I Can Haz Job Now?

Well, it took 2 and a half years, 120 job applications, and one broken soul, but I finally did it. The goal has been achieved.

I, ladies and gentlemen, am employed!

And not as a porn fluffer or a gigolo. I've finangled my way into a legitimate teaching position. That's right, dear readers. This fine specimen of the human genome is going to be teaching your offspring and improving the minds of the next generation. You may lodge your complaints at the nearest school board meeting.

Actually, to allow my ego to fully inflate to its maximum size, I should point out that I actually got TWO jobs. Two weeks ago, I interviewed with the same high school where I did some day-to-day subbing last year. Although I had good answers to the interview questions, I didn't think I did the greatest job. Despite my grandiose sense of self-importance, I was really nervous. I stuttered a bit, and I don't think my posture was particularly confident. Nevertheless, they called me the next day to offer me the job.

I accepted their offer; however, a few days later I had an interview with ANOTHER school, actually the adjoining school district to be precise. So I go into that interview with a bit of machismo. After all, I already have a job in the bank, so the stakes aren't so high. Of course, I'm still kinda nervous because this school has quite a bit of money to offer me, but I channel that nervous energy into some really excellent interview responses and some witty jokes that (surprisingly) did not offend the people interviewing me. I can use my creativity for good instead of evil... sometimes.

So I come out of that interview feeling confident, but I know that it's a more competitive position. Both jobs are actually one-year long-term substitute positions, but one can't be picky in this economy. Besides, the positions still pay the same as a full-time teacher. These are, to put it mildly, desirable positions.

As I learned yesterday, the second school offered me the job too... and with significant cash incentives. I'd rather not discuss the particulars of the schools and the salaries on an open blog, but suffice it to say, this second job is the more desirable position overall. I intend to accept it; however, I certainly don't want to burn my bridges at the first school, so I'll be turning that one down in a classy fashion. This gentleman won't be leaving a baggie full of dog shit on the principal's doorstep, no siree.

Actually, I got interviewed at both of these schools because two experienced teachers from the Writing Project recommended me. They teach at the two schools. This is networking at its finest. Of course, when I was turned down for a full time position at my student teaching placement in favor of the assistant principal's cousin, I was grumbling, "Goddamn personal favors getting people jobs that they don't deserve!" Now that backdoor handshakes and knowing the right people is getting ME the good spots, my opinion of favoritism has improved considerably.

Funny how that works.

I'm all excited about the full time position, and for the first time ever, I can actually contemplate buying some things. Even though I'm still earning a teacher's salary, it's still way more money than I've ever had. Compared to what I made as a grad student (the highest yearly income I ever had), I feel like Scrooge McDuck swimming in his money bin.

So put on your finery, ma! We're celebratin' at the Sizzler tonight!

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"A teacher is one who makes himself progressively unnecessary." -- Whoever said this never needed an annual salary.

Welcome to the Workaday World

Well, I asked for it.

I wanted the opportunity... nay... the PRIVILEGE to be a working man with a regular and steady job requiring normal sleep hours and an 8-hour or more work day. I demanded money dollars for my productivity. I craved the sumptuous taste of adulthood and responsibility.

I got what I wanted and came to a conclusion: Adulthood Sucks!

Now don't get me wrong - I'm loving my chosen field. There's never a dull moment when you're teaching. As indicated in previous posts, the adolescent mind constantly invents new ways to create incidents that will entertain and enthrall my friends and family. But this daily 5:30 A.M wake-up call is for the goddamn birds. And not just the normal birds either - like a fucking owl or something. Battling my way across the Parkway every morning with the other working masses only hammers home just how much growing up will bring on pain and misery.

Know what was great? Waking up at 10:30 every morning last semester. Riding my bike to the candy store to buy Ring Pops because I had nothing better to do at age 8. Spending an entire evening pouring salt on slugs on the front stoop just to watch them shrivel. Now the only thing shriveling is my sleep time.

To be fair, this semester is particularly unpleasant. Much as I love my student teaching placement, I'm beat when I get done there. When you're teaching, you have to constantly be in teaching mode, and that constant act is exhausting. A lot of people don't realize that. And when 2:30 rolls around, I want to watch cartoons, eat a fudgesicle, and take a nap (the pleasures in life don't change after age 4). But do I get to do this? Hell no! I have to make my way to my grad school classes on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. By the time I get home, I've had a 15 hour day. The last time I did something for 15 hours straight, I was dumping talcum powder into my pants for the next three days.

I don't write this for the pity (though it's always nice). This is a meditation on the working life that I write for all of you long-suffering folks out there who haven't seen the sun outside of your job site in 8 months. For years I both envied you and mocked you. Now I do neither. I feel your pain and hereby withdraw my objections to your constant and increasingly fervent requests for hard liquor and your random outbursts of frustration. Cries of "WHY GOD, WHY!??" will no longer go ignored or scoffed at.

Curse you, irony!! You've fooled me once again!

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"I don't want to grow up 'cause if I did, I wouldn't be a Toys R' Us kid."

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.

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

How About a Little Fire, Strawman?

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)

No Brains, No Talent, No Service

My employers seldom fail to come up with interesting ways to exploit my meager collection of skills. Today's task was by far the most explicit reminder of my past life: I graded papers.

Now these were not just any papers. Mr. Employer is a proud member of the Rotary organization, and they award a reasonably-sized scholarship to a deserving student in the area who has demonstrated a commitment to community service. Students wishing to apply for this scholarship have to submit an essay explaining why they deserve it, and then the Rotary members are supposed to read these essays and rate which is the best. Well Mr. Employer/Delegator decided that I would be perfect for this task, so I was given roughly 24 essays on the subject of "Service Over Self."

The 17-18 year-old age group has a writing style with which I am intimately familiar, but it's been so long since I've been wrist deep in a steaming pile of essays that I'd forgotten just what terrible writers the vast majority of high school graduates are. But this wasn't simply an exercise in assessing their writing styles, so I turned my attention to the content and tried to see who could best write about the personal and social importance of community service. I'm hardly a noted humanitarian, so I felt like I was headed into difficult waters. These were seas best left to an expert navigator like Virgil, who essentially pioneered the service learning program in the English department down at Dub-V. I only got the briefest taste of that world, and I don't know how she chews on it every single day.

These kids have no concept of what community service means. As I said, I'm a terrible person with regards to helping others, but at least I know and understand the causes that I'm being completely callous towards. A surprising number of essays referred to community service as "burdensome" (in some cases that was the exact word used), and even though they quickly followed that with some variation of "but it was extremely rewarding," I couldn't help but sense that they felt forced to do the work. I may not be involved with any official organization, but I've occasionally decided to ignore my disdain for humanity and help others. While the work can be difficult, I always feel really good about it. Granted, part of that comes from my inner voices telling me what a great person I am for helping, but I like to think that some part of me enjoys seeing the impact that my work has on others.

The best parts of these essays were the moments where they tried to convey just how selfless they are. As I mentioned, the topic of the essay was "Service Over Self," so I suspect that these budding humanitarians were trying to squeeze every last drop of sincerity into explaining how they always put others over their own well-being. My favorite line has to be, "I always put myself last." I guffawed out loud at that one. Apparently someone needs to put Sally Selfless on the suicide watch list. Not only is that statement highly unlikely, but it also sounds like the person has the self-esteem of a grapefruit. Another fine young student said that helping to find a cure for cancer was one of the most rewarding experiences of his life. Of course, his contribution to the ongoing research involved selling candy bars when the proceeds went toward cancer research. I wouldn't award him the Nobel Prize just yet.

A few snowflakes really never seemed to grasp the concept of "volunteer" work. One gentleman said that while he got paid to be a lifeguard, his dedication to the job invoked the spirit of community service. I spoke to the Spirit of Community Service on my Ouija board, and he said you're a ball-bag. Yet another claimed that working at the hospital snack bar could be described as "helping the less fortunate."

I was not alone in my project. Mr. and Mrs. Employer have company this week, and they recruited two of the women to read essays as well. One of them couldn't have been more qualified - she's a professor of social work at the University of North Carolina and now works with the continuing education department. On the off chance that maybe I'd been away from students too long and was being too critical of their work (or maybe that I was just uninformed in the ways of service), I asked her what she thought of the essays. Her opinion of the essays made me look like the most understanding reader on the planet. I've never heard such sadness and despair (bordering on contempt and vitriol) for student writing. While there was clearly a winner in the pile (thus allowing us to successfully complete the task), she and I agreed that the whole process made us simultaneously fear for the future of community service and writing.

Sometimes I can't believe I want to get back into teaching, but then I read stuff like that, and I'm actually more committed to being a teacher (or more likely to be committed to an asylum), because SOMEBODY has to try to stop the pandemic spread of stupidity in high school essays. I mean, good gravy!! Some people actually have to read this shit!

Virgil, if I wore a hat, I would tip it in respect to your skills. I imagine you have to sit down with just about every one of your special little learners and say, "I'm sorry, darlin', but y'all can't consider helping grandma in the kitchen as community service."

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HIGH SCHOOLER WISDOM: "In these modern times, helping the less fortunate is very important." -- Because in the past, nobody ever needed help.

Rage Against the Machine

I spent so much time today in front of a copy machine that I can't be sure that I didn't duplicate myself in the process. I've been feeling rather duplicated all day, but that may have been the result of the meatloaf sandwich I had for lunch.

Six hours!! Six hours copying church bulletins today. To hell with giving myself the lotto numbers; if I build a time machine, I'm going back to the 15th century and stabbing Johannes Gutenberg in the throat. I now support a completely original society where no documents may be duplicated by anyone or anything (at least without the express written consent of Major League Baseball).

Apparently not content with providing one copier to make my life a miserable hell, my employers have TWO copiers for me to use. I've developed an unhealthy relationship with these reproductive monstrosities. Not only do I curse and shout at them when they jam, but I have a sneaking suspicion that these machines are mocking me. They know how tedious and unfulfilled their own lives are, and they're trying to drive my self esteem into the ground in order to make themselves feel better. They're mechanized bullies. I suspect this is how Skynet developed.

I talk to the copiers. I've humanized the copiers. I not only believe that the copiers have emotions, but I'm convinced that they're smug, self-righteous, and condescending. How could they not be? All they do is read Christian bulletins all day! I say to the copier nicely, "Please copy 50 cover pages because I only have 50 sheets of card stock." The copier retorts by declaring, "Nay sir, I'm going to inhale ten pages at once, rip them to shreds, and then jam them into my own gears. Then I'll bleep noisily at you and put a message on the display screen that says, 'Fuck off, JP' but I'll get rid of it as soon as you try to show the employer what a saucy machine she purchased." One day I'll teach that copier to quit sassing me.

I don't want you to think that this is your run-of-the-mill disdain for office supplies. I believe the copy machine to be a worthy adversary, and I know it can best me when it wants. Just the other day, I was cursing it for being too damned slow. It was churning out the copies at about 85% of its normal speed. After such a long working relationship, I know what it's capable of. After my diatribe, the copier responds by making several loud grinding noises. It then starts copying pages at about 10% of its normal speed before finally giving up and producing a generic "ERROR" message. Then it shuts down altogether. Delighted, I go into Mrs. Employer's office to tell her that her copier finally bit the dust and that she needs a new one. However, when I go back into the main office to show her that it's broken, the damn thing starts right up and begins happily printing pages. Mrs. Employer mocks me for not understanding how to use use the "ON/OFF" switch before leaving the room. I glare at the copier and grudgingly say, "Well played, machine - well played indeed."

This is why I need to teach. At least the people who'll make me miserable will be REAL people instead of anthropomorphic pieces of office equipment that spend more time with me in a given week than most other human beings. And when I push my students' buttons, they actually do what I want them to do.

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"PC LOAD LETTER?? What the fuck does that mean?"