Monday, January 26, 2004
Politics Suck. Pi is Super.
Weapons of Math Instruction
At New York's Kennedy airport the other day, an individual later
discovered to be a public school teacher was arrested trying to board a
flight while in possession of a ruler, a protractor, a setsquare, a slide
rule and a calculator.
At a morning press conference, Attorney General John Ashcroft said he
believes the man is a member of the notorious al-Gebra movement. He is
being charged by the FBI with carrying weapons of math instruction.
"Al-Gebra is a fearsome cult," Ashcroft said. "They desire average
solutions by means and extremes, and sometimes go off on tangents in search
of absolute value. They use secret code names like 'x' and 'y' and refer to
themselves as 'unknowns', but we have determined they belong to a common
denominator of the axis of medieval with coordinates in every country.
"As the Greek philanderer Isosceles used to say, there are three sides to
every triangle", Ashcroft declared. When asked to comment on the arrest,
President Bush said, "If God had wanted us to have better weapons of math
instruction, He would have given us more fingers and toes."
"I am gratified that our government has given us a sine that it is intent
on protracting us from these math-dogs who are willing to disintegrate us
with calculus disregard. Murky statisticians love to inflict plane on every
sphere of influence," the President said, adding: "Under the
circumferences, we must differentiate their root, make our point and draw
the line."
President Bush warned, "These weapons of math instruction have the
potential to decimal everything in their math on a scalene never before seen
unless we become exponents of a Higher Power and begin to factor-in random
facts of vertex."
Attorney General Ashcroft added, "As our Great Leader would say, read my
ellipse. Here is one priciple he is uncertainty of -- though they continue
to multiply, their days are numbered, as the hypotenuse tightens around
their necks."
(Origin? "X -- The Unknown")
Weapons of Math Instruction
At New York's Kennedy airport the other day, an individual later
discovered to be a public school teacher was arrested trying to board a
flight while in possession of a ruler, a protractor, a setsquare, a slide
rule and a calculator.
At a morning press conference, Attorney General John Ashcroft said he
believes the man is a member of the notorious al-Gebra movement. He is
being charged by the FBI with carrying weapons of math instruction.
"Al-Gebra is a fearsome cult," Ashcroft said. "They desire average
solutions by means and extremes, and sometimes go off on tangents in search
of absolute value. They use secret code names like 'x' and 'y' and refer to
themselves as 'unknowns', but we have determined they belong to a common
denominator of the axis of medieval with coordinates in every country.
"As the Greek philanderer Isosceles used to say, there are three sides to
every triangle", Ashcroft declared. When asked to comment on the arrest,
President Bush said, "If God had wanted us to have better weapons of math
instruction, He would have given us more fingers and toes."
"I am gratified that our government has given us a sine that it is intent
on protracting us from these math-dogs who are willing to disintegrate us
with calculus disregard. Murky statisticians love to inflict plane on every
sphere of influence," the President said, adding: "Under the
circumferences, we must differentiate their root, make our point and draw
the line."
President Bush warned, "These weapons of math instruction have the
potential to decimal everything in their math on a scalene never before seen
unless we become exponents of a Higher Power and begin to factor-in random
facts of vertex."
Attorney General Ashcroft added, "As our Great Leader would say, read my
ellipse. Here is one priciple he is uncertainty of -- though they continue
to multiply, their days are numbered, as the hypotenuse tightens around
their necks."
(Origin? "X -- The Unknown")
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
More and more applicable by the day
So let's just say, hypothetically, that there was a college dormitory. Let's say that the residents of said dormitory were all either big, big nerds or alcoholic engineers, and were accordingly called Honors students. Now let's say that some well-meaning but misguided soul decided that "Honorsville" would be an awesome appellation for this group of geeks. Fast-forward a little, and there's a bulletin board in the lobby decorated to read HONORSVILLE 2004.
What idyllic charm! What bucolic fancy! What generally gorgeous typography!
What a silly thing to put where the nerds could touch it!
Here's where it started:
H O N O R S V I L L E
where it went
H O R S V I L L E
H O S V I L L E (NO, hoped Schu against hope, hiding an R behind her back)
and where it ended:
H O S V I L E.
The college life, she is a ho. A vile one, no less. But who'd trade it?
So let's just say, hypothetically, that there was a college dormitory. Let's say that the residents of said dormitory were all either big, big nerds or alcoholic engineers, and were accordingly called Honors students. Now let's say that some well-meaning but misguided soul decided that "Honorsville" would be an awesome appellation for this group of geeks. Fast-forward a little, and there's a bulletin board in the lobby decorated to read HONORSVILLE 2004.
What idyllic charm! What bucolic fancy! What generally gorgeous typography!
What a silly thing to put where the nerds could touch it!
Here's where it started:
H O N O R S V I L L E
where it went
H O R S V I L L E
H O S V I L L E (NO, hoped Schu against hope, hiding an R behind her back)
and where it ended:
H O S V I L E.
The college life, she is a ho. A vile one, no less. But who'd trade it?
Monday, January 19, 2004
January 19
"I choose to identify with the underprivileged. I choose to identify with the poor. I choose to give my life for the hungry. I choose to give my life for those who have been left out of the sunlight of opportunity. I choose to live for those who find themselves seeing life as a long and desolate corridor with no exit sign. This is the way I'm going. If it means suffering a little bit, I'm going that way. If it means sacrificing, I'm going that way. If it means dying for them, I'm going that way, because I heard a voice saying, 'Do something for others.' "
Today is the day dedicated by our government and by our people to the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Don't let another day go by.
"I choose to identify with the underprivileged. I choose to identify with the poor. I choose to give my life for the hungry. I choose to give my life for those who have been left out of the sunlight of opportunity. I choose to live for those who find themselves seeing life as a long and desolate corridor with no exit sign. This is the way I'm going. If it means suffering a little bit, I'm going that way. If it means sacrificing, I'm going that way. If it means dying for them, I'm going that way, because I heard a voice saying, 'Do something for others.' "
Today is the day dedicated by our government and by our people to the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Don't let another day go by.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Books, Boys, and Irony Garments
Seen in the LawBrary:
A young woman, engrossed in a hefty tome on constitutional law, wearing a t-shirt bearing the legend "If it weren't for boys, I'd quit school."
I think the kids are all right.
Seen in the LawBrary:
A young woman, engrossed in a hefty tome on constitutional law, wearing a t-shirt bearing the legend "If it weren't for boys, I'd quit school."
I think the kids are all right.
Public transportation and public art
Today, I took the bus up to a suburb. Each bus in the local public transit system, of course, has the equipment and set-up to bring on board and to secure any passenger who might be using a wheelchair, and the inside of the bus starts with two rows of seats facing out the side windows. These seats are the ones that fold up in order to provide room for a wheelchair, and they are also prime real estate for anyone who has difficulty walking. The public-transit system, out of the goodness of its poetic heart, has chosen to commemorate and to celebrate these facts, spreading their wisdom and light to all corners of the box-on-wheels via a small and memorable placard:
As a courtesy
Please reserve these seats for the
handicapped and elderly.
It's almost haiku. COTA, I love you.
Today, I took the bus up to a suburb. Each bus in the local public transit system, of course, has the equipment and set-up to bring on board and to secure any passenger who might be using a wheelchair, and the inside of the bus starts with two rows of seats facing out the side windows. These seats are the ones that fold up in order to provide room for a wheelchair, and they are also prime real estate for anyone who has difficulty walking. The public-transit system, out of the goodness of its poetic heart, has chosen to commemorate and to celebrate these facts, spreading their wisdom and light to all corners of the box-on-wheels via a small and memorable placard:
As a courtesy
Please reserve these seats for the
handicapped and elderly.
It's almost haiku. COTA, I love you.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Fine. I'll concede it. Christmas is over now.
But that doesn't mean I'll agree not to sing unseasonable songs:
http://www.ccel.org/cceh/0000/x000062.htm
But that doesn't mean I'll agree not to sing unseasonable songs:
http://www.ccel.org/cceh/0000/x000062.htm
Monday, January 12, 2004
Are We Living In the End Times? Well, no, most likely, actually not.
Yesterday, there was a meeting for this service organization run through a dormitory here on campus. While I ordinarily don't much care for this sort of thing (who needs to belong to an organization in order to help other people? Oh yeah. That's right. People who are involved in community service because it looks good on a resume), I know the three folks who are heading it up, and besides, it's good to encourage college kids to take a look around them and maybe pitch in to help with assorted university-district problems, so I went.
Within thirty seconds, I was seeing the major pitfall in that mostly positive decision. "First, we're going to do an icebreaker!" declared a leader cheerfully. "I'm going to pass around these objects, and everybody has to take one and think of how it represents service or gives you an idea of a service project we could do, and then we'll all go around and you can say your name and tell us about your object!" I do believe that if she'd been much perkier, she'd've been coffee itself in a state of brewing.
So the objects started circulating, most right on past me: a roll of aluminum foil, a balloon, a ruler, a pencil, a spool of ribbon, a yo-yo, a Slinky, an index card, a marker (yeah, Bianca didn't really expect so many people to show up as did), etc. So we're going around, and people make up their little service ideas, not a single one of which doesn't involve either "underprivileged children" or a conscious and generally grin-worthy attempt on the part of the object-holder to be so saturated with sentiment that he or she is clearly not serious and is obviously aware of the often over-the-top nature of some service projects' rhetoric. I mean, jeez, young'uns. We're painting murals on a wall, not "embracing community differences and emphasizing similarities in order to produce greater harmony in our environment, creating a space where all citizens can be validated and free, ultimately empowering us all to live our lives in love and peace." Shit. What does that even mean? We're giving people the right to vote what? We're supporting education for girls in Third World countries who? We're teaching peaceful conflict resolution in violent schools where? No. We're not "empowering" anybody, unless that's really what we're doing for that drunk guy over there when we, through "selfless teamwork and open-minded dialogue," slap some paint around and leave. I guess we're thereby "validating" and "empowering" him to pee on freshly-coated brick instead of kind of chipped and dingy-looking. But I digress.
So the objects went around, and people made their choices and talked their little bit, and it was pretty pedestrian, for the most part. Then a group of science-major girls, looking alternately wide-eyed and blase bored, discussed their object, which was a Doomsday Fire-and-Brimstone He's-Coming-Like-a-Thief-in-the-Night Are-You-Right-with-G-d J-sus-Hates-F*gs Armageddon Doom Doom Doom treatise, probably handed out by your friendly neighborhood Creepy Christians, on the End of the World. "Um, so our object is this book? And it's about the end of the world? And stuff? So, um, we think our object is supposed to mean, um, do random acts of kindness. 'Cause you never know when you're going to, um, leave. The Earth."
I laughed so hard. The rest of the meeting was worth it just for that.
Yesterday, there was a meeting for this service organization run through a dormitory here on campus. While I ordinarily don't much care for this sort of thing (who needs to belong to an organization in order to help other people? Oh yeah. That's right. People who are involved in community service because it looks good on a resume), I know the three folks who are heading it up, and besides, it's good to encourage college kids to take a look around them and maybe pitch in to help with assorted university-district problems, so I went.
Within thirty seconds, I was seeing the major pitfall in that mostly positive decision. "First, we're going to do an icebreaker!" declared a leader cheerfully. "I'm going to pass around these objects, and everybody has to take one and think of how it represents service or gives you an idea of a service project we could do, and then we'll all go around and you can say your name and tell us about your object!" I do believe that if she'd been much perkier, she'd've been coffee itself in a state of brewing.
So the objects started circulating, most right on past me: a roll of aluminum foil, a balloon, a ruler, a pencil, a spool of ribbon, a yo-yo, a Slinky, an index card, a marker (yeah, Bianca didn't really expect so many people to show up as did), etc. So we're going around, and people make up their little service ideas, not a single one of which doesn't involve either "underprivileged children" or a conscious and generally grin-worthy attempt on the part of the object-holder to be so saturated with sentiment that he or she is clearly not serious and is obviously aware of the often over-the-top nature of some service projects' rhetoric. I mean, jeez, young'uns. We're painting murals on a wall, not "embracing community differences and emphasizing similarities in order to produce greater harmony in our environment, creating a space where all citizens can be validated and free, ultimately empowering us all to live our lives in love and peace." Shit. What does that even mean? We're giving people the right to vote what? We're supporting education for girls in Third World countries who? We're teaching peaceful conflict resolution in violent schools where? No. We're not "empowering" anybody, unless that's really what we're doing for that drunk guy over there when we, through "selfless teamwork and open-minded dialogue," slap some paint around and leave. I guess we're thereby "validating" and "empowering" him to pee on freshly-coated brick instead of kind of chipped and dingy-looking. But I digress.
So the objects went around, and people made their choices and talked their little bit, and it was pretty pedestrian, for the most part. Then a group of science-major girls, looking alternately wide-eyed and blase bored, discussed their object, which was a Doomsday Fire-and-Brimstone He's-Coming-Like-a-Thief-in-the-Night Are-You-Right-with-G-d J-sus-Hates-F*gs Armageddon Doom Doom Doom treatise, probably handed out by your friendly neighborhood Creepy Christians, on the End of the World. "Um, so our object is this book? And it's about the end of the world? And stuff? So, um, we think our object is supposed to mean, um, do random acts of kindness. 'Cause you never know when you're going to, um, leave. The Earth."
I laughed so hard. The rest of the meeting was worth it just for that.
Not-So-Bad Religion
Yesterday, I met Jose the Friendly Flipped-Out Catholic. We talked about classes and majors and interests and ages, and the we talked a little bit about J-sus, and the Trinity, and the Paulists, and Dominicans, and sacristies, and the loss of traditional morals. We talked about our church's anti-Semitic history; he said "I'm really not responsible for what happened to those who persecuted me." Unfortunate, I told him, you've never met a flipped-out Jew, 'cause you might find that he or she has got a lot in common with you. He didn't know quite what I meant, but he laughed with some good grace, and I've got to admit his fervored eyes look better in a smiling face.
Then I didn't really fear for my life or for my soul; the worst danger with these folks is talking so much your food gets cold. Being hungry, he turned his gaze before that peril was met, and Monsignor stood to say the grace before the table was set: "Bless us, o L-rd, in these Thy gifts," but which gifts, which us, which these should He bless? I opted for my child's grace instead, followed along in my head with different words, explicit meanings, altogether separate-seeming, but really the same, as our entire body gathered in His name in the basement of a church called after it. ". . . and may there be a goodly share / On every table everywhere, amen," and then the men and woman of the group concluded, "Christ our L-rd," and the fruit salad made its rounds before anyone said another word.
We ribbed Ken a little over the thick smoke in the hall: "I didn't know pasta could burn!" he explained until we all bust out laughing.
Really, though, Ken, the food was very good and we're very grateful to you for doing so much of the cooking.
So there I was, not long ago believing that we could not know the right or wrong of anything we are, chillin in a place reminiscent of the bar my father used to take me to at nights when he was drinking, I was thinking, doing spelling and division while the men played darts and Dad worked through some beers. Even after all these years, I think I still do my best work in the dark while choking on the smoke from Swisher Sweets and trying real hard not to meet anybody, 'cause I was shy and just wanted to talk to my dad. Even now, I think that I am growing, and I don't know if I'm showing signs of that, and I wish I could ask him about it, but now I doubt it ranks too high for him. Still, it's okay. I'm just surprised where I seem to be now compared to the other day.
My dad isn't an alcoholic or a horrible parent or anything, so don't go thinking that, okay?
We talked about altars and relics and arches, and cruciforms, and oils, and Progress' forward marches taking swords from Paul. "If they thought a sword was violent, I'm surprised they left the cross!" And overhead the differed statue's left with part its loss. Martyrs and saints are never immune to the shifts of our faith and the change of our tune, lament though it may be.
And then Monsignor regaled us with tales of churches taking pipe organs out of "burlesque houses" and trading them back and forth and trying to pawn off former organs on other churches. Never so many times in one conversation have you heard the word "Wurlitzer." And then Jose drove me home and we had a surprisingly lengthy conversation about the magazine "Aviation Weekly."
Anyway.
This has been a brief overview of where I was from 5 to 9 last night, because some people, cough cough LIL BIT cough 'scuse me, called and were really curious as to why anyone would spend four hours in a Catholic church if not "chained down or locked in the bathroom or something." The answer: Because even Catholics who disagree with you on many, many theological points will still love you, talk to you, and most amazingly of all, feed you fettucine Alfredo.
Yesterday, I met Jose the Friendly Flipped-Out Catholic. We talked about classes and majors and interests and ages, and the we talked a little bit about J-sus, and the Trinity, and the Paulists, and Dominicans, and sacristies, and the loss of traditional morals. We talked about our church's anti-Semitic history; he said "I'm really not responsible for what happened to those who persecuted me." Unfortunate, I told him, you've never met a flipped-out Jew, 'cause you might find that he or she has got a lot in common with you. He didn't know quite what I meant, but he laughed with some good grace, and I've got to admit his fervored eyes look better in a smiling face.
Then I didn't really fear for my life or for my soul; the worst danger with these folks is talking so much your food gets cold. Being hungry, he turned his gaze before that peril was met, and Monsignor stood to say the grace before the table was set: "Bless us, o L-rd, in these Thy gifts," but which gifts, which us, which these should He bless? I opted for my child's grace instead, followed along in my head with different words, explicit meanings, altogether separate-seeming, but really the same, as our entire body gathered in His name in the basement of a church called after it. ". . . and may there be a goodly share / On every table everywhere, amen," and then the men and woman of the group concluded, "Christ our L-rd," and the fruit salad made its rounds before anyone said another word.
We ribbed Ken a little over the thick smoke in the hall: "I didn't know pasta could burn!" he explained until we all bust out laughing.
Really, though, Ken, the food was very good and we're very grateful to you for doing so much of the cooking.
So there I was, not long ago believing that we could not know the right or wrong of anything we are, chillin in a place reminiscent of the bar my father used to take me to at nights when he was drinking, I was thinking, doing spelling and division while the men played darts and Dad worked through some beers. Even after all these years, I think I still do my best work in the dark while choking on the smoke from Swisher Sweets and trying real hard not to meet anybody, 'cause I was shy and just wanted to talk to my dad. Even now, I think that I am growing, and I don't know if I'm showing signs of that, and I wish I could ask him about it, but now I doubt it ranks too high for him. Still, it's okay. I'm just surprised where I seem to be now compared to the other day.
My dad isn't an alcoholic or a horrible parent or anything, so don't go thinking that, okay?
We talked about altars and relics and arches, and cruciforms, and oils, and Progress' forward marches taking swords from Paul. "If they thought a sword was violent, I'm surprised they left the cross!" And overhead the differed statue's left with part its loss. Martyrs and saints are never immune to the shifts of our faith and the change of our tune, lament though it may be.
And then Monsignor regaled us with tales of churches taking pipe organs out of "burlesque houses" and trading them back and forth and trying to pawn off former organs on other churches. Never so many times in one conversation have you heard the word "Wurlitzer." And then Jose drove me home and we had a surprisingly lengthy conversation about the magazine "Aviation Weekly."
Anyway.
This has been a brief overview of where I was from 5 to 9 last night, because some people, cough cough LIL BIT cough 'scuse me, called and were really curious as to why anyone would spend four hours in a Catholic church if not "chained down or locked in the bathroom or something." The answer: Because even Catholics who disagree with you on many, many theological points will still love you, talk to you, and most amazingly of all, feed you fettucine Alfredo.
Saturday, January 10, 2004
Advice
Boomer, don't resign your status as a pop-cultured intellectual yet. If you do, you may miss out on the opportunity to write little essays like this one.
Boomer, don't resign your status as a pop-cultured intellectual yet. If you do, you may miss out on the opportunity to write little essays like this one.
The Mother of All Practical Jokes
is actually not the election of certain Presidents of the United States, despite what my father may tell you.
It is this.
is actually not the election of certain Presidents of the United States, despite what my father may tell you.
It is this.
Monday, January 05, 2004
Thinking a Little and Sinking a Lot
Is it just me, or do the blogs/web sites, etc. with the coolest names generally have the dullest content?
Anyway.
In hopes of supporting my own theory, I hope I may offer the following Schu schedule for today, first day back for classes:
4AM: Wake up.
4:30AM: Continue to be awake.
5AM: Continue to be awake.
5:30AM: Continue to be awake.
6AM: Continue to be awake.
6:12:44AM: Start singing along with gentle meeping of faraway backing trucks.
6:14:37AM: Build model of dicyclic system featuring Hardcore Hydrogen jockeying with Fearsome Fluorine in an epic battle for control of the conformation of this Last Great Hexane.
6:21:32AM: Weep openly as this stirring saga concludes with a vicious showdown in which, to summarize, everybody dies. At least they're sleeping (or would be were they not inanimate).
6:21:38AM: Use the ceiling tiles to play mental tic-tac-toe with self. Forget which squares were Xs and which were Os. Curse with inordinate ferocity. Fear waking roommates. Lose to self on purpose.
6:22:12AM: Begin to resign self to three-and-a-half hours of sleep and the associated joys and perils therein.
6:25:52AM: Pretend to be own dad. Explain to self, with unusual eloquence and cogency, why "pure reason" is neither pure nor reasonable.
6:31:32AM: End debate. Think about what to eat for breakfast.
6:57:14AM: How about cereal?
7:02AMish: Fall asleep.
7:31AM: Alarm clock goes off.
7:31:37AM: Realize that the three-and-a-half hours got bumped up to four. Attempt to do minor dance of joy. Realize that this would be easier if more than two inches of headroom were attainable. Get out of bed.
7:45AM: Eat long-awaited cereal. Resolve later to explore the merits of toast.
8:30AM: Physics lab! Only not!
8:55AM: Go to university library. Return seventeen books. Weather, with sheepish grin, blistering stare of rage from circ staff member.
9:25AM: Go to community library. Return nineteen books. Chat pleasantly with circ staff member. Look for Sarah in order to congratulate her on being named Librarian of the Year by the New York Times. Miss her, find a few good books (well, seven of them).
10:25AM: Recycle grocery bags.
10:30AM: Read abnormal psychology text (in preparation for class tomorrow, not, as some have suggested, in order to recognize relatives).
11:30AM: Mend ancient, inherited, red-and-white-checked toaster cover.
11:45AM: Write letter to grandmother, then other grandmother, then other people's grandmothers.
12:45: Leave for linguistics class, a five-minute walk.
12:58: Actually enter linguistics class. What? Who says a person should get to class early instead of bumming around talking to people?
1:01PM: Fill out survey. Wince at part that asks which languages the surveyed has studied. Shrug and put "French." Plus or minus German, Somali, Arabic, Japanese, and Swahili, but no one needs to know, right?
1:44PM: Words like "subjunctive" and "indirect" and "auxiliary" start flying. Pine for the goodness of home, where arguments ensue only over what to eat for supper and where all that matters is that a person can do something that matters. Realize why freshman year of high school consisted mostly of skipping English class.
2:01PM: Make a joke about a sentence along the lines of "Nobody ever did anything wrong in any way at all." Sigh internally as said joke falls flatter than Kansas, which has been more or less scientifically demonstrated to be flatter than a pancake.
2:18PM: Talk to Shayna and Francis!
2:19PM: Same thing, minus Francis and plus some food.
3:12PM: Head out, ridiculously early, for physics class.
3:18PM: Loiter. Say hello to Incredible Wisconsin-Talking Eyebrow-Pierced Butt-Kicking Physics-Wizard Sky-Diving Jen (IWTEPBKPWSD Jen, not to be confused with any other of many Jens, Jenns, Jennys, Jennies, Jennis, Jennifers, Jennnnnnieys, or other folks named something along those general lines. Ha! GENeral lines!).
3:28PM: I love E and M.
4:19PM: Deep-end into physics and quarks and magnetic fields and what charge really is.
4:35PM: Dang near fall asleep in SEL with sudden weight of head.
5:00PM: Mmmm. Physics homework.
and so on. . .
Happy first day of classes, anyone who's back today.
Everyone else, happy smirking.
Is it just me, or do the blogs/web sites, etc. with the coolest names generally have the dullest content?
Anyway.
In hopes of supporting my own theory, I hope I may offer the following Schu schedule for today, first day back for classes:
4AM: Wake up.
4:30AM: Continue to be awake.
5AM: Continue to be awake.
5:30AM: Continue to be awake.
6AM: Continue to be awake.
6:12:44AM: Start singing along with gentle meeping of faraway backing trucks.
6:14:37AM: Build model of dicyclic system featuring Hardcore Hydrogen jockeying with Fearsome Fluorine in an epic battle for control of the conformation of this Last Great Hexane.
6:21:32AM: Weep openly as this stirring saga concludes with a vicious showdown in which, to summarize, everybody dies. At least they're sleeping (or would be were they not inanimate).
6:21:38AM: Use the ceiling tiles to play mental tic-tac-toe with self. Forget which squares were Xs and which were Os. Curse with inordinate ferocity. Fear waking roommates. Lose to self on purpose.
6:22:12AM: Begin to resign self to three-and-a-half hours of sleep and the associated joys and perils therein.
6:25:52AM: Pretend to be own dad. Explain to self, with unusual eloquence and cogency, why "pure reason" is neither pure nor reasonable.
6:31:32AM: End debate. Think about what to eat for breakfast.
6:57:14AM: How about cereal?
7:02AMish: Fall asleep.
7:31AM: Alarm clock goes off.
7:31:37AM: Realize that the three-and-a-half hours got bumped up to four. Attempt to do minor dance of joy. Realize that this would be easier if more than two inches of headroom were attainable. Get out of bed.
7:45AM: Eat long-awaited cereal. Resolve later to explore the merits of toast.
8:30AM: Physics lab! Only not!
8:55AM: Go to university library. Return seventeen books. Weather, with sheepish grin, blistering stare of rage from circ staff member.
9:25AM: Go to community library. Return nineteen books. Chat pleasantly with circ staff member. Look for Sarah in order to congratulate her on being named Librarian of the Year by the New York Times. Miss her, find a few good books (well, seven of them).
10:25AM: Recycle grocery bags.
10:30AM: Read abnormal psychology text (in preparation for class tomorrow, not, as some have suggested, in order to recognize relatives).
11:30AM: Mend ancient, inherited, red-and-white-checked toaster cover.
11:45AM: Write letter to grandmother, then other grandmother, then other people's grandmothers.
12:45: Leave for linguistics class, a five-minute walk.
12:58: Actually enter linguistics class. What? Who says a person should get to class early instead of bumming around talking to people?
1:01PM: Fill out survey. Wince at part that asks which languages the surveyed has studied. Shrug and put "French." Plus or minus German, Somali, Arabic, Japanese, and Swahili, but no one needs to know, right?
1:44PM: Words like "subjunctive" and "indirect" and "auxiliary" start flying. Pine for the goodness of home, where arguments ensue only over what to eat for supper and where all that matters is that a person can do something that matters. Realize why freshman year of high school consisted mostly of skipping English class.
2:01PM: Make a joke about a sentence along the lines of "Nobody ever did anything wrong in any way at all." Sigh internally as said joke falls flatter than Kansas, which has been more or less scientifically demonstrated to be flatter than a pancake.
2:18PM: Talk to Shayna and Francis!
2:19PM: Same thing, minus Francis and plus some food.
3:12PM: Head out, ridiculously early, for physics class.
3:18PM: Loiter. Say hello to Incredible Wisconsin-Talking Eyebrow-Pierced Butt-Kicking Physics-Wizard Sky-Diving Jen (IWTEPBKPWSD Jen, not to be confused with any other of many Jens, Jenns, Jennys, Jennies, Jennis, Jennifers, Jennnnnnieys, or other folks named something along those general lines. Ha! GENeral lines!).
3:28PM: I love E and M.
4:19PM: Deep-end into physics and quarks and magnetic fields and what charge really is.
4:35PM: Dang near fall asleep in SEL with sudden weight of head.
5:00PM: Mmmm. Physics homework.
and so on. . .
Happy first day of classes, anyone who's back today.
Everyone else, happy smirking.
Reasons to Think About Maybe Voting This Year
Retired Gen. Wesley Clark.
According to a National Public Radio report, Clark grew up with guns, and owns around 20 of them, supporting the right to bear arms. However, he's pro-gun control. "If you want to fire an assault weapon," he said, "join the army, we've got plenty of them."
(thanks to http://www.selectsmart.com)
Retired Gen. Wesley Clark.
According to a National Public Radio report, Clark grew up with guns, and owns around 20 of them, supporting the right to bear arms. However, he's pro-gun control. "If you want to fire an assault weapon," he said, "join the army, we've got plenty of them."
(thanks to http://www.selectsmart.com)
