181350...

...is the approximate number of words of student writing I've had to read in the last five days. And of that, there have been four essays on dieting (common opinion: being fat and ugly and unstylish is bad, but so is "possible gastric rupture arising from forced vomiting to prevent absorption of calories intake"), two on pollution ("we should saving the planets and energetic for our sakes' children") and fourteen on population control. And the best line so far? It came from an essay in support of euthanasia, and it rather accurately sums up my feelings about my current line of work:

"'To be or not to be, it's a question.' For help stop the extra pain, I think he should be helped to end him suffering.

That, my attendance-challenged friend, is exactly what I was thinking.

In the Month of Madness

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Image dump

The last couple weeks have been a bit harder on the ol' word-making parts of the brain than I'd like. So instead of some comments about something or other, here are a bunch of teeny-tiny photos from my mediocre phone camera. This are the images that I seem to have thought were worth reproducing:

Data without context

Total number of students enrolled in my Monday classes: 52
Total number of students who came into my classes after the start times today: 12
Number of students late for basic English class: 3
Number of students late for Intro to Business Communication: 7

Which gives us 2 left over students who were both actually about an hour late for Management Theories, a class that I don't even teach, in a classroom in a completely different building, on the other side of campus.

Is it worth noting that the students late for basic English, a 1st semester class, all came in within 7 minutes of our scheduled start? Is it worth noting that the (presumably) more advanced students for Business Communication (a 2nd semester class) came in between 10 and 40 minutes late?

And what about the fact that I, a person actually born one week late and chronically tardy for most of his educational life, have become among the strictest of clock-watchers?

Nah, none of it means anything, near as I can tell.

"Oh, that's what you meant" dept.

Usually, BBC news is pretty good about giving me the info I need. But this link here kind of threw me. I mean, I can guess that it's explaining where in the UK suffers from the highest levels of child poverty.

But honestly, my first thought was that it was some sort of travel guide, like, where to go to find the best child poverty, or the most picturesque children with smudgy faces, no shoes, and brave, hopeful smiles.

Is there something wrong with me for thinking that, or is is something wrong with where and how I live for not making that idea immediately implausible?

Small losses, somehow.

Tonight, a Saturday night, I find myself trying to clean up the room, which is not tidy, and clear up my desk, which is a mess, so that I might have enough space to prepare lesson plans for work on Monday. I don't know if I will have time to do either of those things tomorrow, since I have plans for the day with my wife.

Ordinarily, I like to think that the days of the week are irrelevant to me. Someone's lord may have rested on one day or another, but I try to do what I will when I will. There was a time when I taught lessons on Sunday night and drank gin on Monday mornings. I went on a trip with no plan, and found myself in Osaka, in a residential neighborhood full of middle-aged women touts, trying to lure in a fool in for a Thursday morning's romp on a hot summer day. As it turned out, all I really had come to Osaka for was an okonomiyaki, so I walked on, until I found a zoo, and a Ferris wheel, and a restaurant beneath the train tracks. The okonomiyaki was delicious, and the owner posed for photos, holding his special spatula high and smiling.

But something about spending this Saturday night on cleaning and preparation for work feels like a loss, like a defeat.

It feels like I'm allowing something important to get away from me, and without the right sort of compensation.

Once more, unto the breach, dear friends...

Tomorrow is the first day of classes of the fall semester. Not only have I been (theoretically) rehired for another semester, but I've been given three separate classes to teach, which will be something like 25 hours of classroom time per week.

Too much work? I reckon so. So I'm going to make this choice consciously, with full awareness of what I'm letting myself in for. They want a full-on teaching schedule, that calls for a full-on teacher. I seem to recall having the best hallucinatory visions when I was jittery with exhaustion and fueled by coffee, Snickers bars and bemusement at the antics of my students anyway.

Goddamn it, saddle up! There's educating to do!

Back to basics: traditional entertainment and bargain hunting

The British Tory party (the rough ideological analog of the US Republican Party) is going to have a conference in the city of Birmingham this month. And as a part of the city's attempts to turn a profit from the visiting Tories, they've distributed a coupon book to the visiting delegates, complete with discounted entry to The Rocket Club, a place people can go to watch ("Sir, do NOT touch the dancers!") nekkid ladies dancing on stage or sometimes on customers' laps.

I don't usually count on the Evening Standard for news, but this time they really came through for me with valuable, timely, hard-hitting journalism.

And just in case you were wondering what else Birmingham has going on, it is the home of the world's first Complaints Choir. Yep, homegrown culture.

Life imitates stoopid funny art, sorta...

Okay, just about enough time has passed so that I can consider the following without wincing:

I got publicly betrothed this summer, and in an unpleasantly accurate twist of fate, the run-up to my event was eerily paralleled in the comic strip Achewood. For example, thoughts about dresses, vows, fears about the future, gift registry, fears about the ceremony, catering, the madness inducing lead-up to the day, and the interaction of the guests on the day itself.

Am I R. B. Kazenzakis? Not by any stretch of the imagination. A friend summed up my childhood, noting "you grew up with the Huxtables." Sure, there were fewer adorable children, no well-meaning neighbors, and much, much more swearing, but he's not far off. However, that didn't stop me from worrying that the caterer was going to fuck everything up at the last minute, that the ringbearer was going to wet his pants, or that I was going to preview the rest of my life through a haze of misunderstood advice from well-meaning strangers and reach a technically correct but functionally wrong conclusion.

Y'know something?

I ate leftover curry and chocolate chip cookies (plural) for breakfast. And for lunch I'm going to drink like three cups of coffee, and then maybe some whisky.

'Cause I'm a grown-up and I can eat whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I feel like it!

Yeah!

Har de har har

Back to back to back...

Okay, so I ain't been on for a while. That's 'cause I've been getting re-married. Which isn't to say that I was divorced, but that the first time around was done on the quick and on the Q.T. It was almost like we eloped, except for the questionable choice of moving right back to the same island her family was on.

D'oh.

So once I got the visa I could get to work, which was a prerequisite for paying for the reception that seemed to be much in demand amongst people who'd heard that my special lady friend was now rocking a legally recognized husband.

Except she's already got a professional reputation in her field, and thus is in no hurry to start rebuilding it under a different name. And she's not my special lady friend!

Anyway, turns out that planning and executing a wedding reception takes up time. A damn lot of time. Time spent worrying about stuff that I would ordinarily never even be aware of. Like caring who sits next to whom, or whether there's going to be enough space on the dance floor, or whether the omnivores are going to eat too much of the vegetarians' options.

Okay, seriously, there was a whole roast pig to eat there. Like, over 175 pounds of slow-cooked pork. The pig roast was the most commented-on thing on the invitations, and people were lining up to see the pig before they even noticed the bride's dress. But for some reason, people still nearly ate all the fucking vegetarian lasagna before the actual vegetarians got a chance to.

But I digress. I've been busy, doing nuptial-type stuff. But today was my first Sunday off in a while, so it was a perfect chance to do some manly-type stuff. I bought lumber, saws, nails, big-ass brooms, and a bunch of cast-iron weights. Butch, man, butch! GRRRR-RARR!

Oh yeah, The Professor Brothers rock my historical world. (NSFW)

Next time: eh, whatever, man. You know how I live.

Kate Beaton!

There aren't nearly enough comics about history.

Wait, scratch that. There aren't nearly enough good comics about history.

No, hold on. There aren't nearly enough good comics, period.

Fortunately, Kate Beaton is making hella funny comics, many of which involve historical figures. Her linework is clear and evocative, her sense of comedic timing is great, and I really can't choose which of her comics make me laugh the most, because there are so damn many of them that leave me in fucking stitches.

Go to Kate Beaton dot com, now now now!

I never got to say "Thank you."

Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits!


Thank you, George.

Who do you trust?

Okay, so it seems that the infamous '2 Girls 1 Cup' film is at the center of a court case to decide just how far the 1st amendment goes. And the judge responsible for the whole thing is taking some heat for a web site he maintained, which seems to have some smut of his own selection.

I don't know if his collection of naughty pictures represents some sort of conflict of interest. But I do know that I would have much more faith in a judge who knew a little something about the topic in question. I mean, you wouldn't trust a referee who'd never watched a game, you wouldn't trust a baker who only ate Wonder Bread, so why would you prefer a judge who'd never seen a money shot?

What's dorkier than dorky?

Imagine, if you will, the kind of mind that would do the research needed to answer this question:

What was Stanley Kubrick's favorite font?

Oh yes. A fellow got the chance to look through Kubrick's archives, and made some interesting observations about the man and the things he left behind. But between the history of the creation of individual fonts and arguments about whether sci-fi writers would have known what the official house font was at NASA, it seems there remains a great deal of uncertainty as to whether Kubrick's purported favorite font was actually used in his films or not.

Can you dig that? So much effort and knowledge and interest, and it's all focused on something even the most obsessive film fans probably overlook.

Glorious!

[typographica.org]

Excelsior!

Generally, I don't have a great deal of interest in Discovery News. Most of it seems to be the dry, simplified, stripped-of-sensationalism news that fails to interest the spectacle hungry like myself. Yeah, I'll probably chuckle when I read the story about an ancient coprolite, or the one where scientists stuck needles into elementary school children to see if their pain was better soothed by a mother's touch or television cartoons. But in general, not much there gets my attention.

But then I noticed a couple of interesting headlines right next to each other:

Robotic suit? Rocket man?


Robotic suit?
Rocket man?
Robotic suit?
Rocket man?

It's about damn time. Onwards and upwards, true believers.

Forward, fast

Going back to work next week. I've been enjoying (sort of) a two-week break between semesters. I say "sort of" because even though classes ended two weeks ago, I've been unable to be completely finished with the semester's work. There were exams, workbooks and stacks of powerpoint presentations to grade. There were essays to read, evaluate, and penalize for plagiarism. Then there were the on-line student records to enter, correct, and re-correct. And there were the students who, finding they were going to fail because of a lack of attendance, participation and work submission, began making desperate and repeated attempts to show an interest in passing the course.

All of these things took up time. And now, with half the break gone, I find it's time to start preparing for the coming term. As a condition of my employment, I am paid fairly well per hour of class taught with the understanding that I must consider myself compensated for the the work done outside of class.

Funny, but when I'm called in during my 'holiday' to clear up errors resulting from a lack of foresight, planning or effort on the part of management, I find myself less inclined to accept the terms of the contract with good grace.

Am I lazy? Oh yes. But am I justified in feeling like my employers are taking advantage of everyone on these sorts of contracts?

What do you think?

Ugly and beautiful

A long time ago I studied animation. Like, the actual nuts-and-bolts mechanics of making moving cartoons with paper and ink and film. Come to think of it, it was real 19th century stuff. Except for the plastic cels we used for the final project, almost all the other materials and technology would have been easily available 100 years ago.

Anyway, one of my fondest memories was of trying to figure out how something moved so that the motion could be rendered in individual poses and then animated on film. I suppose that computer animation techniques make that sort of thing somewhat quicker, and that motion capture just gets someone to make the motion and then it's recreated automatically.

But I liked the process of working out how the motion went step by step. And this little video made me think of that:

Dance, fat man, dance!

Why do I miss Japan?

Found an excellent video at dannychoo.com that nicely encapsulates a couple of the reasons I loved that place.

Yes, that guy in the plastic outfit is just cruising around Tokyo, looking for places to dance. On it's own, that'd be pretty entertaining. But he's done it often enough that lower-level celebrities want to dance with him.
But look at the people going by. This seems to be taking place around midafternoon, and no one passing by is even slowing down. Oh, sure, a crowd gathers to takehttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif some pictures once they're in a giant white box. Otherwise, though, it's just business as usual. Salarymen go to work, ko-gals ditch school to hang out somewhere, and a guy in plastic armor tries to bust a move for no reason other than he feels like it. And no one gives him any grief for it.
Hell, other times they join in.

Tokyo Dance Trooper at dannychoo.com

update: bonus video dancing with the dark lord of the Sith. Amazingly, they don't try to freak any of the people who dance between them. Some things can remain pure. Sorta.

Perhaps a clarification is in order...

That last post has been worrying me for a bit, and I feel like I should clarify. I do believe that white Americans, as individuals, are just as valid and valuable as any other human being. 1

Honestly, I grew up amongst them, went to their schools, and learned their ways as if they were my own. Honestly, I wouldn't mind at all if my sister married one. Hell, some of my best friends are white Americans. One on one, they can be good people.

But perhaps the problem is that I have similar reactions to most groupings of people: alternating between disgust, fright, pity, and outrage. Maybe it's just because they're the ones I see most often in the media that I tend to associate them with those negative feelings.

Rest assured, white Americans, I don't hate you personally. Singularly you're simply swell. It's you as a group I don't care so much for. The humans, that is. But I'm sure I'll learn to live with you, just as you seem to have tried to live with me. It's a simple dream, but a good one, I think.


1 That is, valued at approximately $23,260 when reduced to component organs and tissues or $14,515 as a single unit still suitable for labor, recreation or artistic display.

God damn it

Not many people I've met seem to embrace the idea of racism. Most people I've met who were raised sometime after 1930 or so seem to be more or less comfortable with the idea that it's not really acceptable to pre-judge people based on their skin color. They may not agree, but in general, they seem to get that most of the other people they have to live with are going to act that way.

In general, I agree.

But then I see something like this.


Just a couple of people trying to have a little fun at their wedding, no big deal. So why can't I get past the fact that all I'm seeing is a bunch of privileged white Americans pretending to dance like Negroes and laughing their asses off? Why can't I laugh at his spastic attempts at rhythm? Shouldn't it be funny that the song is about liking a black woman with a big butt, and this guy seems so enthusiastic about a nondescript white woman with no ass at all? The fact that they went on Ellen Degeneres' show to recreate this should just be something to smile over, but I can't. And when I see all the copycat videos posted with other happy white couples doing the same thing, I can taste bile and blood in my throat.

Why the hell can't I laugh this piece of stupidity off?

It is capital-A Art

Jim Woodring, artist and illustrator of, among other things, the ever-astounding Frank, has an illustration blog. Sometimes it is dreamlike, sometimes bewildering, and other times it is simply inspiring.

The Woodring Monitor

Chemicals, chemicals, non-franchise chemicals!

Now that I'm back amongst the ranks of the employed, I'm going to have to re-state my support for coffee. A legal, socially acceptable stimulant, it's sometimes the only thing that keeps me upright and functional. Now, the shaved apes I have to work with may be happy drinking cup after cup of instant Nescafe all day, but this particular simian needs something a little bit better. Yes, there are two Starbucks and one Costa on my way to work, but I like options. Besides, if I've learned nothing else from the films of Sylvester Stallone, it's that you should support the little guy, the unlikely artist with something to say, the underdog, the heavily armed veteran and the arm-wrestling-truck-driving single father.

Hmm. Seem to have lost the track there. Anyway, if you'd like to find a non-Starbucks coffee nearby, try Delocator.com (or Delocator.ca or Delocator.org.uk, depending on where you're aiming to go) for a postal/zip code search of independently owned coffee shops and tea parlors and such.

(Thanks for the heads up, Secret Agent K!)

Lowering the bar for higher education

It's a dark day for edumacation in Great Britain. In a move to improve the numbers of people holding qualifications, the UK has announced that they'll certify certain McDonald's management courses as being equivalent to A-levels, which will be something roughly equivalent to AP credit towards getting something like diplomas or associates degrees.

And to make things worse, an otherwise unremarkable university that has not yet lost its accredited status has hired a shiftless, foul-mouthed foreigner to teach a study skills and language improvement class to other foreign students who lack the language skills and the motivation to make it at the university level.

Oh, the irony gets thick sometimes!

Seriously, who cares about this sort of thing?

Should anyone at all care about the fact that some jerk running for congress had his face put on a thinner body for a campaign photo? It's just a little bit of advertising sent to voters to present an image of himself, which obviously has no bearing on his policies, right? And the fact that the people putting his ad together felt they were doing him a favor by making him look better than he may actually look in real life doesn't really matter, does it? And since the people are clearly too smart to care about anything other than the real issues of the day, there's no reason to give a damn about any of this, is there? The truthiness will come through in the end.


Incidentally, doesn't democracy rely on an informed populace to function? No? Sorry, I must have been thinking of something else. I, for one, welcome our new, composite-imaged leaders. Long may their photoshopped visages shine.

Keep on keepin' on

Going back to work soon. Edumactin' them thar ex-changed students. Yeah, the foul-mouthed Yank foreigner complaining about the quality of instruction is being hired to teach at that self-same institution. Not quite the blind leading the blind, but somewhere in the neighborhood. Maybe "the belligerent lecturing the apathetic" or "the surly leading the indifferent".

Anyway, been trying to get some fictional-type writing done. I figure I've already got half-empty bottles scattered around my desk, a big-ass stack of books to read that no one else seems interested in, and I can use "synecdoche" in a sentence. What else do I need besides a snooty portrait for the back of my book, a felt-tip pen to autograph with, and some Hollywood type to arrange an option deal that will linger in development hell forever and ever?

I mean, besides a plot and characters, and maybe another 90,000 words or so?

Happy 2008 y'all. I'll be back to bitching about stuff soon.