27 September 2007

Ding Dong...

Bill Wirtz, owner of the Chicago Blackhawks, the man who did more to ruin hockey in Chicago than Gordie Howe ever could, died yesterday. I can officially be a Blackhawks fan again. Unless his fat apple didn't fall too far off of the tree and his son is just as much of a money-grubbing fuckhole.

I know it's bad to speak of the dead like that. For some reason, in our society, when someone dies we automatically forgive them for all the bad shit they did and try to say something good about them. The only thing I can say that is good about Bill Wirtz is that he is now dead. This is a guy who never did anything that he couldn't profit from. He has a laundry list of bad shit, too long for me to go into, but check out this book. If reading this doesn't convince you of Wirtz's place in Hell, remember that this is the guy who purposefully traded Chris Chelios, the greatest captain of the 'Hawks ever, to the Detroit Red Wings to keep Cheli from bitching about the front office to the press. For those not in the know, it's the equivalent of someone going from the Red Sox to the Yankees, the Packers to the Bears, or the Heat to the Knicks.

I know that some people will miss me when I die. I know some people won't. Some will mourn, and some will celebrate; some may do both. Either way, I will be dead; if people are talking about me, it means I am not forgotten, and that's all I could ask for.


18 September 2007

For Kelly: 17 September 1996-18 September 2007

This morning, at 0104, the morning after her eleventh birthday, my puppy Kelly died. After getting a clean bill of health from the vet after her surgery, she died. She was with her Mommy, who is the best Mommy Kelly could ever have, for her last day, and I know she was happy on her birthday. She passed in her sleep, quietly, loved.

My baby is dead; my little puppy, who always took up tow-thirds of any bed she shared, is dead.

She loved to swim, but hated baths, or walking in puddles. She would chase snowflakes.

She loved squirrels; one time she caught one, and she licked it. I could hear the other squirrels teasing him, “Man, your mom’s a real bitch!” I saw a dead squirrel on the way home last night. Kelly has someone to chase, and, possibly, bathe.

Kelly-belly; Cowbell; The Princess; Kell, Huntress of the Wood; Kelly-puppy; The Tail that Wrecked Hartford; The Tongue of a Giant.

I know that eleven is a long time to have a dog. But for a dog like Kelly, it is not enough, nowhere even near enough.

I don’t think God knows what he’s in for, with both Kelly and Fritz up there with Him.

I want my puppy back.


16 September 2007

Thinking Just Slows Down the Tongue

Some direct quotes from the past week:

"I can't stand it when people don't even bother to listen to you. I just want to smack them over the head with, like, a gopher. Becuase it would be ironic."

"I call this one "boa," this one 'constrictor,'" I said while pointing at my left then right bicep respectively.

"Its like a carnival in my pants and all the rides are broken."

Not only do I think a lot faster than I speak which results in my mumbling, even when I am intelligible, I still don't make any sense as the majority of my ramblings is merely word vomit. Meh.


13 September 2007


I just had lunch with The World’s Biggest Asshole, and now I am feeling quite queasy, so I am not going to class today, which is all right, I guess. I’m taking two good pedagogy courses right now. They are the last steps to student teaching, and are required for this semester; today’s is the least fun of the two, mainly because the professor for the one on Tuesday is quite attractive, and Tuesdays are the days where I have maybe four hours of sleep before I have to work from 0600-1230, and then attend class. By that point, my internal editor is just gone, and I pretty much say whatever falls out of my mouth. I'm sure that I'll write about Tuesdays a lot more as the semester goes on.

I’ve said it before, and I will say it again; I enjoy pedagogy. It makes me feel good that there are very intelligent people out there thinking about bettering the education process; how we teach is one of the more important considerations a society can debate. I like subjects that give me a chance to think, argue and grow; educational theory classes do that more than any others.

I should go to class; attendance is important, and I have some questions concerning the week's readings. But I have a funny feeling my questions won't get answered, and this is why.

I have been lucky enough to have some of the people writing this stuff come and talk to, and in one case teach, my classes. I always get excited, because here is the person who wrote this stuff, and I have questions and issues with it. If there is anyone who can resolve this stuff it is the author/architect/designer, right? It’s like bumping into God on the street and getting the chance to ask, “Paris Hilton; what did we do to deserve that?”

On Monday, one of the people responsible for a new method of teaching held a session of “process drama” (a fancier way of saying role playing) for the two sections of the English pedagogy class. We acted out a scene that was supposed to generate in us an interest in a particular book (The Summer of My German Soldier, for those who care), as well as stimulate the class into a thought-provoking mood. I went along, and really tried to get into it, but fell short simply because for me role playing isn’t any fun unless it is totally unreal and I’m slaying dragons with a laser sword, or some shit along those lines. Basically, the high school student in me found it dull and a little dumb; it didn’t do what it was supposed to do. That, and I had some issues concerning the whole process, and I was eager to ask my questions.

We finally got around to a Q&A session. She said that she had been defending this topic for twelve years now and was sure we had some questions about it. Great! My hand was the first one up, and I asked my question. She said, “Okay, let’s think about that,” and started showing some charts on the projector that had nothing to do with my question, but they had everything to do with the article she wrote that I read the week previous.

She then says, “But that’s not answering your question,” to which I replied, “No.” She then says, “Okay, let’s consider the stance I took,” and breaks out more things to show on the overhead projector. I am getting a rereading of what I read by the author, like I’m at a bookstore for an appearance or something. This material is something I already understood. My question isn’t based on ignorance of the material, but that I didn’t agree with some of the ideas being introduced. Ignoring my question and retelling me what I already know is not going to help me. I am not your fucking prompt; I am not pretending to be a part of the crowd to give you an excuse to shuck your jive to the masses. Answer my question!

She then asked if that answered my question, and I again said no, it had not. And she asked me what I meant by my question; so I tried to break it down to simpler terms, and she seemed to get it. She then tried to explain some of the background of my question to the class in case they weren’t aware (and they should be, since they have all taken THE SAME ED PSYCH CLASSES I HAVE), and finally said that she didn’t consider that particular thing when she was crafting this method, nor that she knew much about it, and that I should read someone else’s writing in the subject.

So, what did I learn? I learned that you can defend something for twelve years and still be stumped by a smartass in a classroom; that I think differently than every single one of my classmates AND the two professors teaching the course; I don’t like being the intro to your presentation, especially if it has nothing whatsoever to do with what I was asking or saying; that the pros whose job is to defend this stuff don’t really do their homework; and that passing the buck is a total dick move if you’re a teacher.

To make it elemental, I learned that pedagogy has much in common with politics; no one wants to explain what they mean, they just want you to believe it. I still love it, and like most things I love, I will have to come up with my own answers for the questions it will generate.


11 September 2007

Oh. My. God.

Seriously, I got nothing.


There's Good, and Then Other Stuff

As some of you know, I have a new job. I needed to fill the void left by the library job, and my coworker at Hell, named Smurfy, suggested I become a deckhand on a tour boat.

It is the closest I have ever come to my dream of “no work AND pay.” Even at the most extremely busiest part of my day, which really isn’t very busy at all, it is still a joy to be there. Everyone I have worked with so far has been so cool; I haven’t been in this laid back of an environment since I used to get really, really high a number of years ago. It is a great place to work, and no, I will not tell you how to apply because I want this all to myself, dammit! If it weren’t seasonal, I would consider doing it for the rest of my life.

Which brings me to Hell. When you have one job that is awesome, and the other one is, well, hellish, it is really, really difficult to perform at the bad job. And since I need the crap job to fill in for when the good one ends, it adds this sense of helpless imprisonment. I feel like a POW; I know there is a better place for me out there, but I am fucking trapped in this hot box, my only escape being in the bonding with my fellow walking dead. Di-di mao!

And Cob is not doing anything to make it better. Hopefully, GringO will chime in on this a little bit, since it affected him much more than me. We have three registers per counter; I am sure you can imagine the layout of three registers on a rectangular counter, so I won’t go into detail. Well, when the need arises for a third register to be opened, Cob states that it must be at a different counter (we have three counters with registers). Why, do you ask? Because she thinks that, should there be a close proximity of workers to each other, they will talk to each other. So there must be an empty register between the two ringers, otherwise they might get to conversing, and possibly enjoy the work environment, and hence ruin her plan of subjugation through abysmal morale. When a customer asked me about the situation, which to him looked odd, I explained. HE said, “She must be some kind of bitch.” If I had nodded any harder, I may have broken my neck.

What Cob doesn’t understand is that the work is not the reward, no matter what you’re doing (unless it’s fucking your rich spouse; that’s a two-fer bonus!). The rewards of the job are the relationships developed while performing the work. I don’t keep working at Hell because I like lying to people to convince them to buy something they probably don’t need at nigh-prohibitory prices; I do it because I can hang out with GringO, Wheels, Rolling Thunder, Smurfy, Mel, Don, Toots McDego and all the other cool cats I work with. Even at the new job, where the work is quite easy and also a lot of fun, it’s the conversations with my coworkers that make it so great.

Cob thinks that people getting along and enjoying themselves at work will get in the way of productivity. What she doesn’t get is that unhappy people don’t work. Morale is an essential function of crew performance. In the Navy, one of the chief concerns of the captain was crew morale; when it began to head south, he’d make a point to try and improve it. Good leaders care about their crew, and a happy crew will follow a captain like that into the mouths of hell. Cob, with the social awareness of an autistic sloth, doesn’t get that; she probably can’t. She also probably can’t get laid, which is most likely the real root of all of our woes in Hell.


10 September 2007

Too Much?

Go fuck yourself. And you know what? Go beyond that and fist yourself, up to the elbow. No lube. Maybe a little spittle to get things moving; otherwise, just shit and blood.

Sorry, that was a little graphic.


07 September 2007

Sneaky Petes

This is for my fantasy football logo; we are the Nantucket Sneaky Petes. Mad props to The GringO for that name.

02 September 2007

You Can't Take the Skies From Me

You scored as Serenity (Firefly), You like to live your own way and
don't enjoy when anyone but a friend tries to tell you should do different.
Now if only the Reavers would quit trying to skin you.














Which sci-fi crew would you best fit in with? (pics)
created with QuizFarm.com

Well, duh. Of course I belong with these rogues. After all, I have an affinity to accurately and nigh-continuously split infinitives, and I reckon I could master the space-westernese. Chinese would be tough, but from what people I know that speak Chinese tell me, the crew didn't speak much Chinese anyway.

Thanks be to The Big Man for this particular meme. Try it your own self and let us know where you belong, since none of us are clearly at home on this mudball. We belong amongst the stars.