I was having kind of a bad day until my friend stopped by my office and had me watch this.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Oh, the hats . . .
I'm so very glad no one was remotely interested in interviewing me at 15. Thanks from the bottom of my heart to Lee, who sent this to me. (I'm not going to ask why he was searching on YouTube for "Jenny Lewis teen" videos. I'm just not.)
Monday, September 22, 2008
Hooray. A surprise.
- When you order an iced soy latte, but they make you an iced soy chai instead, it's not such a great surprise because you're expecting something that tastes like espresso, but you end up with something that tastes like Old Spice.
- Excuse me, woman in the minivan? Yes, I'm sorry to interrupt your obviously important cell phone conversation, but I just wanted to let you know that you have children in the back seat of your vehicle. And not just any old, unimportant children, but your children. You know, the ones through whose achievements you plan to live vicariously. Those children. So, you might want to avoid killing them with your bad driving, and you also might want to avoid giving them post-traumatic stress disorder by forcing them to witness you running over a pedestrian (this would benefit me as well). Because if you think those nightmares from watching the Harry Potter movies are bad . . .
Monday, September 15, 2008
Distracted . . .
- I had chocolate cake for breakfast. Oh yes I did.
- I talked about an allegory in class today. An ALLEGORY! That doesn't happen very often.
- There's a banana peel on one of the sidewalks on my running route. It's been there since Friday, and even though it's right next to a dumpster, I haven't picked it up yet because (1) it's not a frequently used sidewalk and (2) it's a banana peel on a sidewalk. Come on--that's funny.
- Mr. Banality bought me a Yamaha PSRE 413 keyboard for my birthday. I intend to use it to improve my sightreading skills and to enter melodies into my Band-in-a-Box program. The keyboard has many more features than I really need. Those features [504 voices (instruments the keyboard can sound like), 100 arpeggio types, 165 preset styles, 30 preset songs, a pitch-bending wheel, and 5 song/6 track recording] almost made me late for class today.
- I still haven't used the keyboard for any of the things I originally bought it for.
- I can make the keyboard sound like Kenny G., and I have done so in order to irritate Mr. Banality and to get that one Kenny G. song stuck in Mr. Banality's head. Some thanks he gets for buying me a keyboard.
- To make up for the Kenny G. thing, I also played the theme music from Fletch because, apparently, having Harold Faltermeyer music stuck in one's head is more pleasant than having Kenny G. music stuck in one's head, at least according to Mr. Banality.
Monday, September 8, 2008
The Power of Road House
A big high five to Ben for hosting movie night and showing Road House. This was a powerful film-- and apparently especially powerful for expectant mothers.
I just checked the Social Security statistics:
1989: "Dalton" baby name ranking: 472
1989: Road House released
1990: "Dalton" baby name ranking: 193
Uh oh, someone's about to lose a throat.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
A little too tired to think of a catchy title
- I used to do a "just in time" teaching thingy in one of my courses. It worked beautifully to encourage students to read the assigned material and to help me identify areas of confusion for them. The downside was that I had to read and score and respond to 25 assignments an hour or two before class. I didn't like that part. I removed them from the course this time around. I feel kind of bad about that. Does that make me a bad person? If it does, don't tell me.
- I bought one of these deals a few weeks ago from Sweetwater:
It's an Edirol R-09HR handheld recorder with built-in condenser microphones. It's AWESOME. Now my favorite reading material before bed these days is the Sweetwater Pro-Audio catalog. I love looking at the guitar pedals and amps, even though I really have no idea what I'm looking at (Vox amps are so pretty). And the pro arranger keyboards are fun to read about, too.
- Ooh! My birthday is coming up! Maybe I'll fold down some of the pages in the Sweetwater catalog . . .
- This has been a very, very long week. And it's not over yet.
- I'm losing more hearing in my left ear (that's the one that's worse to begin with). I'm trying to pretend that's not the case, but I will have to deal with it sometime. Stupid stapes.
- At this point, I'm thinking it was a good decision to have one more writing intensive course than usual and 20 fewer students than usual. This might change later in the semester.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Early Autumn
Today feels like autumn and reminds me of the smell of wax on the classroom floor and new sneakers and post-football game dances I attended in high school. And the one I attended when I was 24.
Yeah, I said 24.
I was in grad school and house sitting for a professor. The house did not need as much watching as did the 16-year-old girl, Erin, who lived in the house and was reportedly "a little wild."
She wanted to go to the Friday night football game, so we went, and I realized it was the first football game I had ever attended while wearing something other than an ill-fitting, polyester-wool blend marching band uniform.
After the game, she asked if she could go to the dance. The boy she liked, Jesse, would be there, and she hoped that maybe, possibly she would get to dance with him. The situation was complicated by the fact that Jesse wasn't a boy she admired from afar, but was a member of her peer group (she, of course, didn't use the term "peer group"). The only other person who knew she liked Jesse in that way was their mutual friend, Matt. She hesitated to reveal her true feelings to Jesse because if he didn't return them, things would be awkward all around. This John Hughes-esque plot earned my complete sympathy, but I wasn't convinced I should let her go to the dance. When I was 16, I went to my share of post-football game dances, where I mainly spent my time hoping that the DJ would play A-Ha and laughing at the girl who always wept openly while singing along to Bryan Adams' "Heaven." But I had heard that more nefarious things occurred during these dances. People got drunk in the parking lot, did drugs in the bathroom, and had S-E-X under the bleachers by the football field.
No way am I letting stomach pumping or unintended pregnancy occur on my watch.
I agreed to let her go to the dance, but only if I could keep an eye on her. She seemed happy with that deal. The sign indicated that the dance was only for Tallawanda High students, so I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get in. I needn't have worried. Realizing that I could pass for a high school student helped me understand one possible reason I was having problems garnering respect in my college classroom (the other possible reason was that I was a rather incompetent T.A.).
As we walked into the cafetorium (no kidding, that really was its official name), Erin gasped, "There he is!"
And there he was, Jesse, in all his 17-year-old male glory. He was a scrawny guy, and he would have been sort of cute had he not been trying so hard to look like a badass in his baggy jeans, black t-shirt, and the poor-excuse-for-a-moustache that languished above his upper lip. The bad boys I had crushes on in high school tended to look more like the members of Duran Duran than the suspects arrested in trailer parks on "Cops," but different strokes for different folks, I supposed.
Erin quickly joined her friends on the lower level of the cafetorium while I watched the spectacle from above. It looked a lot like the high school dances I had attended, but it was now 1993, which meant more flannel and Doc Martens. Erin did not once go to the girls' room to do drugs. I breathed a sigh of relief.
A slow song came on, and Erin appeared beside me, grabbing my arm. "You. Have. To dance. With Jesse."
"Um, why do I have to dance with Jesse?"
She gave an exasperated sigh, "Because Matt is dancing with me, and then part way through the song, he'll have us trade partners."
I had to admit that this was kind of a brilliant plan, which took full advantage of self-perception processes and cognitive dissonance theory. Maybe I would use this as an example in class if I ever taught social psychology in the future! (You will soon find out why I've never used it as an example in class.)
And so, I found myself swaying back and forth on the dance floor with Jesse and his anemic moustache. I looked at Erin and Matt, who were dancing right next to us. Erin was beaming. I looked at Jesse, who had a strange gleam in his eye. Was he stoned? That kid who sat across from me in study hall was always stoned, but that kid's eyes were always red-rimmed and glazed over, not . . .
Suddenly, Jesse was moving us across the dance floor, away from Erin and Matt and toward a kid who apparently thought he was a member of House of Pain, and whose dance partner appeared to be passed out. Jesse pointed at me, signed the number two then the number four, and then to make sure his message was abundantly clear, mouthed the words, "She's twenty-four." A high-five was exchanged.
O.K., so no one will ever know about this, right? No one could possibly find out about this incredibly ridiculous experience I'm having right now. . . Right?
Jesse managed to reveal my age to two more of his hoodlum friends before Erin and Matt managed to catch up to us and trade partners. I was incredibly relieved until I said to Matt, "You know, you're a good friend to Erin."
To which Matt replied, "Are you kidding? It's not everyday I get to dance with a twenty-four year old woman." The way he said "woman" made me very, very uncomfortable and also made me wonder how much longer this song could possibly go on. Was it some kind of extended dance remix?
The song finally ended. Erin was giddy. "Can they come over? Just for a little while? Please??" Images of "Cops" returned, but she was just so hopeful. I told her they could come over for one hour, and if they didn't leave after the hour was up, I would call the police. She laughed.
I soon found myself in the professor's lovely home with four obnoxious adolescent boys and one adolescent girl who was wearing way too much eyeliner. And the worst thing that happened was that one of the boys had brought his Cypress Hill cd with him and insisted we listen to it.
At one point, I went upstairs to the guest bedroom where I was staying to get a sweatshirt. When I came out of the room, there in the dark, blocking my way, was the shadowy figure of Jesse, chest thrust out, head thrown back. He swaggered toward me.
"I'm a really good kisser," he announced.
In the most matronly tone I could muster, I ordered him to go back downstairs.
The hour was almost up, and I worried about what would happen when I finally asked the boys to leave. What happened? They left. No harm done, unless you count having "Insane in the Brain" stuck in your head for the next several days, and I might count that.
Who you tryin' to get crazy with, ese? Don't you know I'm loco?
Yeah, I said 24.
I was in grad school and house sitting for a professor. The house did not need as much watching as did the 16-year-old girl, Erin, who lived in the house and was reportedly "a little wild."
She wanted to go to the Friday night football game, so we went, and I realized it was the first football game I had ever attended while wearing something other than an ill-fitting, polyester-wool blend marching band uniform.
After the game, she asked if she could go to the dance. The boy she liked, Jesse, would be there, and she hoped that maybe, possibly she would get to dance with him. The situation was complicated by the fact that Jesse wasn't a boy she admired from afar, but was a member of her peer group (she, of course, didn't use the term "peer group"). The only other person who knew she liked Jesse in that way was their mutual friend, Matt. She hesitated to reveal her true feelings to Jesse because if he didn't return them, things would be awkward all around. This John Hughes-esque plot earned my complete sympathy, but I wasn't convinced I should let her go to the dance. When I was 16, I went to my share of post-football game dances, where I mainly spent my time hoping that the DJ would play A-Ha and laughing at the girl who always wept openly while singing along to Bryan Adams' "Heaven." But I had heard that more nefarious things occurred during these dances. People got drunk in the parking lot, did drugs in the bathroom, and had S-E-X under the bleachers by the football field.
No way am I letting stomach pumping or unintended pregnancy occur on my watch.
I agreed to let her go to the dance, but only if I could keep an eye on her. She seemed happy with that deal. The sign indicated that the dance was only for Tallawanda High students, so I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get in. I needn't have worried. Realizing that I could pass for a high school student helped me understand one possible reason I was having problems garnering respect in my college classroom (the other possible reason was that I was a rather incompetent T.A.).
As we walked into the cafetorium (no kidding, that really was its official name), Erin gasped, "There he is!"
And there he was, Jesse, in all his 17-year-old male glory. He was a scrawny guy, and he would have been sort of cute had he not been trying so hard to look like a badass in his baggy jeans, black t-shirt, and the poor-excuse-for-a-moustache that languished above his upper lip. The bad boys I had crushes on in high school tended to look more like the members of Duran Duran than the suspects arrested in trailer parks on "Cops," but different strokes for different folks, I supposed.
Erin quickly joined her friends on the lower level of the cafetorium while I watched the spectacle from above. It looked a lot like the high school dances I had attended, but it was now 1993, which meant more flannel and Doc Martens. Erin did not once go to the girls' room to do drugs. I breathed a sigh of relief.
A slow song came on, and Erin appeared beside me, grabbing my arm. "You. Have. To dance. With Jesse."
"Um, why do I have to dance with Jesse?"
She gave an exasperated sigh, "Because Matt is dancing with me, and then part way through the song, he'll have us trade partners."
I had to admit that this was kind of a brilliant plan, which took full advantage of self-perception processes and cognitive dissonance theory. Maybe I would use this as an example in class if I ever taught social psychology in the future! (You will soon find out why I've never used it as an example in class.)
And so, I found myself swaying back and forth on the dance floor with Jesse and his anemic moustache. I looked at Erin and Matt, who were dancing right next to us. Erin was beaming. I looked at Jesse, who had a strange gleam in his eye. Was he stoned? That kid who sat across from me in study hall was always stoned, but that kid's eyes were always red-rimmed and glazed over, not . . .
Suddenly, Jesse was moving us across the dance floor, away from Erin and Matt and toward a kid who apparently thought he was a member of House of Pain, and whose dance partner appeared to be passed out. Jesse pointed at me, signed the number two then the number four, and then to make sure his message was abundantly clear, mouthed the words, "She's twenty-four." A high-five was exchanged.
O.K., so no one will ever know about this, right? No one could possibly find out about this incredibly ridiculous experience I'm having right now. . . Right?
Jesse managed to reveal my age to two more of his hoodlum friends before Erin and Matt managed to catch up to us and trade partners. I was incredibly relieved until I said to Matt, "You know, you're a good friend to Erin."
To which Matt replied, "Are you kidding? It's not everyday I get to dance with a twenty-four year old woman." The way he said "woman" made me very, very uncomfortable and also made me wonder how much longer this song could possibly go on. Was it some kind of extended dance remix?
The song finally ended. Erin was giddy. "Can they come over? Just for a little while? Please??" Images of "Cops" returned, but she was just so hopeful. I told her they could come over for one hour, and if they didn't leave after the hour was up, I would call the police. She laughed.
I soon found myself in the professor's lovely home with four obnoxious adolescent boys and one adolescent girl who was wearing way too much eyeliner. And the worst thing that happened was that one of the boys had brought his Cypress Hill cd with him and insisted we listen to it.
At one point, I went upstairs to the guest bedroom where I was staying to get a sweatshirt. When I came out of the room, there in the dark, blocking my way, was the shadowy figure of Jesse, chest thrust out, head thrown back. He swaggered toward me.
"I'm a really good kisser," he announced.
In the most matronly tone I could muster, I ordered him to go back downstairs.
The hour was almost up, and I worried about what would happen when I finally asked the boys to leave. What happened? They left. No harm done, unless you count having "Insane in the Brain" stuck in your head for the next several days, and I might count that.
Who you tryin' to get crazy with, ese? Don't you know I'm loco?
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