Monday, October 12, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
More Of Dreams
This afternoon, after having eluded me for about 36 hours, I finally caught hold of a decent scrap of sleep. During that time I was transported away to the strange and magical, and occasionally terrifying, recesses of my own mind in the form of the vivid hallucinations that sometimes accompany the rapid fluttering of the eyes. I have made the point before that if dreams do indeed offer a rare uncensored look into the processes behind a person's mind, then what I am about to reveal to you is probably deeply personal and very embarrassing. However, the narrative of this dream is just too hilarious not to share, so whatever to all of that.
As before, I can verify that all of the key elements of the following story were present in the dream, with embellishments only for dramatic effect or to ease the transitions between scenes. No major plot points have been added.
TRANSCRIBED DREAM BEGINS HERE
So, I’m walking along the beach, when I notice something weird about the ocean. The last few feet of the waves come up about a foot and a half above the sand, and just sort of hover there, never crashing down to the ground below. Clearly, I figure, someone has fucked up the coast. I call out to the Coast Guard, “Hey idiots, nice job on the coastline!” Suddenly the boat changes direction, and begins speeding toward the shore. People are starting to shift around, obviously terrified of the maniacs in the Coast Guard. Some people actually flee. Looking back, maybe I should have run too.
I stand my ground as the boat hits the small jump at the end of the sea and boffs onto the sand. Three large men climb out, and begin to advance on me. I find myself surrounded. One of them pins me to the floor and begins to handcuff me. I allow him to, and the man drags me to my feet. As they begin to take me back to the boat, god only knows how they’re going to get it back up into the ocean, I position myself behind who I take to be the ranking Coast Guard officer. Instantly, I dislocate both of my shoulders and throw my handcuffed arms over my head, bringing the tiny chain down around my captor’s neck. Holding this man hostage, I demand that my handcuffs be unlocked. They comply, and one of the men returns with a small key. The second he turns it in the lock and the handcuff pops open I whip the newly freed cuff into his face. I then throw my hostage to the floor and proceed to summarily kick all of their asses. As I leave the beach, one of them croaks out a warning. “The Coast Guard will not forget. The Coast Guard never forgets.”
The next day I am visiting my old high school with my good friend Superman. There is a commotion at the front gate, and we quickly realize why. The Coast Guard has shown up in force to arrest me. Quickly we move to the back gate to escape, but they have cut off our route there. In an act of desperation, we duck into an English classroom.
The Coast Guard eventually find us. Superman pulls a gun on them, and I simply place a hand on his shoulder. He understands now, this was all part of the plan. You see, what I have not told you is that I am a secret super-spy, and my mission is to take down the corrupt and brutal Coast Guard.
A man walks in who I have not seen before and introduces himself as Agent Johnson of Coast Guard Special Operations. He explains that I am to be taken out of the country for “deep interrogation.” Superman pulls out his wallet and gives me a hundred dollar bill to cover my expenses while in captivity, and I go with the Coast Guard.
Eventually the bag is removed from my head, and I find myself walking through a South American slum alongside Agent Johnson. I have no idea where I am, but luckily we pass a guide map. I notice there is a Sea World nearby. I point this out to the agent, and he looks away longingly. He confides in me that he has never been to Sea World, but it has always been his wish to go. I tell him how great Sea World is, lying my ass off. In truth, Sea World is boring and dreadful, but I sell it as the greatest thing entire goddamn universe. I am trying to earn his trust here.
Catching my enthusiasm, he buys us two tickets, and we spend the day at Sea World. During the Shamu show, there is an unexpected appearance in the show by Superman. The crowd goes wild. Superman says, “You know what I love best about Sea World?” He pauses for dramatic effect.
“BASEBALL!”
The crowd cheers as Superman produces some baseballs, and a bat. He knocks several home runs into the audience, and they all fly directly into my hands. I shove the baseballs into my pockets, because of course they contain secret coded documents relevant to my mission.
On the way out of the park, Agent Johnson stops to negotiate with a prostitute. He asks me if I am cool with this. “Hey man,” I say, “whatever you want to do.” He does not seem satisfied with this, and tells me never mind, it was only a joke anyway, but I can see in his eyes that he was serious, and now he is embarrassed.
We pass a door marked, “Employees Only.” The agent asks me if I’ve ever wondered what kind of crazy pumps they must need to pump all that water into the tanks, and haven’t you always wanted to see something like that? He takes my awkward silence as some sort of begrudging acknowledgement, and we begin to break into the backstage area of Sea World. We find ourselves in a hallway, and we hear footsteps approaching. The agent instructs me to hide, but it is a hallway, so the best I can do is to lie down on the floor. He places a small wastebasket in front of the door, and lies down next to me on the floor. The door opens, easily tossing the wastebasket aside, and a woman walks through. “Oh, Jorge,” she says, “somebody left a bin in front of the door, could you pick it up?” We look at each other realizing she somehow thinks we are the janitor, and incidentally one person, and begin giggling uncontrollably. She shoots us an annoyed look, and we look away innocently.
Finally arriving in the pump room, Agent Johnson is filled with a school child wonderment. He starts gushing about how he’s never seen pumps like these before, and isn’t it amazing, though wouldn’t they get more pressure if they were closer to the source, and on, and on, and on. It was starting to get really annoying, and I began to question whether it was really all worth it. I finally decided that it wasn’t, and I went home.
END TRANSCRIPTION
As before, I can verify that all of the key elements of the following story were present in the dream, with embellishments only for dramatic effect or to ease the transitions between scenes. No major plot points have been added.
TRANSCRIBED DREAM BEGINS HERE
So, I’m walking along the beach, when I notice something weird about the ocean. The last few feet of the waves come up about a foot and a half above the sand, and just sort of hover there, never crashing down to the ground below. Clearly, I figure, someone has fucked up the coast. I call out to the Coast Guard, “Hey idiots, nice job on the coastline!” Suddenly the boat changes direction, and begins speeding toward the shore. People are starting to shift around, obviously terrified of the maniacs in the Coast Guard. Some people actually flee. Looking back, maybe I should have run too.
I stand my ground as the boat hits the small jump at the end of the sea and boffs onto the sand. Three large men climb out, and begin to advance on me. I find myself surrounded. One of them pins me to the floor and begins to handcuff me. I allow him to, and the man drags me to my feet. As they begin to take me back to the boat, god only knows how they’re going to get it back up into the ocean, I position myself behind who I take to be the ranking Coast Guard officer. Instantly, I dislocate both of my shoulders and throw my handcuffed arms over my head, bringing the tiny chain down around my captor’s neck. Holding this man hostage, I demand that my handcuffs be unlocked. They comply, and one of the men returns with a small key. The second he turns it in the lock and the handcuff pops open I whip the newly freed cuff into his face. I then throw my hostage to the floor and proceed to summarily kick all of their asses. As I leave the beach, one of them croaks out a warning. “The Coast Guard will not forget. The Coast Guard never forgets.”
The next day I am visiting my old high school with my good friend Superman. There is a commotion at the front gate, and we quickly realize why. The Coast Guard has shown up in force to arrest me. Quickly we move to the back gate to escape, but they have cut off our route there. In an act of desperation, we duck into an English classroom.
The Coast Guard eventually find us. Superman pulls a gun on them, and I simply place a hand on his shoulder. He understands now, this was all part of the plan. You see, what I have not told you is that I am a secret super-spy, and my mission is to take down the corrupt and brutal Coast Guard.
A man walks in who I have not seen before and introduces himself as Agent Johnson of Coast Guard Special Operations. He explains that I am to be taken out of the country for “deep interrogation.” Superman pulls out his wallet and gives me a hundred dollar bill to cover my expenses while in captivity, and I go with the Coast Guard.
Eventually the bag is removed from my head, and I find myself walking through a South American slum alongside Agent Johnson. I have no idea where I am, but luckily we pass a guide map. I notice there is a Sea World nearby. I point this out to the agent, and he looks away longingly. He confides in me that he has never been to Sea World, but it has always been his wish to go. I tell him how great Sea World is, lying my ass off. In truth, Sea World is boring and dreadful, but I sell it as the greatest thing entire goddamn universe. I am trying to earn his trust here.
Catching my enthusiasm, he buys us two tickets, and we spend the day at Sea World. During the Shamu show, there is an unexpected appearance in the show by Superman. The crowd goes wild. Superman says, “You know what I love best about Sea World?” He pauses for dramatic effect.
“BASEBALL!”
The crowd cheers as Superman produces some baseballs, and a bat. He knocks several home runs into the audience, and they all fly directly into my hands. I shove the baseballs into my pockets, because of course they contain secret coded documents relevant to my mission.
On the way out of the park, Agent Johnson stops to negotiate with a prostitute. He asks me if I am cool with this. “Hey man,” I say, “whatever you want to do.” He does not seem satisfied with this, and tells me never mind, it was only a joke anyway, but I can see in his eyes that he was serious, and now he is embarrassed.
We pass a door marked, “Employees Only.” The agent asks me if I’ve ever wondered what kind of crazy pumps they must need to pump all that water into the tanks, and haven’t you always wanted to see something like that? He takes my awkward silence as some sort of begrudging acknowledgement, and we begin to break into the backstage area of Sea World. We find ourselves in a hallway, and we hear footsteps approaching. The agent instructs me to hide, but it is a hallway, so the best I can do is to lie down on the floor. He places a small wastebasket in front of the door, and lies down next to me on the floor. The door opens, easily tossing the wastebasket aside, and a woman walks through. “Oh, Jorge,” she says, “somebody left a bin in front of the door, could you pick it up?” We look at each other realizing she somehow thinks we are the janitor, and incidentally one person, and begin giggling uncontrollably. She shoots us an annoyed look, and we look away innocently.
Finally arriving in the pump room, Agent Johnson is filled with a school child wonderment. He starts gushing about how he’s never seen pumps like these before, and isn’t it amazing, though wouldn’t they get more pressure if they were closer to the source, and on, and on, and on. It was starting to get really annoying, and I began to question whether it was really all worth it. I finally decided that it wasn’t, and I went home.
END TRANSCRIPTION
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The New Version of Itunes Has a Problem
You know what it is? It doesn't play songs. Isn't that just wonderful, how it fails to do the one thing it's programmed to do? It's like if a company was making a blender, and when it got to the testing department, there was the following exchange:
Dickless Manager: So, does it blend?
Worthless Employee: Nope, I press this button and nothing happens.
Dickless Manager: Well, let's ship it out anyway, we can always patch it later.
Seriously Apple, that is some outstanding quality assurance. You should really branch out, just think of all the good you could do outside the field of computers. You could make a pair of scissors that can sing the alphabet backwards, but can't cut paper. Or a shoehorn that slices off your heel and attaches it to your ankle. Or you could make a staple remover that rather than removing the staples, makes your documents 50 times more stapled than than they were before you interfered.
What really makes me mad is that I just got the Beatles remastered stereo box set, and I decided it would be peachy keen if I could encode it in a lossless format. After some research, I figured the Apple lossless format would be the simplest without installing new software to learn, test, and obsess over. So now all my sweet, sweet Beatles albums are locked away in the oppressive .m4a format, and I'm to fucking tired to figure out how to get at them right now. I guess I should just learn not to update apple products, but they were doing so well for a while there. Maybe I'm foolish, and I just can't change the laws of the universe. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Apple will fuck you over if you give them a chance.
Um, I guess this is the part of the rant where I vent about what horrible things I want to happen to them.
Um... hang on a minute...
Okay, I've got one. Apple, I hope whoever is in charge of your quality service department has to eat 52 beer bottles, shit them out, light them on fire, and then eat the flaming shit with the glass shards in it. I hope his legs fall off, and his eyeballs turn inside out, and everyone laughs at him and calls him fat. Then just for good measure you should blow up the department and kill anyone who has ever had contact with him. After that, you should probably start fixing your horribly broken program.
So Apple, until next time you decide to fuck me, hugs and kisses.
Dickless Manager: So, does it blend?
Worthless Employee: Nope, I press this button and nothing happens.
Dickless Manager: Well, let's ship it out anyway, we can always patch it later.
Seriously Apple, that is some outstanding quality assurance. You should really branch out, just think of all the good you could do outside the field of computers. You could make a pair of scissors that can sing the alphabet backwards, but can't cut paper. Or a shoehorn that slices off your heel and attaches it to your ankle. Or you could make a staple remover that rather than removing the staples, makes your documents 50 times more stapled than than they were before you interfered.
What really makes me mad is that I just got the Beatles remastered stereo box set, and I decided it would be peachy keen if I could encode it in a lossless format. After some research, I figured the Apple lossless format would be the simplest without installing new software to learn, test, and obsess over. So now all my sweet, sweet Beatles albums are locked away in the oppressive .m4a format, and I'm to fucking tired to figure out how to get at them right now. I guess I should just learn not to update apple products, but they were doing so well for a while there. Maybe I'm foolish, and I just can't change the laws of the universe. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Apple will fuck you over if you give them a chance.
Um, I guess this is the part of the rant where I vent about what horrible things I want to happen to them.
Um... hang on a minute...
Okay, I've got one. Apple, I hope whoever is in charge of your quality service department has to eat 52 beer bottles, shit them out, light them on fire, and then eat the flaming shit with the glass shards in it. I hope his legs fall off, and his eyeballs turn inside out, and everyone laughs at him and calls him fat. Then just for good measure you should blow up the department and kill anyone who has ever had contact with him. After that, you should probably start fixing your horribly broken program.
So Apple, until next time you decide to fuck me, hugs and kisses.
Monday, September 14, 2009
More From the Time Cabinet
Here is another thing I found in my journey into the past, written on a small scrap of paper. As to its age, I have no idea. I don't even remember writing it. It's clearly my handwriting though.
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS
Nobody ever told me where the secret to perfect waffles lay, but I found it in the heart of all of us. And that's how I saved Christmas from the mole people, whose hearts are full of love and kindness, two ideas wholly incompatible with Christmas. Ultimately, time will judge me, as it does us all. I hope it will judge me fit for duty, on the sandwich press of life. Gooooooood night!
END OF TRANSCRIPT
Final thought: Baffling!
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS
Nobody ever told me where the secret to perfect waffles lay, but I found it in the heart of all of us. And that's how I saved Christmas from the mole people, whose hearts are full of love and kindness, two ideas wholly incompatible with Christmas. Ultimately, time will judge me, as it does us all. I hope it will judge me fit for duty, on the sandwich press of life. Gooooooood night!
END OF TRANSCRIPT
Final thought: Baffling!
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Something From the Time Cabinet
While going through some of my old possessions, I found an old bit of writing I had done. It's a very short short story, more of a micro-narrative really, hastily scrawled while waiting in line for something, if I recall. It makes reference to Conan O'Brien's perceived nemesis from his Finland special, which I suppose would date this to about 3 years ago. I should warn you, it's not particularly funny, it's ridiculously short, and doesn't make any sense at all. In fact, the only person this thing is probably of any interest to is me. But I do feel bad about not posting anything, so here's a bit of silliness.
Only once did I have the pleasure of meeting Forss Fagerstrom. It was the winter of '88, the coldest one yet recorded by the weather gypsies. As I recall, he was wearing forest green moccasins, and smoking a rather large rubber phallus. We were at the same fancy dinner party, on the occasion of Admiral Forsythe's eleventh birthday bash. Fagerstrom's eye caught mine, and for whatever reason he chose to impart some wisdom.
"Jimmy," he said, though my name was Wagsley, "Jimmy my boy, has anyone ever taught you the secret to successful banking?"
I could honestly say no one had.
"Well, the secret, dear Jimmy, is to take all of your money and fashion it into tiny paper boats. And the change, well, they can be sailors, can't they?"
I saw no reason why they couldn't, yet the entire process still confounded me. "And how does one gain returns in such a venture?" I inquired.
"Poor naive Jimmy," he ticked. "Don't you see? You send the ships out to sea, and they return from the new world with gold, and spice, and stuff."
His breath reeked of cheap brandy as he leaned forward to deliver the final word. I wasn't sure which "new world" he was talking about, so I did the only rational thing I could. I drew my revolver, pulled back the hammer, and blew out the back of his head all over the balloon animals.
In the ten years since the murder, and the resulting police shootout that claimed 18 lives, I have been able to see that his words, though profoundly stupid, do carry some wisdom. He didn't mean physically fold your money into ships. Or maybe he did, point is it's a metaphor. Probably. I'm not really sure, but then I guess I'm not as smart as Forss Fagerstrom.
He really had so much to teach us. It's a shame his life was cut tragically short by me.
Only once did I have the pleasure of meeting Forss Fagerstrom. It was the winter of '88, the coldest one yet recorded by the weather gypsies. As I recall, he was wearing forest green moccasins, and smoking a rather large rubber phallus. We were at the same fancy dinner party, on the occasion of Admiral Forsythe's eleventh birthday bash. Fagerstrom's eye caught mine, and for whatever reason he chose to impart some wisdom.
"Jimmy," he said, though my name was Wagsley, "Jimmy my boy, has anyone ever taught you the secret to successful banking?"
I could honestly say no one had.
"Well, the secret, dear Jimmy, is to take all of your money and fashion it into tiny paper boats. And the change, well, they can be sailors, can't they?"
I saw no reason why they couldn't, yet the entire process still confounded me. "And how does one gain returns in such a venture?" I inquired.
"Poor naive Jimmy," he ticked. "Don't you see? You send the ships out to sea, and they return from the new world with gold, and spice, and stuff."
His breath reeked of cheap brandy as he leaned forward to deliver the final word. I wasn't sure which "new world" he was talking about, so I did the only rational thing I could. I drew my revolver, pulled back the hammer, and blew out the back of his head all over the balloon animals.
In the ten years since the murder, and the resulting police shootout that claimed 18 lives, I have been able to see that his words, though profoundly stupid, do carry some wisdom. He didn't mean physically fold your money into ships. Or maybe he did, point is it's a metaphor. Probably. I'm not really sure, but then I guess I'm not as smart as Forss Fagerstrom.
He really had so much to teach us. It's a shame his life was cut tragically short by me.
Friday, August 14, 2009
I Finally Found a Use For My Wii...
So, I picked up a wireless adapter for my Xbox 360 today, and it turns out both it and the cooling stand I have the beast sitting on have incredibly short cords that can only reach the same lone USB port on the back of the console. Now, the cooling stand (which is an absolute necessity if you own a 360, that fucker will start to melt if you leave it running on its own) has its own little passthrough port so you can plug two things in, but the wireless adapter doesn't seem to like it very much.
The solution it turns out lie three inches to the console's left. The Nintendo Wii, which other than being absolutely delightful for a period of three and a half days coinciding with the release of Wii Sports Resort, has simply been gathering dust over there. Well, not anymore. Now, useless Wii, you finally have a purpose. Your sweet USB ports will power my Xbox's cooling stand. This is the true power of the Nintendo Wii, that even when turned off it delivers 5 volts of glorious phantom power through those cute little ports.
Plus the best part of this little tip is that based on sales numbers, if you're reading this there's a very good chance you own a Wii. So go on, put that little bastard to good use.
The solution it turns out lie three inches to the console's left. The Nintendo Wii, which other than being absolutely delightful for a period of three and a half days coinciding with the release of Wii Sports Resort, has simply been gathering dust over there. Well, not anymore. Now, useless Wii, you finally have a purpose. Your sweet USB ports will power my Xbox's cooling stand. This is the true power of the Nintendo Wii, that even when turned off it delivers 5 volts of glorious phantom power through those cute little ports.
Plus the best part of this little tip is that based on sales numbers, if you're reading this there's a very good chance you own a Wii. So go on, put that little bastard to good use.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Proud Parent of an Accelerated Reader
That's what I saw on a bumper sticker on the back of a car today. “Proud Parent of an Accelerated Reader.” I actually had to think about that for a second, because at first those words didn't seem to have any meaning. Obviously in this context, “accelerated” means at a level above some sort of national average, but then that's not the word that confused me. It was the word “proud.” I just don't see how that would be a matter of pride.
Now, I'm all for reading, I think reading is kick ass. You're reading right now, and for that, I love you. Seriously, reading is totally great, and being good at reading is important. But is it really something to be proud of? It seems to me that as a kid I was only peripherally aware of so-called reading levels. I guess people made kind of a big deal out of it, but I just really didn't care. I never knew what level I read at, because I was more concerned with what I was reading.
After all, who cares how well a child can read if he goes on to read is fucking terrible? What if that little fucker goes on to read Twilight? Or anything by Dan Brown? Are you still going to be proud of that little dipshit? Your skill at reading is completely meaningless unless you can read something fucking decent.
It's all part of a very disturbing and disgusting trend developing in places of learning. Primary education has always been and will always be an utter waste of time, but this goes to something deeper. It seems the further we go, the more our schools want to do their best to protect children from accidentally learning something. The objective becomes not to actually learn, but to be able to pretend well enough to fake it. Lessons are not an experience, but an outline for what will be on the test. SAT training consists mostly of pattern recognition, even going so far as to identify what is statistically the most likely response should the student be completely stumped and need to outright guess. All of this to then find out that all these skills you've developed for beating the system you will never get a chance to use again. It's a bit like training to play basketball by memorizing the specifications of the court.
Not to mention how these supposed halls of knowledge consistently reward ignorance. You have grades where you either get a check, a check plus, or a check minus, and they're all pretty much the same thing. You put in some amount of effort, and no matter how small, it will be acknowledged. You have participation trophies, where everyone involved is a winner. You have student of the month awards that everybody has to win at least once. I remember they had this policy when I was in fifth grade, and because I was so rebellious against their bullshit, they almost didn't even give me one. Almost. The bastards didn't even have the balls to withhold their own meaningless award from me. And believe me, I made life hell for the administrators of that school, though that is a story for a different time.
And then we come to tonight, when I almost stormed out of my research methods class at ITT. The teacher was yelling at us because we hadn't managed to correctly interpret the cryptic syntax of his crazy description on the syllabus. We had each done the assignment to the best of the ability using common sense, but because it was missing one insignificant formatting element, he had a fucking conniption. So I started yelling back, that he didn't have a right to talk to us, a room full of adults who were in his class of our own agency, like we were naughty children. I would have walked out too, except that then he kind of relented, and tried to defuse the situation with a joke, and though it didn't really satisfy my complaint it made it kind of awkward for me to leave.
Then while driving home and still kind of seething about it, I saw that stupid fucking bumper sticker, and it seemed to sort of encapsulate everything. Because even though I hate that class and everything it stands for, I am still acing it effortlessly. I suppose when you set the bar so low that a one-legged dog could roll right over it, you feel justified in treating your students like children. I come from the first generation to witness the society-destroying horror of the participation trophy, but at least back then it was confined to the education system. Now it's starting to seep through into the real world, and that's scary. Are we setting ourselves up for a world where it doesn't matter whether or not you try, as long as you put in the time? I suppose you can argue that for most corporate workers, we're already there.
Damn it, trying matters! Don't you see that without doing our best, we're just going to have to settle for mediocre in every aspect of our lives? We're training an entire generation to just give up on what they believe in!
Oh, whatever. I don't care anymore.
Now, I'm all for reading, I think reading is kick ass. You're reading right now, and for that, I love you. Seriously, reading is totally great, and being good at reading is important. But is it really something to be proud of? It seems to me that as a kid I was only peripherally aware of so-called reading levels. I guess people made kind of a big deal out of it, but I just really didn't care. I never knew what level I read at, because I was more concerned with what I was reading.
After all, who cares how well a child can read if he goes on to read is fucking terrible? What if that little fucker goes on to read Twilight? Or anything by Dan Brown? Are you still going to be proud of that little dipshit? Your skill at reading is completely meaningless unless you can read something fucking decent.
It's all part of a very disturbing and disgusting trend developing in places of learning. Primary education has always been and will always be an utter waste of time, but this goes to something deeper. It seems the further we go, the more our schools want to do their best to protect children from accidentally learning something. The objective becomes not to actually learn, but to be able to pretend well enough to fake it. Lessons are not an experience, but an outline for what will be on the test. SAT training consists mostly of pattern recognition, even going so far as to identify what is statistically the most likely response should the student be completely stumped and need to outright guess. All of this to then find out that all these skills you've developed for beating the system you will never get a chance to use again. It's a bit like training to play basketball by memorizing the specifications of the court.
Not to mention how these supposed halls of knowledge consistently reward ignorance. You have grades where you either get a check, a check plus, or a check minus, and they're all pretty much the same thing. You put in some amount of effort, and no matter how small, it will be acknowledged. You have participation trophies, where everyone involved is a winner. You have student of the month awards that everybody has to win at least once. I remember they had this policy when I was in fifth grade, and because I was so rebellious against their bullshit, they almost didn't even give me one. Almost. The bastards didn't even have the balls to withhold their own meaningless award from me. And believe me, I made life hell for the administrators of that school, though that is a story for a different time.
And then we come to tonight, when I almost stormed out of my research methods class at ITT. The teacher was yelling at us because we hadn't managed to correctly interpret the cryptic syntax of his crazy description on the syllabus. We had each done the assignment to the best of the ability using common sense, but because it was missing one insignificant formatting element, he had a fucking conniption. So I started yelling back, that he didn't have a right to talk to us, a room full of adults who were in his class of our own agency, like we were naughty children. I would have walked out too, except that then he kind of relented, and tried to defuse the situation with a joke, and though it didn't really satisfy my complaint it made it kind of awkward for me to leave.
Then while driving home and still kind of seething about it, I saw that stupid fucking bumper sticker, and it seemed to sort of encapsulate everything. Because even though I hate that class and everything it stands for, I am still acing it effortlessly. I suppose when you set the bar so low that a one-legged dog could roll right over it, you feel justified in treating your students like children. I come from the first generation to witness the society-destroying horror of the participation trophy, but at least back then it was confined to the education system. Now it's starting to seep through into the real world, and that's scary. Are we setting ourselves up for a world where it doesn't matter whether or not you try, as long as you put in the time? I suppose you can argue that for most corporate workers, we're already there.
Damn it, trying matters! Don't you see that without doing our best, we're just going to have to settle for mediocre in every aspect of our lives? We're training an entire generation to just give up on what they believe in!
Oh, whatever. I don't care anymore.
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