Wanted for B&E: Kris Kringle

He came into your house... through the chimney. He ate your cookies and left you with toys made through slave labor with materials not approved by the Consumer Product Safety Commission. I hear the bastard even uses lead paint to cut costs. He left hoof prints on your roof, too.

But go ahead. Let's all thank Santa Claus for his generosity.

Merry Christmas
from The Undesirable Element

----------------------------------
"You better watch out,
You better run fast,
You better duck down,
I'm telling you why.
Santa Claus is gunning you down."

Portrait of the Psychartist as a Young Man

While out and about on the town celebrating my birthday, my drunken revelry brought me to a bar called Belvedere's down in Lawrenceville. It was a really different bar with a bizarre aesthetic. The front room looks like a very traditional bar, but the enormous back room features a ping pong table, two pool tables, two refrigerators, a big-screen TV from the 1980s, a big bookcase filled with old horror flicks on VHS, and about two dozen old rocking recliners of various styles and colors. I rather liked the place.

Sitting right in front of the TV was a black gentleman all by himself eating a giant pizza and quietly but rhythmically tapping his fingers on the table while watching what appeared to be one of the early Jason movies. One of the friends I was with went up to him in an attempt to bum some pizza off of him, but she ended up getting dragged into a rather lengthy conversation with him. Eventually, my other friend and I want to know what's going on, so we went to join them. Thus, I got to meet one of the more colorful characters in recent memory.

He called himself "The Psychartist." Or "Firewolf." Or "Visionary 27." I guess it depends on what fan circle you run in. You can call him by his "birth name" Deion, but where's the fun in that. It turns out that the Psychartist fancies himself quite the slam poet, and he quickly regaled us with a rather impressive set of rhymes about the importance of following your dreams. We complimented his style. Apparently, the Psychartist works a day job down at the Bettis Grille and frequently entertains his patrons with these little diddies.

He continued with a lengthy and heartfelt monologue about the dangers of alocholism and the sins of the flesh. Monogamy is very important to the Psychartist. He spoke in great detail about how everyone should follow his or her dreams in order to find true happiness. There's nothing in this world more important than happiness, and if you simply pursue sex with every random girl, "then you'll get AIDS, and no one will be happy." The Psychartist be droppin some straight truth.

The best was yet to come. He asked if we wanted to hear his original CD compilation. Apparently the Psychartist has an amateur band and is trying to break into the big time with upbeat songs featuring uplifting messages. I was truly mesmerized by this man's bizarre hip hop after school special lifestyle, so I couldn't pass this up. He popped his personal CD (which he had on hand) into the DVD player....

It was AWFUL!!!

Imagine the most deranged and gutteral growls and wails from the devil being channeled into a microphone while singing lyrics about the importance of staying in school and monogamy. I remember one particlar track very well because the same lyrics were just repeated over and over again:
"If you cheat on your wife... YOU AIN'T NOTHIN
If you cheat on your girlfriend... YOU AIN'T NOTHIN
You think you're so bad but... YOU AIN'T NOTHIN"
It went on and on like this. The rest of the songs weren't any better, but I couldn't tell him that. He was beaming with pride and annotating every track, expressing the importance of each moral lesson as he went along.

He concluded our conversation with his hope for the future of psychartistry, a term and artistic movement that he apparently dreamed up (or so he says). What is psychartistry? As best as I could piece together, it's when you express your deepest psychological turmoil in artistic form while attempting to convey a strong personal message. I always thought that's what regular old "art" was, but maybe I didn't quite get it. I'll admit, I was drinking quite a bit, and he said a lot of things.

Still, he split a pizza with us, and he was one of the funnier and most interesting characters I've met in some time. You can bet your ass that the Psychartist is going to be incorporated into my novel in some way. He's just too good to pass up.

---------------------------
"If you cheat on your girlfriend... YOU AIN'T NOTHIN!"

The House That JP Built

Virgil's recent stories of moving into her new home got me thinking about my own dreams of being an esteemed property owner and having my own house. Of course, such speculations are completely baseless at the moment, given that I can barely afford to pay rent even with a roommate. Still, a gentleman with too much time on his hands can dream... even if those dreams can't be fulfilled for another decade.

Location is always an important component, and I don't think I'd really like to live out in the middle of nowhere. Having spent the first ten years of my life in town where the houses are about a foot apart and then living the next fifteen years on a solitary hillside, I've experienced both extremes. I think I lean towards preferring the former arrangement with enough space added to keep me from knowing my neighbors far too intimately. Living in an apartment has its perks, but I'd like to have a decent yard with some room for nude sunbathing. However, I also don't want to have to hike a half a mile to see my nearest neighbor. There's a big difference between solitude and loneliness, and if I spent my life in some desolate rural field, I think I'd become quite the Lonely Larry. People may baffle me, but I like being around them.

But enough about the property. Let's talk about the actual structure. First, I want a big ass porch. I want to be able to go chillax on the front porch with a cold beer while hollering at the little kids to stay off my lawn. There's something chillingly uninviting about a house that has no porch. As proof, imagine any house where there's a front door with no porch and then a side door with an alluring deck or patio. I guarantee that everyone uses that side door. Porches are where you distribute candy on halloween. It's where you can play cards on a rainy night. It's a sleeping space for the cat during warm months. You can even let homeless people sleep there for a small fee. What's not to love?

Another absolute must have: BIG ceilings. My current apartment has surprisingly high ceilings for a Pittsburgh apartment, and that's an excellent trend that I plan to continue for my future dwellings. There's nothing more uncomfortable and rather claustrophobic than for me to be in a space where I have an inch or less clearance above my head. I feel like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput. Equally irritating are low-hanging chandaliers and other lighting fixtures of that nature. Mrs. Former-Employer had very high ceilings in her castle-home, but right in the center of her library/office was a bulky chandalier hanging 6'4" off the ground. I'm 6'5". I think I've lost the brain cells necessary to calculate how many times I've whanged my head off of that thing.

This is a guilty Englishy pleasure, but I'd also love to have a library in my house. One of the few tangible symbols of my education (because a salary sure isn't one of them) is my vast collection of books. I already have three stuffed bookcases, and I'm sure I'll acquire even more in no time flat. Nothing screams high-class muckity-muck like having a library. It'll adjoin my parlor and sitting room, and then my guests and I will retire to the study.

These are all legitimate desires on my part, but then my geeky side kicks in with its own ridiculous wishes that add a whole new meaning to the concept of "dream home." I'd be happy with a completely normal library, but imagine how much more epic it would be if I could pull out one book and have one of the cases slide away to reveal a secret passageway!? And what if my swanky and spacious porch also contained a trap door just in front of the entrance so that unwanted visitors could be dropped into an underground pool of maneating alligators? And despite the architectural nightmare and safety concerns, a long curved staircase with a slick bannister that I could slide down would put an extra spring in my step every morning.

I actually have an unhealthy infatuation with the houses in the Regent Square neighborhood of Pittsburgh. Not only do they all have extremely large and ornate front porches, but they're large, close but with enough space for comfort, and old enough that they probably already have secret passageways and Victorian staircases. And they're solid structures too. I don't think there's anything more tacky than these houses in planned communities where the front has this elaborate facade of brick and windows while the other three sides have nothing but plain siding and a shabby deck. The houses in Regent Square are solid brick (or sometimes stone) all around, and they seem to look good from any angle. They don't make houses together like that with such care anymore.

On the other hand, those houses probably require the GDP of a small country to heat during the winter, but dammit, I still think they look awesome. And Regent Square has so much cool stuff along Braddock Avenue that I could die a happy man living there. It's called "Regent Square" for crying out loud. It couldn't sound more regal if it were called "Platinum Viceroy's Royal Palace."

-------------------------
"Our street is us and we are it. Our street is where we like to be, and it looks like all our dreams."

English 101: Rhetoric and Incompetence

When I was teaching Rhetoric and Composition at WVU, I actually believed at the time that I was pretty good at it. My young charges weren't complaining or throwing rocks at me, and they consistently gave me high scores on the teacher evaluations at the end of each semester. I'd had some difficult days, to be sure, but I figured I'd had all the kinks pretty well worked out by the end my last semester.

Then I started learning about proper teaching from the leading experts in the field... and yours truly received a swift education in just how pathetic his English 101 class had been.

In reading the research on effective teaching strategies for my certification program, I've come to realize that just about everything they highlight as being a piss poor teaching strategy is something that I implemented with alarming regularity at WVU. Class discussions following a shared inquiry model serve as the best way for students to work through difficult readings. I dismissed them as worthless exercises in babbling that made me uncomfortable. More and shorter writing assignments help students. JP, in his infinite wisdom, deleted existing papers from the curriculum and lengthened the remaining ones. Grammar lessons should be integrated into literature and writing lessons so as to encourage practical application. Guess who tossed out worksheets with rote lists and examples on them?

Speaking of grammar: marking up every grammar mistake on a paper does NOTHING for student learning... yeah, I went red-pen happy with reckless abandon too.

The worst blow to my ego was realizing that my goddamn coordinator at WVU was right about quite a lot. My swelling sense of superiority allowed me to simply say, "Bah, my stupid boss, you don't know what you're talking about." Then I'd throw out his ridiculous ideas as condescending and pointless. Well, it turns out that my former boss, despite his childish and condescending demeanor, actually knew a few things about teaching. It seems that all the current research indicates that multiple drafts, portfolios, feedback without grades (holistic style, if you will), and structured peer review workshops really are necessary to proper writing instruction.

Lest you think I'm being too hard on myself, I should point out that I had an entire course at WVU called "College Composition Pedagogy," wherein I was supposed to learn most of this stuff. In my automatic assumption of my own superiority, I dismissed the articles we read in class as the dribblings of pompous academics who knew nothing of real teaching. I badmouthed the professor of that class and the English 101 coordinator (behind their backs, of course, because I'm a classy like that) for their ridiculous strategies.

In retrospect, I think I spent far too much time worrying about how well their four major papers met my obviously arbitrary grading requirements instead of determing whether they were actually learning something about writing. When I would wonder why my students never came to see me during office hours while Virgil and Batmite had visitors constantly, I used to think that they just didn't like me... or were intimidated by my sheer awesomeness. But now I know the real reason: they knew I wouldn't provide one bit of genuine help. An office visit with old Mr. P would be akin to an appointment with a doctor who treats you with leeches: it's supposed to help but you end up leaving woozy and bleeding from odd places.

My students probably gave me high reviews because they didn't know that they weren't learning. As far as they were concerned, my class was a cakewalk. I never challenged them to do better because that would lead to mistakes and problems, which take longer to grade. Goddammit, we couldn't have that!

Did they learn how to predict what JP wanted? Most definitely.
Did they actually learn something useful about writing? I highly doubt it.

All of this wallowing and self pity seems especially bitter after I returned to my apartment today to find a sizable envelope from the Praxis Testing program (The Praxis is the test that all teachers must take to prove their mettle). The Praxis I is a complete joke, but last month I took the Praxis II (which tests the prospective teacher's subject matter), and it was reasonably difficult. In the envelope, I found a certificate with my name on it that reads:

"In acknowledgement of your outstanding score on the Praxis Series
English Language, Literature, and Composition: Content Knowledge
Your exceptional performance earned a score that ranks within the top 15% of all test takes who took this assessment in previous years. This achievement indicates a high level of proficiency in an area critical for professional educators."

The attached letter had the following addendum:

"This honor will be indicated on all of your score reports. It formally acknowledges your personal effort and commitment to learning and to teaching... Your performance on the Praxis II assessment shows your dedication to high standards in education."

I'm not telling you this to impress you. And really, it was a standardized test that proves next to nothing of my teaching ability. Still, after reading the letter, only one word kept flashing through my mind: FRAUD. Yeah, I know my content, but is that really such an indicator of a great teacher? Shouldn't "Doesn't automatically assume he's smarter than every education expert in the country" be somewhere on the checklist of teacher quality?

There are roughly 175 students at West Virginia University right now who have me to thank for their piss poor writing skills. At the time, I was more concerned with grading quickly so that I could waste my evening watching Justice League episodes and eating goldfish crackers. That is some commitment to learning and teaching right there.

Well, here's hoping I've actually learned my lesson, because it looks like this program is actually going to award me a certification that will allow me to teach the youth of America how to read and write. Given the cracker jack job I did at the college level, maybe I should hire some of you to come kick me in the face periodically and tell me to keep my ego in check.

Okay, enough of this self-loathing. The next post will feature my glorious return to unabashed self-aggrandizement!

----------------------------
"Dammit, Fry! I can't teach. I'm a professor!"

Another Day at Metropolis University

This is a video clip of a prank some kid pulled in a college lecture. I only wish I had the wherewithal and the showmanship to pull off something like this:

Not only does this guy commit himself to the role (complete with a heroic pose before blasting out the door), but he never once hesitates.

Though I wonder about the guy seen in the foreground as our boy bursts out the back door. He's got his head resting on his fist as though this sort of thing happens every goddamn day. "YAWN! I'll give a shit when it's something unusual."

If it takes more than that to pique his interest, he's going to be living one boring life.

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"Three things sell this newspaper: tragedy, sex, and Superman."

Personal Fowl: Unnecessary Deliciousness

Why must the holidays be filled with such delicious things? Thanksgiving is a particular offender in this instance. Not only is turkey full of tasty win at the actual dinner, but the leftovers make for fine cold sandwiches or even hot turkey sandwiches with gravy. It's a total myth that the tryptophan in turkey makes you sleepy--it's actually just the high level of carbohydrates in the massive traditional dinner with all the fixins that you're body is working overtime to digest--but I'll be damned if there isn't a better feeling than the post-dinner/pre-pie phase when all seems lazy and right in the world.

And speaking of pie, I LOVE pumpkin pie... easily the best of all pies. Pile a mountain of cool whip on that sumbitch, and you've got a recipe for a tasty treat.

The downside: none of it is good for you. My newfound healthy ways can hinder my enjoyment of the little things in life at times. I am he who knows too much. Oh how I long for the blissful ignorance of my piss-poor eating habits. Then I could shovel in three or four pieces of pie with reckless abandon and enjoy each and every sweet bite. Now I'll still wolf down the same three or four pieces, but I'll feel really guilty about it afterwards.

I guess I'll just accept that today doesn't count. And neither do the three or four days afterwards when I'm pigging out on the leftovers.

------------------------------------
"Is... is that a taco pie?"
"Mmm-hmm"
"TACO PIE!!"
"I added food coloring because it's a holiday. But it turned black because I added all the food coloring I had. Then I ate this butter straight out of the tub, because it tastes good. There's a reason behind everything."

Venture a Guess

Why the hell aren't you watching The Venture Bros.?

Go! Now! Netflix the first three seasons of this show so that you can enjoy the fourth season that's currently airing on Adult Swim.

If you don't, I will track you down and beat you with a large phallic object.

------------------------------
"You think you're hot shit in a champagne glass? Well, you're cold diarrhea in a Dixie cup!"

Mr. Saturday Night Special

Saturday nights are tricky business. There's an unwritten but socially ingrained feeling in the minds of all single twenty-somethings that Saturday night should be a time of celebration, debauchery, and the picking up of nubile young ladies at the local pub. But tonight I sit alone in my apartment with my laptop, a bottle of cheap wine, and box of Sweet Tarts. I just finished watching the new Star Trek movie on DVD (which I saw twice in theaters), and I'm now seriously considering watching it again with the commentary on. As if that's not sad enough, I'm currently blogging about the wayward misfortunes of my life for my huge readership to enjoy.

Of course, not every Saturday night is like this. Most weekends I can find a few people to hang around with, or I'll head home to spend time with the family if all else fails. But tonight, everyone I know is either busy or too far away to hang out with me. Even my roommate has gone north to see some sort of musical that his sister is in. Hence my current evening of solitude.

Strange as it may seem, I'm not having a terrible time. Sometimes spending a bit of time with myself (in every sense of the phrase) can be relaxing and rejuvenating. It certainly beats going to watch a musical up in West Middlesex. I did consider heading out by myself for awhile, but that's not as exciting as it may seem at first. Sure I could possibly meet up with some hot women and wind up having an awesome time filled with witty banter, flirtatious glances, and saucy nighttime activities. But the bar is a tricky habitat to navigate alone when in the city. In reality, very few people go to bars by themselves, so they're already in their zones of comfort with their friends, and the last thing they want to add is some strange tall man who talks a lot about starships and candy. This holds doubly true for single women. In bars, they travel in herds. Approaching a single woman is hard enough without having to reassure her buddies that you're a nice guy who won't take advantage of their friend while still flirting with the desired woman. In all likelihood, if I went to the bar alone, I'd be spending my evening alone anyway. The only difference is that I'd spend it watching a whole bunch of other people having fun with their friends. My tears would make my beer taste terrible.

Before you think me a complete loser (I know it's probably way too late for that), let me just say that I do go out and about with some regularity. In fact, just last night a friend and I went to a high school football game over in West Mifflin. Granted, this was not exactly an epic evening out, but it beat doing nothing. Over Thanksgiving break, I'll have plenty to do back in the hometown. But right now, I don't really know my Pittsburgh peeps well enough to call them up to spend time on a Saturday night. Most of them are women with boyfriends anyway (English education programs attract a certain niche crowd), which creates a whole new level of awkwardness. I have a lot of friends, actually, but they're spread all over creation: Morgantown, Washington D.C., Baltimore, Kittanning, and even New Delhi. It's hard to round up a posse these days, sheriff!

Let you think this is total pity party, I think this is actually a happy occasion. With no pressure to go out and have fun, I can do whatever I please and damn the consequences. A persistent attitude like that would be cause for concern, but every once in awhile, it's a nice break from the regimen of socializing. Most people suck, and it's hard to accommodate them.

So screw you, world! I'm taking some "me" time, and any fellow antisocial hermits with a penchant for isolationism are welcome to join in.

-----------------------------
"Are you lonely?"
"Yeah."
"Have you spent half your life in bars pursuing sins of the flesh?"
"This guy's good!"
"Are you sitting in a bean bag chair, naked, eating Cheetos?"

According to Gym

With five graduate classes and an observation every week, getting the gym on a regular basis has been difficult. It doesn't help that the gym is on campus (I'm not) and quite a trek uphill from the bus stop. Still, I've managed to get there at least once a week this semester. The weather's been pleasant enough for me to jog and walk around my little community near my apartment, so when I go to the gym, I can concentrate on my strength training.

The Pitt gymnasium (there are actually more than five, but I use the largest) is the single most-impressive building on campus. It contains the basketball court for the Panthers, the weight room, the aerobics area, a sizable food court, and a team store. And that's just what I've seen on the right side of the building. There's a massively massive television in the main lobby (the lobby being three stories high and the size of a basketball court in its own right) that displays any and all information about Pitt athletics. Every time I enter the place, I feel like I've come unstuck in time and workout in a spaceport beyond the moons of Jupiter. Unless the escalator is broken; then everyone can hear me bitch, "The escalator's down!? What is this, the dark ages?" I have a workout to do, dammit. I can't be climbing up stairs wasting valuable potential energy, can I?

By the time I've hiked from Fifth Avenue up to the mega-gym and then up the broken escalator, I've already got a solid warm-up going, so I'm all ready to do some serious exercise. Except, that's not really what happens when lifting. In any given one-hour period when I lift weights, 60% of the time is probably spent staring at myself in the wall of mirrors. Lifting weights involves short bursts of exertion where I push sweat-greased barbells over my head in various contorted positions while making strained noises like a constipated octogenarian. But for every minute of actual heavy lifting, there's about two minutes of "rest time." Without the breaks between sets, your muscles will probably shred to bits. When I would lift at home, I'd amuse myself in these breaks by singing along to some highly effeminate music selections or pacing back and forth while practicing my latest attempts at phone interviews (back during those laughable attempts at employment). But in this public gymnasium with people everywhere, no one does anything weird. And because everyone's doing the same thing, we're all often resting at the same time. So at any given moment, ten sweaty guys are probably staring at themselves in the mirror while they desperately avoid eye contact with each other... or we secretly watch the hot trio of nubile redheads in the mirror as they stretch behind us.

At least, I assume they're also watching the redheads. I know I am... I didn't stick with Thursdays at 1:00 for just any reason.

I do notice just how serious a lot of the other guys at the gym are about bulking up. While I've devoted a considerable amount of time over the last few years to lifting weights, my goal has been simple weight loss and maybe a bit of muscle definition to keep me from looking flabby. I really don't have the wherewithal or commitment to spend 8 hours in the gym every week trying to make my body look like the goddamn Hulk. I do understand that muscle burns fat, and I'm all about eliminating my doughy physique, but I just don't want that kinda size. I've spent most of my life dreaming of being smaller. I don't want to get any goddamn bigger.

Interestingly, the ones who are typically the muscle-heads are the shortest guys. The taller gentlemen, lifting in the same way that I do as far as I can tell, seem content with simple definition and general fitness. But then Arnold comes strutting by the free weights in his wife beater, veins bursting and arms swaggering. He'd be intimidating... if he weren't 5'2".

So whenever I think I should be looking like a Marvel superhero after lifting weights for this long, I remember that I'm perfectly content to maintain a reasonable body image and fit into at least few coats. Being six and a half feet tall and left-handed means most of the world wasn't designed for me. I don't need the shoulder span of King Kong to make things even worse.

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"I say, Finneus. It's a wonderful day to be doing squat thrusts with these large triangular weights!"

Wake Me Up When September Ends

Legitimate updates are coming, I promise (probably by Friday). Until then, I came across this clip on the internet, and I've watched it about five times now, and it still makes me laugh.

There's a reason Richard Dawson owned at Family Feud. He was not afraid to just throw the whole format of the show to the dogs for a good laugh. In this case, he didn't cause the break from format, but he sure did enjoy it thoroughly. Videos like this are just gold for game show whores such as myself:

------------------------
"How the hell did you people get on the show!?"

Inclusion Not Included

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.

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

JP 2.0

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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...

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

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."