... only without the electro-shock treatments to keep everyone in line.

Speaking of that movie, in one of the classes, there are 13 students with IEPs and one student who doesn't have one. That's right, there are 13 loonies and one normal person. That's a recipe for a meltdown right there.

You know the real shame of these inclusion classes? Quite a few of these kids are REALLY bright. Remember the aforementioned poser-pregnant ginger? That kid has some comic timing. He's always ready with a quip or a witty observation whenever he gets bored. One quiet girl can't interract with others to save her life, but she writes some of the most detailed papers for class that you've ever seen.

Then there's the young lady who could be the captain of the debate team and go toe-to-toe with Jack McCoy in the courtroom, but she has an astounding and stunning hatred and disdain for authority. She's the one I sympathize with the most because typically I like a rabble-rouser and someone who will tell the Man to go fuck himself. But she has no plan... at all. Her insistence on telling the system to go to hell keeps getting her into hot water and making life difficult for her. When she speaks, you can tell that this girl has some serious intelligence in that brain of hers and the will to use it... but only on her terms. Once in awhile, some of the kids might be foolish enough to make fun of her, and she will berate them mercilessly with a barrage of clever and sharply-barbed insults. She's got all the raw talent necessary to go far in the world, but she cannot keep her mouth shut long enough to actually use her powers for her own benefit. Instead, she just mouths off to whoever happens to be in charge of the class (and often me because she feels like it) and do highly inappropriate things. At one point today, my co-op bent down to grab some laptops off of a low shelf, and our heroine came up behind her and started gyrating in what can only be described as a lacivious manner. I noticed and quickly yelled, "Hey! Stop it!" She just spun around and snarked back, "Oh you like that, Mr. P?" before making a face and slouching back in her seat. The term "rebel without a cause" could not apply more aptly to an individual. She may also be bipolar, because sometimes she's happy as a clam and very concerned about our feelings and what-not. She nearly broke into tears last week when she inadvertently asked about my co-op's husband and found out they were divorced. "I'm so sorry, Ms. V!" she blubbered. Emotional trainwreck!

(I think I've dated an adult version of this girl on more than one occassion...)

I have little patience for the slackers who could do better and are too damned lazy, but I'm in a conundrum when it comes to these intelligent kids who are essentially struggling despite themselves. Of course, I resent them for making my life a huge pain in the ass for two periods of the day... but I can sympathize while I curse their names.

Still... they're damned funny sometimes.

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"WILD CARD, BITCHES!!! YEE HAW!!!"

JP 2.0

2009-10-30T22:05:00.003-04:00

One of the side effects of being a writer (I'm not sure when I decided that I deserved that title, but it sure makes me feel important) is that you inevitably compare the stuff you write with your current life. Also inevitably, the real world falls hugely short of the fascinating fiction that you've created. Such is the case with me, so I want to start making my own personal narrative much more interesting. Batmite once joked that he'd like to ret-con his life, and I think I'd like to do the same. If you don't know what "ret-con" means, then pat yourself on the back, for you are getting sex regularly.

First, I need a better origin story. "Young boy plays school with neighbor girl and eventually becomes a teacher himself" lacks the panache and swashbuckling adventure that my life deserves. Perhaps I was once sucked into a parallel universe in which the narratives of every book ever written existed for real, and then Long John Silver and Holden Caulfield help me battle Moby Dick, Count Dracula, and the personification of post-modern existentialism... played in that universe by Brian Dennehy. Once returning from my dimension-spanning adventure (which is totally not ripped off from the movie The Pagemaster), I'd become so enamored with literature that I'd HAVE to become a high school English teacher.

Second, my life requires a villain, a worthy foe, some adversary whose machinations must be countered by my every life move. I'd imagine a Professor Moriarty type played by Alan Rickman who speaks in a menacing British accent and is obsessed with ruining my reputation... or perhaps stealing a magical jewel or gem that I have in my possession. In fact, I like that second option. In the rebooted version of my life, I use a crystal made of Imaginatium that maintains the balance between fantasy and reality. Of course, this battle between me and my nemesis takes place in my off hours. During the day, my foe works as a rival English teacher who teaches only EVIL literature (like "The Scarlet Letter" and anything written in the Victorian Era).

Third, I need a sidekick... and Batmite would serve this function adequately. He would be the Robin to my Batman... only, you know, without the homoerotic overtones. In the new JP-Prime universe, Batmite's parents were killed during an elephant stampede, so he inherits their fortune, which he uses to assist in my various quests and adventures.

Fourth, lots of chicks! We're talking like James Bond-esque weekly beddings of comely lasses with a penchant for swooning. Of course, these minor sexual conquests will merely mask my unrequited love for some long-term romantic interest who is my intellectual and witty equal with whom I often flirt but never develop a serious relationship with due to various plot machinations that keep us apart. But every few years or so, my long-term love interest and I will get together seriously before she develops amnesia or is manipulated by my archnemesis into betraying me. Then we'll do the whole dance all over again.

I suppose Batmite-Prime can get some secondary chicks. His relationships, while more comical in tone, will likely prove heartwarming... or his women will end up dead as I must assume the role of makeshift legal aide in order to defend Batmite against murder charges.

Finally, in this new rebooted version of my life, I need theme music. I'm torn in this regard. I'm not sure if I want a really hardass rocking song with electric guitars and drums or a sultry, pimp-tastic jazzy number heavy on the saxophones and Barry White vocals. I'm really leaning toward the latter. I have no idea where this music would come from. Maybe set my alarm clock to begin every morning by playing it. Or hell, as long as we're talking parallel universes, let's say it constantly emanates from the aforementioned magical Imaginatium gem.

Oh yeah, and I constantly wear tuxedos, drink scotch on the rocks, speak with a sexy French/Spanish accent, and I have a wicked-awesome beard. Fucking right!

And maybe my Physicist brother in the alternate universe would have already built a time machine and magic wand so that this shit could become reality... unlike the slackass version in THIS universe who hasn't invented diddly-squat (insult will be retracted if he actually builds his solar death ray).

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"I get it now. He bad mouths you, and you make him delicious, sugary energy shakes. And I open my mouth, in a helpful way, and I get slapped. Must be in topsy-turvy world!"

Eating Out on the Town

2009-10-28T21:04:00.002-04:00

Cooking for one is no easy feat. Most foodstuffs are not designed with the single novice cook in mind. For instance, the cheapest way to buy potatoes is by the bag, but do you know how long it takes for one person to eat a sack of potatoes? Unless you hear me crooning "Top o' the mornin, to ya!" one week, I'm not scarfing down two or three daily taters. But even ignoring the sizes of items, cooking for one person feels like a lot of wasted effort. It takes at least a half hour to cook a reasonable meal (some sort of meat and a side or two), and then you can always add on the nuisance of clean up.

The inefficiency and labor of old fashioned home cooking often leaves me longing for restaurants and take out shops to prepare my meals for me. What's more, Pittsburgh (and the area surrounding Pitt, in particular) aren't hurting for restaurants... good ones too. The Original Hot Dog Shoppe (affectionately called "The O") is right across the street from my department's building. Primanti Bros. is right down the street should I desire my cole slaw and fries directly on my tasty sandwich. I discovered a lovely place that serves gyros. There are pizza parlors out the wazoo, and a legendary chinese restaurant (for which I have a gift certificate) beckoning me at least twice fortnightly. This discounts the seemingly hundreds of little coffee and sandwich shops littering Oakland and Squirrel Hill.

And yet, despite the temptations of delicious meals placed in front of me with zero effort, I've been dedicated to my home cooking regimen. While my diet certainly plays a hefty part in my decision (most restaurant food doesn't skimp on the calories), the primary inhibitor to my restaurant carousing remains: abject poverty.

Eating out is fucking expensive, and I'm trying to live on my own while unemployed. Oh sure, that five dollar footlong from Subway sounds like a good deal, but I can go to the store and get a loaf of bread, a pound of lunch meat, and some good cheese for less than ten bucks, and that will make me at least five lunches. When you get right down to the numbers (and when on a budget, that's exactly what you do), there's no comparison. Eating out will rape your wallet every time. A box of cereal and a gallon milk gives me breakfast for a week. Two donuts and a cup of coffee one morning costs almost the same. A bag of five frozen chicken breasts cost me $6 at the store today. A buffalo chicken sandwich (with a single chicken breast on it) set me back $8 when I was out at the bar last week.

I wish I'd had this economic revelation during my tenure in Morgantown. Batmite and I ate out constantly due to laziness and insatiable cravings for food of the deep fried variety (or tacos... deep fried tacos were but a dream). I'd wish I had kept track of how much I spent on restaurants during that time... I bet I'd have a lot more money now if I'd channeled my inner Paula Deen back then.

I've found a few cheats for cooking at home. First, I have a few regular standbys that are always easy to make. Pasta is a no-brainer, so there's always some whole wheat rotini in the cupboard and a bag of frozen ravioli in the freezer. Frozen chicken breasts are also a lifesaver because you just toss one in the oven and let it cook. And grilled cheese with tomato soup can be whipped up in a jiffy (I can make the Kessel Run in less than 12 jiffies). I still need to get in the habit of cooking larger meals and leaving leftovers for myself. That would be mighty convenient.

The better I get at cooking, the less likely I am to eat out. With more practice, my food becomes more and more edible, which was often a problem during Grad School Phase I. Every once in awhile, I still crave something from around town, so I eat out occassionally. But I try to limit myself. I'm honestly amazed that since moving to Pittsburgh, I have yet to eat at Primanti Bros. or The O. That's practically Oakland sacrilege. I may have to rectify those oversights simply to satisfy my inner completist.

I do wonder what would happen if I had a lot more money. I suspect my resolve to avoid restaurants would crumble like my hopes and dreams.

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"Homemade [at a restaurant] is a myth. You want to know some things that are homemade? Crystal meth. Crack cocaine. A pipe bomb full of nails. Now we're talkin' homemade!"

Duck and Cover: A Grad School Story

2009-10-15T13:21:00.007-04:00

Okay, I wasn't planning on resorting to MORE videos today, but thanks to Cracked.com (7 Horrifying Moments of Classic Kids' Movies) I've got a truly excellent example of an animated metaphor for my time in graduate school.

The following video is the beginning of the Disney movie "Mickey and the Beanstalk" (the plot being what you might expect). What's great about this particular interpretation of the classic story is how thoroughly Goofy's, Donald's, and Mickey's starvation and poverty are explored. In particular, Donald Duck cracks under the pressure and suffers three separate psychotic breaks, and attempts to murder a disturbingly anthropomorphized cow in one instance.

Watch the video. Analysis will follow:

Okay, first of all, they don't make dark and twisted comedy cartoons like this anymore. Second, while the segment illustrates one duck's descent into madness during a famine, it also serves as a parallel for the grad school experience. Allow me to demonstrate.

We open with three miserable saps drowning in existential despair as they attempt to survive on their meager earnings. This comprises the entirety of English graduate students, complete with an extremely lame pun about the cow being an "udder failure." Englishy-types love lame puns (see title above).

But then with no discernible external cause (around 1:55), one of the sufferers snaps at his own narrator (all graduate students imagine having their own narrator) and completely loses touch with reality. This represents the moment when a grad student realizes his or her sense of personal failure and lashes out against whatever happens to be nearby. Incidentally, there's a double parallel in that I've often felt like reacting EXACTLY as Donald Duck does in this part during particularly difficult times of dieting, complete with fantasies of consuming cutlery and dinnerware.

After calming himself down, Donald goes crazy again (2:20) - this time filled with murderous rage. He's out for blood, much like when grad students begin to harbor violent resentment toward their professors: those who heap the abuse upon them with reckless abandon. As the narrator so aptly explains, "He's suffered too much."

If I murder my Old English professor, the hurting will stop.

(Side Note: There's a solid 15 seconds in this clip where it looks for all the world like Donald is planning to butcher Mickey Mouse and eat his carcass. I love old cartoons.)

As time passes, hope seems to be on the horizon. For the grad student, the misery is almost complete, and better prospects await! Early celebration commences (3:17):

Huzzah! We won't be trapped in existential despair forever!

For me, this occurred just after I finished grad school and began looking for worthwhile employment. Hope sprang eternal. Everything in the future looked bright and happy.

But then.... NO! You can't be saying that I'm going BACK to graduate school!!! I thought the misery and pain was finally over!!! The grad student can't take it anymore. Hanging from ceilings and the pulling out of hair (feathers?) commences:
If Alan Shore is my super-ego, being everything that I hope to be that is rich and cultured and awesome in the world, then Donald Duck is my Id, representing everything evil and batshit crazy that I've secretly longed to express.

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"My therapist is a duck. I'm beginning to think he's a real quack!"

A Gentleman's Guide to Bar Brawling

2009-10-14T23:11:00.003-04:00

In lieu of coming up with original content, I'll retreat to providing amusing second-hand video.

If you seek fine fisticuffery, young pugilists, Alan Shore of Boston Legal shows you how to conduct a proper brawl. No nincompoopery here, good sirs! You'll like the cut of his jib and his unadulterated moxie (probably the only aspect of Alan Shore that isn't adulterated).

Alan Shore is everything I wish I were. He's Fantasy JP.

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"Don't be deceived by my cushy appearance."

Mimetic Genetics

2009-10-07T21:35:00.001-04:00

Have you ever watched an episode of a TV show that involved the main characters dredging up a story about their ancestors, which leads to a flashback episode involving those ancestors... except that the same actors from the show play their own grandparents (or great-grandparents as the case may be)? For instance, Walker Texas Ranger featured several episodes where Chuck Norris played his own great-grandfather as a sheriff in the Old West. Don't you hate it when that happens? What are the odds that a guy would look exactly like his own grandfather? What about the influence of both the grandmother's and mother's genes? That seems like common sense.

Well fuck common sense. Turns out one CAN look just like one's own grandfather.

The picture above is the wedding photo of my grandmother and grandfather (on my dad's side). Notice anything... familiar about my grandfather?
He looks JUST LIKE ME!

(Actually, this picture doesn't quite illustrate it properly, but if you know me personally, you can probably already see the resemblance.)

This revelation occurred this past Christmas when the family was looking at a compilation of wedding pictures that had been assembled for my grandparents' anniversary. (The post is occurring now because I only recently got a digital copy of the picture.) My brother is sitting there staring at my grandparents' picture and then squinting at me. Finally, he says, "You know what? Grandpap looks EXACTLY like [JP]!!"

No one (including me) had picked up on this, but once it was pointed out, everyone saw it. The big ears, the squinty eyes, the furrowed brow, the awkward smile, the ruggedly handsome physique. It's all there. We asked my grandma about it, and she said, "Oh I've noticed that for years." Thanks for letting me know, grandma. (Though imagining my grandmother's perspective regarding me looking like the younger version of her husband leaves me confused and deeply disturbed.)

My grandfather was in the hospital at the time recovering from heart surgery, so when we went to see him, we couldn't help but bring it up. "I've known for a long time..." he drawled in his usual gruff fashion. As coincidence would have it, I was wearing my stylish pea coat at the time, which reminded him of his Navy days. This led to an odd reminscience from my grandfather about a torrid romance between he and his female commanding officer (he had been a nurse) while in the Navy during WWII. The story sounded delightfully scandalous... until he revealed that she was critically wounded at one point, and he had to assist in the failed surgery to save her. Awkward silences abounded.

The unfortunate implication of looking exactly like a younger version of your grandfather is that, logically, you will eventually look like the CURRENT version of your grandfather. Oh how I wish I had a present-day picture of him to put up here to illustrate why this concerns me. On the plus side, he's like 87 years old, so maybe that bodes well for my longevity.

Alternatively, I accept that this photo could be evidence that I will one day travel back in time to become my own grandfather, thus creating a paradoxical time loop that will destroy the multiverse.

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"Oh, a lesson in not changing history from Mr. I'm-My-Own-Grandpa!"

The Bus Stops Here

2009-10-05T22:39:00.001-04:00

Okay, so public transportation hasn't really been a lifestyle choice for me so far in my life. Whenever I needed to get somewhere, I've had a totally boss ride of my own and very few parking problems up until now. However, traveling into Oakland from Swissvale every day reveals some inherent traffic and parking problems in driving my own car. Most noticably, I just don't have the money to pay their exorbitant parking fees. So for the last month, I've been taking the Pittsburgh buses to go to class. That's right, those filthy, inefficient, poverty-packed public transportation monstrosities that you've heard so much about. And you know what?

I fucking love it!

Not only do I get to avoid all the traffic of the east side of Pittsburgh, but I don't have to pay a cent for parking or gas. My bus (the one from my actual route pictured above incidentally) stops relatively close to my apartment and comes just about every half hour. As an added bonus, all Pitt students can ride all Allegheny county buses for free!! Epic win!

But the savings and convenience only scratch the surface of explaining the awesome sweetness of the bus. The cast of characters littering the buses on any given day truly makes for an inspirational ride. I could write ten books based around the colorful collection of city travelers that I've witnessed.

A Small Sampling:

The Helpful Talkative Jew: On my second day of riding the bus, I witnessed the first of many eccentric folks: a tubby, bearded Jewish man who spent the entire trip chatting it up with the bus driver. His conversation was innocent enough until he decided that the Port Authority of Pittsburgh buses use inefficient routes, and he adamantly explained to the driver how their route system could be more efficient. "Please stay behind the yellow line, sir," said the patient bus driver. "Don't be such a shmuck. If you'd just cut across 5th Avenue to the Boulevard of the Allies, you'd make it to Centre Ave..." "Sir... please sit down." It went back and forth like this the whole way into campus. He never did get the hint. When I disembarked, the Rabbi Magellan was still extoling the virtues of his directions.

The Senile Babbler: Public buses have a well deserved reputation for featuring some of the mental cases from around the city, and my route is no different. On one occassion, I had the misfortune (or good luck perhaps) to sit across from one such character. This old gentleman swayed back and forth in his seat while muttering to the railing next to him. For all intents and purposes, this guy looked to be completely detached from reality, except when the bus would make a turn onto a new street, then he would point forward in a dramatic fashion (think Captain Picard ordering warp speed) and demand, "Full speed, that-a-way!" before returning to his usual ramblings. This continued the entire way home; however, in one moment of perfect lucidity, he suddenly turned to the poor woman sitting right next to him and said, "Bus is running a bit late today."

The Bubbly Chatter: Bus etiquette is no mystery. I picked up on most of it on just a few trips. The most important thing is to sit down, don't take up two seats, and don't talk to anyone else. Nobody wants to chat; everyone would prefer to travel in peace. But one afternoon, the bus stops at Carnegie Mellon, and the most enthusiastic traveler ever to ride the bus bounded aboard. This spritely young lady decked out in pink (not kidding) hops up the stairs and announces, "HI EVERYONE!" (cue uncomfortable shifting of eyes from passengers) The girl makes her way past me, saying hello to everyone she passes. She finally stops next to a middle aged woman who, as far as I could tell, had no prior relationship with her. She proceeds to tell this unlucky soul about her entire personal history: "You know, I don't normally take the bus home on Mondays, because I normally go to the library on Mondays to study. But today I wanted to go home to study because there's a marathon of Gossip Girl on tonight, and I need to catch up on last season. There's just no time to study and catch on your shows, you know? I'm studying psychology but I just don't know if I can handle the advanced classes that deal with social disorders. Can you believe that there are people out there you can't understand basic social mores?"

The Mad Bomber: This seedy passenger comes aboard wearing a gray hoodie pulled up over his balding head. His remaining hair is matted and stringy. He's wearing sunglasses at dusk and sporting a long black trenchcoat. He's carrying a tattered and very full bookbag. He sits down and stares blankly out the front window. To say that the collective mood of the passengers shifted to "unnerved" would be an understatement. Fortunately, the suspicious gentleman traveled to his destination without incident.

The Comic Book Pedophile: Another instance of criminal profiling. Young children are hardly rare on the bus, and most people pay them no mind even if they're being noisy and unpleasant. This particular young boy was happily absorbed in some sort of nondescript comic book (I didn't recognize the title anyway). Everyone ignored him except for one bespectacled bearded man in his thirties wearing sweatpants and a windbreaker. He comes over and sits down next to the young lad and proceeds to inform him of his sizable comic book collection and explains that he has a rare issue of Spiderman encased in glass "at my mom's house." The man embodied his own trope. The mother eyed him suspiciously, but he seemed so genuinely interested in the boy's comic book that no one could be sure of any questionable intentions. Still, what kind of grown man has engaging conversations with random six-year-olds about comic books while riding a bus (you know... aside from Batmite)?

And on a related note:

I also go jogging/walking in nearby Frick Park from time to time, and the oddballs creep through there as well. Last Monday, I encountered two such yahoos. The first was a carbon copy of the Comic Book Pedophile, complete with beard and thick glasses. Except this guy was wearing a black shirt with the words "HAN SHOT FIRST" emblazoned on the front. If you don't know what that means, you probably get laid on a regular basis.

On the SAME TRIP, I'm jogging back toward my car, and I see a man wandering off the main trail carrying a spade shovel and a very large cumbersome white sack. He sets down the sack about fifty yards into the woods and proceeds to dig into the ground. I wanted no part of witnessing whatever this fellow was trying so unsuccessfully to hide, so I continued on my way. I have no desire to be a helpful informant.

Pittsburgh's got a colorful cast of characters. No wonder my family's from this city.

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"So these people live here?"
"This is a bus. People use it to get places that they need to go."

This is a Faux Update

2009-09-28T21:34:00.004-04:00

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.

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"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!

2009-09-19T15:20:00.002-04:00

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!!

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"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

2009-09-17T23:05:00.002-04:00

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.

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

Caution: Student Teacher Aboard

2009-09-11T22:17:00.000-04:00

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.

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"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

2009-09-09T00:01:00.002-04:00

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?

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

The Employer Giveth...

2009-09-08T02:11:00.006-04:00

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.

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

Lost in Transition

2009-09-02T20:13:00.005-04:00

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!

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"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."

From C to Shining C-

2009-08-26T18:14:00.003-04:00

I maintained in an earlier post that the citizenry is not to be trusted because they're mostly ignorant boobs. Bill Maher agrees with me (and incidentally enjoys the same punny titles that I do... so I stole one from him). I've listed some of the statistics given in the video above, though I'd heard some of these before.

-----------------------------------

On the eve of the Iraq War, 70% of Americans thought that Saddam Hussein was personally involved in 9/11

Six years later, 34% still do.

At a recent town hall meeting in South Carolina, a man stood up and told his congressman, “Keep your government hands off my Medicare!”

A majority of Americans cannot name a single branch of government or explain what the Bill of Rights is.

24% could not name the country that America fought in the Revolutionary War.

More than 2/3 of Americans don’t know what’s in Roe v. Wade

2/3 don’t know what the Food and Drug Administration does.

Nearly half of Americans don’t know that states have two senators.

More than half can’t name their congressman.

The average voter thinks that foreign aid consumes 24% of our federal budget. It’s actually less than 1%.

A third of Republicans believe that Obama is not a citizen.

A third of Democrats believe that George Bush had prior knowledge of the 9/11 attacks, which is an absurd sentence because it contains the words “Bush” and “knowledge.”

18% of us think that the sun revolves around the Earth.

Only about half of Americans are aware that Judaism is an older religion than Christianity.

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"Never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by stupidity." - Hanlon's Razor

The Tax Man Can

2009-08-13T14:29:00.004-04:00

Before I begin my diatribe, let me admit up front that my yearly tax forms consistently make me feel like an economic dolt. My current understanding of taxes amounts to: "Fill out forms so government can send me refund for being broke." I use the H&R Block online tax thingy every year and I believed everything to be in order as far as my state and federal taxes were concerned.

Then a few weeks ago I received a nice little letter from CENTAX (Central Tax Bureau of PA) telling me that there was an earned income tax audit discrepancy for the 2006 tax year. Apparently I was delinquent in paying my local school district taxes. The tax is a meager 1% deal with a relatively minor penalty. All told, I owe $84. Not all that bad really.

What annoyed me was that I couldn't figure out why I owed school district taxes. One of Mr. and Mrs. Employers' favorite topics of social inequity involves the fact that school district taxes are paid by wealthy and responsible property owners, and they pay for the children of mooching and lazy renters to go to school without having to pay a dime. Being a lazy and mooching less-than-renter, I couldn't figure out why I would owe taxes.

One phone call later, I learned that this particular tax is levied against anyone who earns an income; the other larger tax applies to people with property. And you know what? That's fine. I have no problem paying my share of taxes. In my mind, I never consider my taxed money to be part of my income anyway. It's money that I never had rather than money that the government is taking from me. So fundamentally I have no gripe with CENTAX.

What annoys me to no end is that, once again, the bureaucracy has informed me that ignorance of the law is no excuse... pay up! Typically, if your employer lives in your community, the 1% is automatically taken out of your wages, but if you work in, say, West Virginia while your home address is listed as Kittanning, you have to know intrinsically to pay your local school tax on your own. Maybe everyone else learned in third grade that one must determine his or her own local tax status, but I never got that memo. CENTAX never sent me a letter telling me that owed them money. The local government never sent me a letter telling me to go see my local wage office. Quite simply, I was just expected to know to go pay my local 1% school district tax somewhere somehow.

I'll follow the rules when I know what the rules are. But don't keep the rules secret and then fine my ass when I don't follow them. I'm sure a lot of people learned that local taxes were their own responsibility, but I never did. I'm certainly not the dumbest waste of space in this state, so I'm sure plenty of other people screwed it up too. I half-suspect that they do it on purpose so that they can fine people when they fail to pay up.

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"Let the bears pay the Bear Tax. I'll pay the Homer Tax."

For a Chance to Win Big Money!

2009-08-11T21:16:00.004-04:00

So many television shows from yesteryear have been reinvented (Password, Press Your Luck, Family Feud), but there are so many game show gems from the past that I personally want to see again. I am an avid fan of the genre, and while some of these titles are obscure, I think they deserve some air time again. Give them a dark blue set with a visible metallic structure and let Regis Philbin host. I guarantee mad ratings.

Match Game: Why this one hasn't been redone is beyond me. Everyone loves washed up celebrities and suggestive and bawdy game show innuendo. For the uninitiated, a contestant would be given a statement with a word missing, and they would have fill in the blank and try to match that word with words written by six celebrity panelists. And the sentences would usually be wildly suggestive. For instance, "Violent Velma is so violent..." (the audience would yell "How violent is she?") "She's so violent that every night before bed she always wants to ______ her husband." The contestant would then give a nice family-friendly answer like "hit," but everyone got the joke. (another example: "Did you catch a glimpse of that woman on the street corner? She has the world's biggest _______.") And the best part of the show is that the celebrities simply screw off the entire time. There's really very little strategy involved, and the D-list celebrities they found were usually very happy to ham it up for the camera. I'm sure today a panel of Tim Curry, William Shatner, Brian Dennehy, and Kathy Griffin would work their magic. Hell, if Charles Nelson Reilly and Nipsey Russell weren't already dead, they'd be right there on day one.

Tic Tac Dough: I remember watching this game religiously, but I don't remember a lot of the rules. It's basically Tic Tac Toe, but in order to put an X or an O on the board, you have to answer some ridiculous trivia question. I imagine half its popularity was due to its incredibly groan-inducing pun of a title, but TV shows have succeeded with less. Look at Deal or No Deal.

Bumper Stumpers: I would be AMAZED if anyone else remembers this show. Contestants had to decypher vanity plates in various puzzle formats. (SK8BDR = Skateboarder for instance). I doubt this would succeed today, but I love odd word games, and this is my fantasy list, so I'm including it.

Double Dare: On the other hand, here's one that just about anyone who watched Nickelodeon at all during the 80s and early 90s remembers fondly. Back then this was relegated to a startup children's network on cable TV, but look what passes for Prime Time network television now. The Physical Challenges and ending obstacle course could be amped up, and you could call the whole thing Double Dare Extreme (or X-Treme for that added punch).

Name That Tune: This is another one that would never take off today, and honestly I don't know how anyone greenlit the program originally. This show was probably like hardcore porn for music nerds. I mostly remember the final round where the host would give some clue about a song, and the contestants would bid on how many notes it would take them to guess it. Some macho asshole typically bid it down to one note, though that was no guarantee that he or she would get it right. This show was balls hard... like Jeopardy for music majors. I'm not sure why my musically-ignorant five-year-old self became fascinated by the show, but in retrospect, perhaps it foreshadowed my later predilection for karaoke.

Classic Concentration: Like the classic children's game concentration but on TV. Match cards, reveal picture, solve picture riddle. This one used to be on back-to-back with Family Feud in the 80s, and it was hosted by Alex Trebek (back when he had his sweet Dago moustache). I've found a whole cache of episodes on YouTube, and there's much hilarity to be had in mocking the contestants for their repeated inability to remember the cards.

$100,000 Pyramid: This is the one I want the most. I used to take my lunch at varying times throughout the day until I found out that $100,000 Pyramid reruns aired at 1:00 every afternoon on the Game Show Network. I wonder if my boss ever considers why my lunch schedule has become so much more regular lately. As opposed to the Match Game, the celebrities on this show had bring their A-game. The normal rounds aren't all that difficult (though you do have to think fast), but the Winner's Circle must be like the ninth circle of hell if you're giving clues. I've seen categories like "Things that are Horizontal," "Vague Things," and "Things that are Cherished." I realize having Dick Clark host it today would lead to all sorts of unintentional and wildly inappropriate hilarity, but he took that game so seriously you would have thought he was proctoring the SATs. There was a brief attempt to bring it back with Donny Osmond about ten years back, but it flopped. I want a big one-hour sumbitch where they up the ante to a million dollars and take the categories to extremes. Let's see them get "Existential Things" or "Parts of a Metafictional Novel."

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"Forgetful Freddy was so forgetful.... (How forgetful was he??)... he was so forgetful that every time he tried to remember someone's name, he drew a blank."

Feeling Fruitier Than Usual

2009-08-06T15:30:00.003-04:00

I love cantaloupe. It may be my favorite fruit.

Yesterday I cut up two whole cantaloupes. In less than 24 hours, I've consumed all of it.

I'm sad to see the cantaloupe gone. In fact, I'm feeling rather meloncholy.

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Making objections to my lame melon puns is fruitless.

Caution: Genius at Work

2009-08-04T18:03:00.004-04:00

As I hinted in an earlier post, I've been tinkering sporadically with writing a book. With ample free time, significant progress has been made. I've written three chapters, amounting to about 23 single-spaced Word pages, which would be somewhere in the ball park of 30 to 40 normal book pages. This doesn't mean that the writing is good or enjoyable... I'm just saying that it exists.

I've been working on it for probably the last six months or so, though my commitment often wanes or shifts to more immediate concerns (like the online class, sleeping in on weekends, and watching game shows). For quite some time, I didn't really want to tell anyone, figuring that I'd just be mocked mercilessly. "How's that novel coming, Hemingway?" "Get that publishing deal yet, Shakespeare?" And since the story had only developed into a pre-infancy stage, hell practically just a used condom stage, I really didn't want to talk about it.

I still don't want to discuss the plot in any great detail, mostly because it seems to change every time I write more of the story. "No, no!" I'll shout to nobody. "Eugene wouldn't do that, and Phoebe CERTAINLY wouldn't do that." So my outline shifts to suit whatever new character wrinkle I've worked into the narrative. For that reason, when you get right down to it, writing is really a colossal pain in the ass. Even though I've got 23 single-spaced pages now, I've probably re-written those pages three times. And they'll probably get re-written again as new stuff develops. Hell, I had an entire first chapter written before deciding that the whole thing sucked a testicle and chucking it into the discard pile.

Tasty Aside: I will hint that the plot was inspired by a blog post that I wrote about six months ago. Take that for what it's worth.

Aside from learning that revision is a cruel but necessary evil, I've taken other lessons away from this project already. For instance, characters are much better when they're wildly flawed. When I started, I imagined a group of totally awesome characters who were badass, witty, and got laid with alarming regularity. Quickly one realizes that you can only ride "total awesomeness" for a few pages before you run out of shit to do with it. So I splatter my canvas with heavy coats of arrogance, emotional turmoil, existential crises, stupidity, and just plain asshole behavior. Suddenly people do stuff that's a lot more interesting. The lesson seems obvious in retrospect, but when you're actually the one writing, the temptation to make all your characters exaggerated fantasies of how you wish you were is extremely tantalizing.

Anothing double-edged sword that I still have trouble wielding comes from using my own life as inspiration. Most, if not all, of my characters are based on people I know. Some of the characterizations are vague or simply draw on people's personalities while changing their life events. Others are complete ripoffs. Batmite, for instance, serves as the the direct parallel for one of the characters, and he wholeheartedly supports my fictionalized creation. He's just too damned colorful to pass up, and I mean that in only a half-racist way.

It should come as no great surprise that I'm creating a comedy. I enjoy making people laugh, and if I may say so, I think I'm pretty good at it in written form (though I envy people who can tell a well-constructed funny story in person). I still need to work on my character's inner motivations (when the narrator tells what the characters are thinking and feeling rather than indicating plot developments or backstory) and some of the dialogue. Dialogue is surprisingly hard to pull off convincingly because you want it to sound natural without including all of the "umms" and "likes," awkward pauses, and trivial small talk that litters real conversations. It has to sound real without being real. I should have been a physicist; it something sounds real without being real, it's probably just quantum mechanics.

Recently, writing this book has become something of a compulsion, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I think about the damned thing all the time, and I'm convinced that I *have* to write it just to get it on the page. When I started it, I expected to either lose interest in a few days or crap out some trash to sell for a quick buck to a publisher operating out of an old Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips. But now I actually want it to be good, and I'm beginning to think I could actually do something worthwhile with it. Who knows? Maybe you might see JP (hopefully with a sweet badass pseudonym) as a published man in your favorite bookstore.

Or the plot could be reworked as the script for a B-grade skin flick. I think I might even prefer that option.

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"You can't just have your characters announce how they feel! That makes me angry!"

Why I'm Awesomer Than Virgil

2009-07-29T16:26:00.006-04:00

In response to "Why I'm Awesome" by Virgil.

In her most recent blog post and in the comments for my last post, Virgil has been challenging the essence of my being for no honorable reason. Laughing at me, you say? Don't bother with a reply, you say? Well, madam, I shall not take these indignities sitting down. Why, I'll even be standing as I type.

So here is why *I* am awesome... specifically, how I surpass Virgil's awesomeness in every respect that she lists:

1. My child is better than Virgil's child because mine is imaginary. I named him "I Get to Sleep Through the Night and Never Change Diapers or Help with Homework." ... Or "Junior" for short.

2. I am also a writer, but I don't adhere to outmoded colonialist narrative structures that incorporate detail, motivation, and perspective in a dictatorial attempt to destroy more enlightened stylistic forms. While to the untrained eye my writing may seem pedantic, meandering, hackneyed, or plodding, I'm actually subverting the traditional authorial and didactic expectations of a post-structuralist readership. Epic win!

3. The truth is just an excuse for a lack of imagination. I will not insult the creative impulses of my friends, family, or students by giving them a cliched "truth" when a lovingly crafted fabrication stimulates the mind in a far superior manner. And how can I be expected to get anything done without the careful and skillful manipulation of those around me? What you would call manipulation, I call leadership!

4. Backbones can be broken, but spineless folk like me are more flexible and adaptable. The world punishes initiative and gumption but rewards cowardice and a lackadaisical attitude. When a Virgil goes down after challenging someone more powerful than herself, there will be a JP there to suck up to the new boss and earn favors. It's all about the endgame, Ms. Virgil.

5. A toilet can stir shit. I am not impressed. Besides, white males the size of most doorways seldom earn people's sympathy with finesse. When retaliation is required, I bluntly state my case. When that inevitably fails, I utilize my spineless nature to beg forgiveness. Then with all the time I saved, I spend the evening drinking myself silly to forget why I ever wanted to retaliate in the first place. Efficiency, madam, I has it!

6. I'm not just a "pretty good" teacher... I'm an EXCELLENT teacher! Not only have my students labeled me "ballin' out of control" and "better looking than most of the other English TAs," but I effectively prattle on for an entire class period to provide the illusion of an education without ever having to actually instruct about anything useful. It's acute business sense. Sell nothing but earn money-dollars. Coming to my class was like buying a pet rock... looks pretty, but it's fundamentally worthless. Financial cunning, Ms. Virgil. That's what I call it. Just wait until you see the business model for my Thneed company.

7. I am the ultimate man about town... mostly because I never go out. The suspense only whets the appetite of the community. And when I do go out, I also look smashing in a dress or leather pants. And when I drink, there is never want for entertainment, because as long as a karaoke machine is nearby, prepare to be regaled by the finest rendition of "Hungry Like the Wolf" that you've ever heard! Why I can hear those melodious strains now....

It's clear who wins here, Ms. Virgil. JP represents the epitome of humanity! Your attempts to bait me with baseless insults were fruitless.

:)
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"A true victory is to make your enemies see that they were wrong to oppose you in the first place."

How About a Little Fire, Strawman?

2009-07-28T11:07:00.006-04:00

Believe it or not, since the presidential elections, I've made a conscious effort to avoid blogging about politics (with a few minor exceptions) for three reasons. First, my opinions are seldom supported by factual evidence; therefore, they shouldn't change anyone else's opinions. Second, despite any evidence to the contrary, I try to be funny, and I know many readers of mine disagree with me politically, which can interfere with the yuk yuks. Third, it's often pointless since political discourse has consisted of the "yes to change" and "no to change" crowd arguing back and forth for centuries. Look at the Greeks. They bitched about the same basic stuff... only with togas and pederasty.

But then I have to listen to Mr. Employer blather on about politics, and it riles me up something fierce. It's not that I particularly care about what he says (I'm sympathetic to conservative political causes even if I have no tolerance for their social ones), it's his argument strategy. You would think as an Ivy League graduate (University of Pennsylvania) that he would not only be able to observe everyday logical fallacies, but that he might be able to avoid them most of the time as well. And yet, whenever Mr. Employer wants to talk politics, I am cordially introduced to his friend, Mr. Strawman.

Put simply, a strawman is an argument in which you portray your opponent in a laughably simplistic way and then argue against an exaggerated (or outright wrong) version of his or her position. The idea being that you've created a man made of straw, fought it, and declared victory while never touching your true opponent. For instance:
"We can't have cake for dessert. If we ate cake all day, we'd all get diabetes."
The strawman argument is essentially the grownup version of a parent telling a child, "If your friend jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too?" in response to a completely different request. Pundits or comedians sometimes use strawmen in a *wink wink* sort of way where they know it's absurd, but they're making a larger point. Mr. Employer, however, genuinely seems to believe in the ridiculous opponent he's trying to argue against.

A few days ago, he was arguing about the new health care plan. I don't pretend to understand it, and I'm sure it's riddled with flaws (many government programs are), but to hear him tell it, you'd think that Obama and his "socialist buddies" are deliberately working to overthrow American democracy as we know it. His basic argument:
"If this new health care system is implemented, we're going to have the same system as Canada, and that system has flaws X, Y, and Z."
From my limited understanding of the new health care proposals, there are some major differences between what the new health care plan and what Canada has. But still, look at his argument. He's not arguing against the new health care plan, he's bitching about Canada's. When I pointed this out, he wasn't pleased, but insisted, "We'd be well on our way to that sort of system in no time." In addition to inviting his relative Uncle Slippery Slope to his party of rhetorical fail, he doesn't seem to want to explore the social, economic, cultural, and political differences between the United States and Canada that might create a few differences in how our medical care might work.

In the world of Mr. Employer, all democrats are freedom-hating, dictatorial, socialist, business-challenged, minority-loving conspirators who are working to undermine the honest and true hard-working American businessman (i.e. him).** He does this bullshit all the time. Last week it was welfare reform. To hear him tell it, you'd think that everyone below the poverty line is an unethical, lazy, and mooching liar who will simply suckle the federal welfare tit for all eternity... and enjoy it! (Though who wouldn't enjoy eternal tit sucking, no matter how metaphorical it might be?) When I asked about, for instance, coal miners who work 12-hour days and still make shit for wages, he promptly started on a tirade about how the environmental whackos are keeping clean coal from revolutionizing our energy policy.

He drives me fucking mad when he's talking politics. Typically I don't argue with him because it's entirely pointless. Sometimes my silence leads to hilarious examples of overgeneralizations on his part. One time he was bitching about atheists and said, "Atheists really have no basis for their morality... they don't have a reference like you and me." My inner one-upper wanted so badly to scream, "I'M AN ATHEIST, YOU DUNDERHEAD!" But then I realized that he wasn't going to be convinced, and I'd only piss off my primary source of income. So as has become my mantra, I wisely remained silent.

Once again, I have no quarrel with conservative policies. I can appreciate the view even if I disagree with it. But if you want to argue, learn how to do it. Otherwise, do what I do and keep your mouth shut.

Unless you have a blog... then you can blather on for an eternity with your ill-informed opinions.

** Not to be confused with the opposing strawman that paints all Republicans as women-hating, money-grubbing, tree-burning, Bible-thumping, Klan members.

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"It is the duty of every citizen according to his best capacities to give validity to his convictions in political affairs." -- Albert Einstein (apparently never having met Mr. Employer)

Planeteer Alert!

2009-07-27T10:52:00.004-04:00

Despite what my brother would consider to be my touchy-feely liberal tendencies, I really don't care about the environment. Academically speaking, I understand the impact of pollution and the importance of maintaining a stable ecosystem; however, emotionally I typically can't muster the wherewithal to be truly upset by environmental issues. Perhaps it comes from too many years of watching Captain Planet; now I expect serious environmental violators to be malevolent and dastardly mutants who pollute just for the fun of it. Hell, one of the villains was named Looten Plunder. How do you beat a name like that? Answer: you can't.

My environmental apathy typically continues unchecked until, every once in awhile, I stumble across some information regarding the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. No, this is not the mythical home of the Garbage Pail and Cabbage Patch Kids. In fact, it's a giant island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that's twice the size of Texas... and it's made up entirely of garbage. It's also colloquially known as the Pacific Trash Vortex, which is a way cooler name.

Simply put, the currents in the North Pacific Ocean (the North Pacific Gyre) gather all the garbage in the ocean and bring it into a swirling but stable area where it can fester forever. Said garbage kills fish and other marine life. Have you ever let a bag of trash sit outside for too long? Well multiply that by about one trillion and then let is stew in water. It's not hard to see why this sucker would be problematic.

In any case, this is an environmental tidbit that people can wrap their heads around. "Floating garbage island twice the size of Texas" stays with a person far better than "Global warming will make the Earth's temperature rise a few degrees in a hundred years." While the latter is serious, it doesn't sound serious to a lot of folks. A new continent made of garbage really sounds like a big problem.

The beautiful thing is that this trash vortex is getting larger. More and more garbage keeps accumulating. There's something sadistically fascinating about the whole thing. Part of me wants to see this eco-disaster get worse and worse. At the moment, the vortex isn't visible by satellite (so no chance of finding it on Google Maps, I'm afraid) because it all floats on the water's surface, but maybe if we let the sumbitch accumulate into a super-sized mass of used tires, discarded diapers, and old Filet o' Fish wrappers, we can have ourselves a new garbage continent called Trashica.

------------------------------

"By your powers combined, I am Captain Planet!"

The Summer of George

2009-07-21T11:18:00.000-04:00

"My name is George. I'm unemployed, and I live with my parents."

With so many television shows out there, I think everyone can find some television character who embodies their circumstances if not their personality. Batmite is a shorter, paunchier version of Raj from The Big Bang Theory. Dave is the Tweek character from South Park. And I've maintained for some time that Kyra Sedgwick's character from The Closer is essentially Virgil if she were a police chief.

But those are all endearing characters. I realized a few weeks ago while watching Seinfeld that I am the living embodiment of George Costanza.

The line inspiring that train of thought is clearly the one at the top. If that isn't the most succinct summation of my circumstances (brought on when George decides to do the opposite of his natural insticts by being completely honest with a woman), then I don't know what is. In addition, George repeatedly fails with women, complains about insignificant minutiae, and lives vicariously through the interesting lives of others. And in the long-running Seinfeld plotline of George and Jerry trying to create a pilot for a sitcom, George fancies himself a marketable writer despite never actually selling any written material.

Given that George is something of a fictionalized version of Larry David, the creator of Seinfeld and current star of Curb Your Enthusiasm, I also find myself frequently sympathizing with the main character of that latter show. George, Larry David, and I could all sit down and have a marvelous lunch together. We're all essentially the same person.

Except I'm not bald.... or Jewish.... yet.

More Costanza quotes that apply to me:

"If you take everything I've accomplished in my life and condense it down to one day, it looks decent."

"I'm disturbed; I'm depressed; I'm inadequate; I've got it all!"

"I was living the dream. I was stripped to the waist eating a block of cheese the size of a car battery."

"You ask me to have lunch, tell me you slept with Elaine, and then say you're not in the mood for details? Now you listen to me. I want details and I want them right now. I don't have a job. I have no place to go. You're not in the mood? Well you GET in the mood!"

"I'm ALL awkward pauses!"

---------------------------------
"The jerk store called... they're running out of you!"

Because I Said So, That's Why!

2009-07-17T03:41:00.004-04:00

My online teacher is an arrogant ball bag!

For my final paper (three are a total of three papers and one portfolio), Professor Douchenozzle required a research paper about the No Child Left Behind Act. Given that it's the dominating legislation in education today, the topic seemed reasonable. However, when I went to the library last weekend to start researching, I was flabbergasted to discover that on the prompt he wrote, "It's hard to say how many pages this will be, but 10 is a good place to start." Lest you think I'm getting worked up about nothing, 10 pages is the same number of pages required for a final paper in gradute school... in English! ...where writing is the whole point. Also, this flew in the face of his course syllabus, which claimed that all the papers were three pages long.

To add further insult to injury, I went to the course website and discovered that the point values for our first three-page bullshit paper and this new 10-page monstrosity were the same. Both papers were apparently worth 300 points. Needless to say, I suspected that this might be an error or an extremely stupid decision on his part, so I sent him an email asking why the two papers were with the same number of points since the workload was clearly far heavier for the latter.

Also in the email, I asked him why the sample portfolio provided on the course website had almost nothing to do with the prompt provided. I'm usually pretty good at figuring out where teachers are coming from with their examples, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. So I politely (honest!) asked about the point values and the portfolio sample.

Here was his response:

Mr. [MY LAST NAME]:

This is a 200 level EDU class. NCLB is THE topic of most import in education today. Don't worry about 'points.' Worry about presenting a paper that fulfills the requirements. If it does not seem fair to you, you always have the option of not doing it.

Read the folder: the INTASC standards are a "possible format" offered as a guide if you wanted some direction. As stated, we developed the format in an in-class Foundations class. They make clear sense if you understand they provide a coherent template for a port.

First of all, he talks about a "200 level class" as though only the most prestigious doctors and lawyers have signed up to take his lofty course. He's teaching an introductory course about education to a class that should be made up of freshmen and sophomores. As a former grad student, I'm the exception - not the rule. Furthermore, it's at a community college! Should this jackass really be flouting his holier than thou attitude? I realize I went to WVU, which is hardly a scholarly mecca, but at least that's a state university.

Ten-page papers aren't easy to write. They require a thorough understanding of how to craft an extended argument, and even in grad school I sometimes struggled with them. Granted, I think I'm pretty good at writing them now, but what about freshmen or sophomores who have only ever written four-page papers for their community college writing courses? It's not like he offers any help. In his requirement for an abstract, he writes, "If you don't know what an abstract is, any standard writing book will tell you." That's right, you dumb and poor bastards. Go look it up yourself! I'm just your teacher; I'm not going to lower myself to actually TEACH you anything.

And he acts like I've offended his sensibilities by asking about the grading system. I realize that grades aren't everything, but I do like to have some idea of how I'll be assessed in a class. It's not unreasonable to expect that longer and more detailed assignments that require more research and writing will be worth more than short three-page assignments that I can churn out in half an hour. Furthemore, he raved about my first paper, and he praised my writing skills and my commitment to going above and beyond the requirements of the class in answering the question. Did he really need to take a tone of complete and disdainful condescention when responding to (what I thought were) my reasonable concerns?And his response to my portfolio question essentially amounts to, "Read it again. If you understand it, it'll make sense." Seriously, nothing in his response makes any fucking sense. The prompt makes no reference to how that example gels with what's required.

As you may have guessed, I resented his implications that my questions were those of a stupid and lazy person who didn't bother to read directions. I wanted so badly to write a snarky and scathing response brimming with vitriol and dripping with sarcasm. But I quickly dismissed that idea. The arrogant old prick still has to give me a grade for the class, and I'm sure burning my bridges before I even cross them would be considered unwise. And he's the chair of CCAC's English department. I may never go to that dump again, but he may have connections that could bite me in the ass later in life. Suppose his wife is the principal of a school that I want a job at someday. Knowing my luck, that would certainly be the case. So instead of tearing him a new one, I took the opposite track. I sent a quick and thoroughly heartfelt reply that read:

Dear Professor [ASSHOLE'S LAST NAME HERE]:

Thank you for the clarification. I didn't mean to sound disrespectful or disparaging. The assignments will be completed fully and on time.

Deep inside me somewhere, I truly hope that he would feel guilty that I sound so repentant for having offended his sensibilities. But given this guy's track record (his emails to the class are equally condescending and rude), I suspect he simply nodded and said to himself, "Finally, someone who recognizes the splendor of my magnficence."

Arrogant old asshole probably thinks he's too good to be teaching at a community college and delights in his own superiority complex. One more week and I can bid his inflated ego a fond adieu.

-----------------------------------
JP doesn't think he was ever this much of a douchebag to his own students, though surely at least one of them would disagree...

Prophet Margins

2009-07-15T15:00:00.003-04:00

"L-l-l-l-let my p-p-p-p-people g-g-g-g-go!!"

In her most recent church bulletin, Mrs. Employer included the following selection. My favorite parts are highlighted in blue.

The next time you feel bad or useless and are too far from God to do any good, just remember...

Noah was a drunk
Isaac was a daydreamer
Leah was ugly
Moses had a stuttering problem
Sampson had long hair and was a womanizer
Rahab was a prostitute
Jeremiah and Timothy were too young
David had an affair and was a murderer
Elijah was suicidal
Jonah ran from God
Job went bankrupt
Peter denied Christ
Martha worried about everything
The Samaritan woman was divorced... more than once
Zacchaeus was too small
Timothy had an ulcer
Abraham was too old
Jacob was a liar
Joseph was abused
Gideon was afraid
Isaiah preached naked
Naomi was a widow
John the Baptist ate bugs
The disciples fell asleep while praying
Paul was too religious
AND Lazarus was dead!

This may be the greatest religious compilation I've seen since I watched Monty Python's The Life of Brian. I understand that Mrs. Employer is trying to humanize the characters of the Bible, but in doing so, she inadvertently created much delight for this humble nonbeliever. I thought that these prophets were supposed to be role models and that we're supposed to take our guiding moral principles from the Bible? I've already mentioned in a previous post that Moses is a murderer, but he apparently has a stuttering problem, too. He's starting to sound more and more like a sociopath every day. And he's not even the only murderer on the list. David's a noted killer as well.

I didn't know Noah was a drunk, but if I had to spend 40 days and 40 nights on a mythical ship filled with animals, I'd probably hit the sauce too.

The list makes the people of the Bible out to be adulterers, womanizers, prostitutes, drunks, and killers. I thoroughly approve. While it seems peculiar that Mrs. Employer, devout Christian that she is, would want to emphasize that the very people she reveres are also wildly inappropriate, I can see how it would help to comfort mere mortals who fear they're not good enough for God. Of course, it doesn't say much for God that this so-called supreme being cavorts with such questionable folks.

Isaiah and John the Baptist are my favorites. They preached naked and ate bugs respectively. Nudists and bug-eaters always meet with my approval. I also like that Paul was "too religious" for God. The implications of that statement are staggering.

Some of these "weaknesses" seem a bit judgmental though. Why are having long hair, having an ulcer, and being ugly considered problematic? Is Jesus a hippie-hating, jalapeno-eating, narcissistic asshole?

Lazarus rising from the dead is just awesome whether it actually happened or not. Immortality shouldn't be considered a personality defect.

The moral of this lesson is that you can do pretty much whatever you like... God will forgive you anyway.

Especially if you kill someone... so stab away my gentile friends!

--------------------------------
"Whoa! Is that really the blood of Christ?"
"Yes."
"That guy must have been wasted 24/7!"