I Moved Again

::Mandatory Preamble::
The events discussed in this moving journal relate to both moving and of tidings unfortunate. If you find yourself in a mood unprepared, or unwilling, to digest a spot of sadness then I recommend you put this down and come back later - at a time more suitable. I believe in laughter and make light, as much as possible, of events that are otherwise. I do this as a choice and not to be obnoxious (however, if you knew me as a 7 year old with a dinosaur jokebook you might easily believe that being obnoxious is second-nature). Finding something positive in things negative is what I try to do. So, this journal is dedicated to the notion: if it's not a comedy, you might still be able to salvage it as a dramady.
Oh, and of course... if you're happier to be without these e-mails then let me know and I can revise the mailing list. Conversely, if you haven't received this e-mail and would like to receive future messages I will be happy to amend the mailing list.

Things to Ponder...
When living Life, one has chance to ponder many things. Some things to ponder are frivolous, which is not to say unimportant: can I still eat tacos after they've been fire cooked; can I fit that whole cookie in my mouth, at once; Is buying a Nintendo Wii an acceptable expenditure after a break-up? Of course some things pondered bring to mind serious health risks or ring eerily of the lesser adventures of Scully and Mulder: what Is in my sink that, when dishes are left in it for a while, manages to Etch glass permanently? Should I be showering in the water that comes from the same source as the mysterious glass-etching sink water? Is it just the sink bacteria from dirty dishes left out longer than publicly acceptable that etches the glass of my dishware? Is that thing I just squished really a spider or is more like a light-armor plated tick crawling up my torso? Then, with any life, come the tasks for which there is no room to ponder and yet I find myself pondering upon anyway: Do I really have to start packing my apartment? Can't I train the boxes to pack and move themselves? Should I turn the gas utility on at my house before or after I move in? Invariably we find the answers to be roughly as we thought: no; yes; yes; no one knows because it seems to only happen to me; I'd rather not know but maybe someone reading this will have a better answer for me; see previous answer; armor-plated tick (I think); yes; no; before, if I want hot showers in my first week of moving. Then there are the questions of purpose and pedigree and other p's of portent: What is best in Life? I believe Conan said it best... To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women as you stuff whole cookies in your mouth. Nom nom nom...

Moving...

The first year of graduate school has ended and only one totally haiku e-mail was sent. Let us give thanks. Oh, first things first. I have moved. My new address is:

(my privacy clause in my blogger contract prohibits the releasing of this data...)

For those counting, this marks legal residence number 17 in as many years. My current nesting fantasies center around staying at one address for 2 years or more. Oh, and whenever I walk through certain sections of Target I can't help but think I need throw pillows for my futon. Throw pillows, really? In the middle of one of the very intense nesting urges I called a friend out in California for a little anti-shopping therapy. I don't need throw pillows. I truly do not. They serve no purpose. And yet I can't help admit that they sure would add a nice accent to the living room. Ugh... If you'r reading this, you may receive random calls from me asking for your assistance to guide me away from the "Home Interiors" section at Target. (my thanks for Mr. Mack's voicemail for being the first to take this hit)
But... back to the new house. The current location is ab-fab (minus the ants longer than my thumbnail and the abundance of spiders and the mowing). It's a two bedroom house with a garage, washer/dryer, central air, roof, driveway, clothesline (in olden days, that harken back to tymes when people visited ye olde shoppe and Dickens was a fast-paced novelist, people used to dry their clothes on long hemp-cords that hung outside of their homes where little sun-particles magically mated with the water particles causing them to leave my clothes), recycling, nicely painted walls, front AND back yards. It's a nice place, very homey. It's no larger than the previous apartment but it is free of domestic abuse neighbors, leathery-skinned old men driving lawnmowers attached to chairs, and the old landlord. Of course, there's the reduction in energy costs promised on this new home that make the move very appealing.

I moved about 3 weeks ago now. Most everything is still in boxes. Calculus (summer school) and my new Nintendo Wii seem to take some prime daily schedule real-estate.

After a Break-Up... If it's not a comedy, you might still be able to salvage it as a dramady.

Life after a break-up is complicated. This complication arises from the immediate lack of complications that are present when dating ends. Now I'm forced to find new ways to occupy my time. Did I mention calculus and the Wii? Putting Life back together after such a dramatic event finds me celebrating the little victories all over again. For instance, just the other day I folded my clothes. What else happens after a break-up?

Let me tell you about the virtues of random crying. First, your friends love it. Imagine a quiet Middle-Eastern bistro set to the peaceful backdrop of redneck central, with 4x4 dualie pick-up trucks growling blackened smoke from their custom dual exhaust pipes pointing up to the great fume absorption sponge in the sky, our ozone. Set in this bistro, where red sauce smells quite sharply of Chef Boyardee and the waitress has never played a game of Memory in her life, your friends will look upon your crying over a break-up as emotionally machismo and daring to brave the socially awkward gaps in conversation with random and scathing comments about engagement rings and commitment. Ne'er will your locally grown friends chide you for this behavior that was once thought to be girlish. This is a new time, and you're a new man breaking gender barriers at speeds greater than the sonic boom of the break-up itself. The woman's movement adores you for bringing a fresh blend of nambypambyism to today's modern male.
Oh, and you find spaces on your bed that you hadn't discovered since the last time you were single. Once again... the bed is the right size.

17m:36s of eau du grammont...
     A conversation with a supportive gramma is an ameliorating experience (thanks to Ms. Kubo  for helping me study those big words). When breaking up, much is in turmoil. Physical habits, day-to-day habits, emotional and even spiritual habits are altered or affected by the presence of someone, and then again through the immediate removal of that person's presence. Reminders of that time are everywhere and can sneak to the deepest feelings in our bodies; mine sneaks to the center of my chest. That feeling finds it way to the center. It takes root, and as alarm-clocks are irritating reminders that it is time to leave bliss, so too are those rooted feelings. Every altered habit triggers that alarm-clock. Every stupid song on the radio. It's so easy to learn sadness in a hyper-romantically-aware culture. There are two cures to these blues: 1) comedy (of the non-romantic nature) and 2) eau du grammont.
     When comedy is the cure, my antidotes are "The Lonely Island," "Lego Batman," and "Flight of the Concords." Be warned now... NO SONG on the Lonely Island album is safe for work (and that's one main reason it is hilarious) or safe for mother's or grandmothers. The second cure, seems to be 17minutes and 36seconds of Gramma.
     Sometimes a Gramma is just thing I need to pick me up when I'm feeling blue. I've tried, for a few days now, to find ways to best describe Gramma. Is it her voice, her grace, her general Southern charm all mixed with a hint of the frenetic and wild-eyed artist? It occurs to me then the best way to describe Gramma, aka. The G-Ster, is through food and charm. Imagine a Rube-Goldberg assembly-line contraption that starts with fresh pea-can pie (it's pronounced 'pecan' everywhere outside of Texas). Those pies roll over about 10 feet of airport baggage claim conveyor belt technology where they fall into a large glass distillery. The pea-can pies are smashed with large auxillary hammers and broken down into the smallest particulate construct of pea-can pie, the lesser pea-can pie measureing approximately pi centimeters across. Now the process requires the distillation of the lesser pea-can pie crumbs to the essence of gramma (or... eau du grammont). Add a Texas flag, one brick from the Alamo, and sugar cookies from the bakery at 2411 N. Zarsamora (in San Antonio). Combine these ingredients with the pea-can pie crumbs and voila. You have, in your hand (though I recommend you put it in a bottle first and the hold it because its a liquid and it'll get all over your hands and then people will wonder why you talk like my gramma and that would be a hard one to explain... trust me) eau du grammont. So, what that fantastically distracting metaphor alludes to is, though I'm sure it was totally obvious already, that I love Gramma. After 17 minutes and 36 seconds of talking to her, she made me feel like a million bucks. If you ever need a self-esteem boost, just call my Gramma (1-800-THATS-MY-GRAMMA). She'll hook you up yo.


It's Time to Put Those Things Aside...
I was going to take this space to write about an interesting, informative and hopefully inspirational conversation I had with a student a few months ago. He was failing my class through what appeared to be a practice of over-extending himself with a plethora of commitments. He was calling it quits on my class before the class itself ended. He hadn't taken the final, nor had the due-dates passed for several important assignments. He carried with him deep grief and regret about not doing more to excel in my class and apologized to me personally for his lackluster behavior. Shame and guilt were his companions and I could see them resting heavy on his brow. It saddened me to see this. Though I try not to be emotional with students, his guilt and his shame have very much been my own throughout much of my Life and so I could relate to his heavy head: guilt, regret and shame over heights not achieved and over hurt-feelings caused along the way. Because his companions are my companions too, I asked him if he might take the time to set aside shame and guilt. I asked this of him because I know that shame and guilt never solve a problem. They have never helped me pass a course and it was very clear they were not helping him. I told him that these feelings will always be there when he wants to visit them and that if he puts them down for a bit (to pass my class) he can puck them up again when the work is done. Nothing will be missing and nothing will be taken from him, not even shame and regret. So as I read the title of this section I think of the engagement ring that sits in a box, on a shelf. And I still don't know when the time will be to put that aside.

Now in Haikus

Hello everyone.

In an effort to thank you for your time and attention I believe it is necessary to reward the reader (that's you). Sometimes rewards come in the form of large, fat cash payouts sometimes in the size of $20million (US). Sometimes the rewards can be less extravagant. I've decided to stop writing your checks for $20 (US) and am instead changing the format of today's moving / grad school journal. I am writing today's journal in haiku form. I think you'll find that these autobiographical haikus are worth more than your checks for $2 (US). I think it best to keep in the tradition of the haiku format specifically as they relate to philosophical musings about nature and hardships. The haiku format gives a spiritual compass for the intended subjects by painting words with a broad brush providing you with the opportunity to ponder the minutiae minutae minuatia mininininin of the moment.




I journal maker
The writing esta bueno
Welcome to hiakus

Dodge Jeep strong like bull
Transmission of demon spawn
Vroom-vroom crash, tear drop

Chicago road trips
Windy skies and snowy fields
….ummm...
Enjoy this haiku

Teach computer class
Grades like ice flower in sky
Why students exist?

Apartment so cold
Why landlord no fix heater?
Tiny spring flower

I watch Olberman
Heat bill three hundred dollars
Tiny flower wilts

Landlord is missing
I see though he did one thing
Weather stripped screen door

I write graphics code
Artist is now code monkey
Hoar frost grows in ears

It’s now 2 a.m.
Code shimmers, waves like mirage
Damn the blue screen death

Hello Lafayette
Why hast thou forsaken me?
Die pretty flower

Spring Break with Girlfriend
School Conference with Free Travel
Crap.

Stands tall with presence
Kendo practice good for soul
Students now half off

Drip drop ceiling wet
Landlord make roofing repair
Fix ceiling later

Ceiling now have holes
Frozen air pours from baseboards
Where is sealing foam?

Must make finance books
Desperate blackness eats soul
Small flower is broke

“Zak and Dakota”
Bring old project into school
Can I have money?

Crazy professor
“That’s hard like hell!” says teacher
Rose blossom on leaf


Homework due Friday
Dear God, will it ever end?
Needs more horsepower

Mutter’s Apple Pie
Her Gramma bakes a fine treat
Word to yer Mutter

Thank You,
Andrew Britton

2008: A Year in Review

It's often best to get right to the point, to get right to the heart of the matter. Today's journal will get right to the heart of the matter through clear obfuscation. In short: I am a Japanese Power Ranger.
The holidays, the previous summer, and the semester's end have brought many confusions: learning statistics (wait till I tell you my final grade... hello nervous anticipation), navigating safe passage through Love, a first semester at University, moving to the Midwest, living again in the Midwest, The impermanent and vaguely unattainable Hope of Straight A's, two dead cats, one irritating police officer, random rudeness and the mistaken identity as a vagrant, an ill-professor and his extra workload, travel, grading, test-writing, students who beg, ailing automobiles, ill-timed NSF deadlines, money, self-identity inquiries and I-65.

4.0...
It is over. The semester hath ended. With an extreme fury - like that of Zeus fathering a child who turned out to be the illegitimate lustful offspring between Cronos, Boetis (a famed she-goat known for her in-depth knowledge of manual transmissions and all things relating to horse-power) and Elmus (a lesser Muppoid of the house Sesamete) - the semester wrought great havoc upon my Life. Last semester Severely harshed my mellow man. Through the thick and thin of it all I managed a feat previously unattainable by my mortal hands... for the first time ever, dating as far back 42 bce, I earned the famed, the coveted, the oft-sought and rarely discovered, the pinnacle for the house of reformed slackerdom, the non-trivial proof that maturity has finally latched its spindly tentacles into my cerebrainium... Yes... I say clearly to all who read this (thanks mom), I have, on record, as documented by the school of Purdue University, through no coercion or subterfuge of my own, and achieved, while maintaining academic integrity, a 4.0 for the semester.
Thank You.

Two Dead Cats...
Lafayette will always be a bizarre place for me. I feel very much as an alien in visit. I observe, make judgements and generally avoid too much interaction. It's not as if I'm anti-social. No one around here would claim that of me. It's more that I hope to make this visit impermanent. Y'know, so it won't be permanent. Last semester greeted me with a plethora of surprises, some of those surprises were even welcome. Of the set of welcome surprises, the two dead cats are not included. The first little kitty I found in the dumpster behind my apartment. It lay motionless inside a plastic grocery bag. Angry and very upset, I called non-emergency police. I wanted to know about the legality of leaving a cat in a bag in a dumpster. This seemed illegal. After inquiring with the police operator I was informed that if the cat has passed then "What else is someone supposed to do with it?" To be fair, she did inquire with others to ascertain the legality of this practice. She also informed me that this is one way people get rid of their dead cats. It's very sad to think this is what's become of a cat. I was hoping that maybe the cat would be buried or taken to the vet.
A few months later, I found another cat. This one lay in the street. I pulled it out of the street and onto the curb to keep it from getting run over.

Money? Ha! I'm a grad student now...
Status report... The car: The transmission dies slowly. By the end of last semester it began slipping gears and starting in 2nd. $2200 to rebuild. Monthly electricity costs: November electric bill - $270, December electric bill - $370. The transmission rebuild is being stalled until such time as I can find $2200, not on credit. However, the power bills did have to be paid. What was the landlord's reaction to the electric bills? "That sucks man. I know how it feels. I have $400 in power bills at my house." Maybe, dear landlord, you'd like to look around and see what could be done? "Well, I really don't know what we can do. I guess we can put a piece of insulation that covers your side door." That will be better than nothing. At this time the doors are so poorly spaced from their frames that cold air pours into the apartment. In the beginning of February I'll investigate why my feet are cold when I'm in the office. I will also be amazed, in February, when my power bill for January will $330 while running 3 of 5 of the apartment's baseboard heaters. The bathroom and bedroom heaters will be turned off. By this time in December though, I am sleeping on the floor of my living room because the bedroom is too cold, even with the heater turned on.

Back to the Present Past of December 2008...
Christmas vacation ended. Mom was decorating the house with maroon swatches of fake flowers. In the final moments of said decoration, I jumped at the middle son's obligation to ally a 5 year old's obnoxious sense of humor with a mother's words misconstrued. She, telling the room that had her father fought for the Japanese during WWII (and not the Americans) AND had she been trained in flower arranging then she might have been a Japanese flower arranger. And Me, acting 26 years beneath my physical age and perhaps 2 less then my mental age, asking if my mom was a Japanese Power Ranger.

ps...
I got a 4.0 GPA last semester. That was awesome. And, to be clear... My mom would make an excellent Red Power Ranger. Her martial arts knowledge merging with her legal acumen would thereby produce her own style: Kung Sue.

Tacos en el Fuego

This nugget of my culinary acumen is shared because... it is ludicrous. And... as always, if these messages make it through your spam filter and you wish they hadn't, please send $10 restocking fee and a letter to my editor and these e-mails will cease.


Cooking fire...
I enjoy cooking. It brings joy. It is creative and it involves eating. I like eating. Cooking can also be fun when the entrees are given ridiculous names like: Criminally Insane Cashew Chicken or Murder & Mayhem Mongolian Beef. Dishes of such distinguished names are, in my experience, best tasted with a similar visual palette... in front of the TV watching Alfred Hitchcock or "Thriller" (an old hour long thriller, suspense show).

So the other night, I'm trying to prepare a meal. I'll not lie and try to tell you that it was a nice meal. Specifically, it was leftovers: tacos, taco shells, reheated re-fried beans, Mexican rice and broccoli. It went down well the first time I cooked it, so I figured the reheating would do similarly as well. Oh, I forgot the corn-bread. I was busy though so I thought... I'll just reheat everything together. I put the taco meat, the corn bread, the beans & broccoli and the shells all on the same cookie sheet, slid it on the top rack of the oven and set the broiler on High, y'know... to speed things up. I came back to the oven in a few minutes smelling the food from the other room. I approached the oven to to begin feeding my belly and noticedI left the oven light on... or had I?

In a culinary move, straight from the ramen-noodled pages of my undergraduate years, the soul of my food danced in ignition as it moved beyond the corporeal world and into the great beyond, ashes to ashes and tacos to dust. The People's Exhibit A & B provides all the evidence you need to pass judgement on this cooking maverick who buzzed the culinary tower one too many times. In short.. I set my food on fire. The taco shells were burning something wicked as everything else was reaching a nice warming point. I'm a guy... so I acted quickly in the following manner to extinguish the fire:

1. Assess the true danger of the situation.
1. The fire was inside the oven... I'm all good.
   
2. Slide the top rack out a little to get a better look at the fire
3. Nod my head slowly and grin widely in clear appreciation
4. Think to myself... "I should put the fire out.... but NOT before I get a picture."
5. Take a picture of the fire
6. E-mail said picture to girlfriend.
7. Fill cup with water
8. Throw water on burning taco shells
1. Try again... because those taco shells were really burning
9. Take a picture of the ashes and e-mail that as well.
10. Try to eat what wasn't burned
1. Realize, after biting into it, that all other food is soggy from water
11. Order pizza

Matilda

::Preamble::

Oh, this is not a funny story, nor is it particularly light and airy. Nor is it short. So, read when you're ready. This is one of those emotional, personal, life kind of stories. The story, I believe, has a solid flow and is not told poorly. It might even be well written.To be honest, I quite like it. But… you are a committed reader, or a benevolent reader at the least, so I feel it honest to warn you. Don't worry though, I've got a stock of good funnies coming up in the journal rotation, including a cop story and a spilled popcorn story. So, get some coffee and dive right in… or come back later, when it's raining, and the power's out... or wait for the funny ones.

     My next story is of a student. I fine young lad, who will be successful. His name is Matilda, at least it is here, in this story. I couldn't actually use this real name, and using a masculine name would be too close to the truth, so close I dare not even venture a mock boy's name. Because of this Matilda is a code name. It's top secret. Please tell no one. Not even yourself. You are suspect. Also… Please understand, I am terrible with verbatim memorization. And this story recreates dialogue, a story format that uh, necessitates verbatimism. I'm sorry. All you'll get here is good-enoughism and that'saboutrightism. To me, Shakespeare could just as easily have written the following: "Hey Juliet! Where'd you go?" "I'm over here by the jealous moon." "Oh you sexy vixen… can I come up? I've got a pizza." I assure you the emotion and intentions are real. The names have been changed to protect the innocent and the words have been changed, because, just because.

::Of Matilda::

Matilda is a man, a young man, a little misdirected in earnest efforts. I know this because this describes my youth exactly. I am happy to be teaching because it produces many opportunities. One opportunity is to be bigger or more than I was the day before. In what my be at first random, I've been wondering lately about a certain phrase that pops into my head: Integrity without Compassion is Fascism. It is a bold statement, very black and white, no wiggle room, and perhaps without compassion. Nonetheless it is a concept that's been invading my mind for weeks. It is this reminder that keeps me from yelling at privileged, under-age Neanderthals in my classes when they act like extreme blockheads. I'll bet you money that you've experienced someone so stuck to rules and process that even minor deviations are met with great and swift repercussions. I connect this idea with a short conversation I had with Matilda last week, and in this connection I am only vaguely aware of the connections whose existence I pondered upon only sentences ago.

Matilda is a student like many others. He shows up late. He is talented and kind. His work suffers because of forgetfulness or priorities placed elsewhere. This forgetfulness and else-placed prioritization is, of course, accompanied by apologies, sullen looks and slouchy head, as a dog knows he's wrong in chewing but chews regardless. In essence, Matilda is guilty of youthful numbskullery. Bless his heart for yearning and searching for answers to questions he may not even be aware he's asking. Matilda is better than his performance. Many times I wanted to tell him this, to lay the heavy hand of tough Love on his metaphorical backside and lay a spin of bruises that would whip him into shape. This is a dramatic tactic and, I've found, is best saved for last case scenarios. Besides, artists respond easier to lighter touches, as a blade of grass may eventually break a foundation but a swift punch may leave a brick laughing. Matilda is struggling with something and I believe, upon further reflection, he is struggling to find his place in the world. He wants to be bigger than he is. Bless his heart for taking on the struggle of growth. It is a choice and I applaud it. The rest of this paragraph was to be filled with a short history of me, as a student. I depart from this paragraph with this thought. I know Matilda now because I know myself from before. I see in him nothing I haven't seen in myself. Sometimes it is impossible to see someone else if you don't see yourself there first.

::To Avoid Hypocrisy::
After multiple irritations, of tardiness and absent work, I ask to see him after class.

"Am I in trouble Mr. Britton?" Mister Britton… I love it.

"Yes."

"Yeah. I thought so." We walked to my office, perhaps 40 feet down sterile walls, past vending machines on the left, reception on the right, through a keycard door and into my shared grad t/a office. I want him to perform well in my class and because he's under achieving it felt very natural to give him the riot act, make myself an example of what happens when you try a little bit. But, I could never have pulled that off with a straight face. Me? a good student? preaching to someone else about being a poor student? Yeah... I am the black kettle.

"So, what's up man?" says Mr. Britton (that's me).
"Well, you know, I've got a lot of classes, my 253 and 209 classes are killing me. I haven't slept in like days. You know how it is."
"Hmmm. I hear ya..." Processing... thinking... Something's missing...

"But what's up? You've missed a few classes, missed a few assignments, you've expressed a lazy interest in just passing the course... what's up?"
He half-heartedly back-pedals regarding previous remarks. It is important to maintain calmness when someone displays weakness or vulnerability. These are sensitive seconds and minutes. Credibility is made by inches, or destroyed by miles. For a sentence, he explains that it is not as I had heard. Cool. And then, because the mood was right, the planets aligned, or someone on Main street wore purple, I went right to the heart of the problem. Without duress, but instead with care and concern... "You know, your arrogance is getting in your way. I know you. I know how you work. You are very smart. You are, well, smarter than most people around you."
"Well, that's what I like to tell myself anyway." His slightly confident shrug, hides and shows a stronger belief in his intelligence than the passing acceptance of this last shrug's performance.
"Well, you are and you know it. That's the problem." And, truly he is.

Silence. A serious demeanor falls. The cloudy, overcast look of someone lost in thought, searching the floor, thinking through forced sighs. A head nod, as if coming to believe what is happening. He looks up, at me.
"Wow... we just met and you already saw that. Only one other person has and that was last semester. And she's known me for a while longer." I pass over the chance to gloat. That will come later… like in this story.
"Yeah. You are, and the problem here is that your behavior here is keeping you from what you really want. You are getting in the way of yourself. You keep yourself from the goals in Life that you want because of this behavior. You are going to be successful. I've been teaching for enough years to know who will be. You have all the makings. You are more sociable than your peers. You're smarter. But you've got this thing in your way, that's holding you back, and right now it's pretty big."

Again silence, processing, the wheels of the hamster cage turn faster, the sugar burns hotter, the blinky lights inside his brain blink faster. Matilda turns to me again.

"I'm gonna tell you something I've told no one else, something that my friends don't even know." And he did. He told me. He believes his nasty secret is nasty. And it is nasty, because he never let it out. The secret he told me, not at all nasty, not surprising, not alarming, was not worth remembering save that he told me in confidence. The guilt and shame… that's the nasty part. But in our meeting, he let it out. He let his nasty secret breath a little fresh air, and the nastiness died a little bit.

"Well, the first place you might want to look is at forgiving yourself."

"But I can't."

"I know. You're not supposed to know how yet. If you did, we wouldn't be here…Come and visit me again if you still can't figure out how."

His chin has started quivering. It vibrated near furiously as a leaf on a stormy tree. He looked down, arms folded, held close. Then he looked up and stared at the ceiling. He is brave because he is feeling.  "…But you do that, and you can move forward. You'll take time and figure it out."
He looks me in the eye, his eyes doughy, soft, guilty and alive. "So now what?"

"Well, you have a habit that's getting in your way. We've gotta work on that." Though I can't remember, and I think it's important, if I said "we've" or "you've."

"Okay. I promise I'll do better."

"No. Don't promise me that. Don't make me any promises you can't keep right now. You have an old habit of arrogance. It won't go away so quickly."

"Well what do I do?"

"First, you take a look at it. You watch it. You watch where it impacts you. You watch where it shows up. Record and observe how it controls your decisions. First you do that."

::Pyrrhic Memories::

From the well of memories of bittersweet accomplishments, Pyrrhic victories, and losses, I made a guarantee to my friend.

"As per your arrogance, I guarantee that humility will be your best friend. Your arrogance tells you that you are the best and because you think you are the best, you don't try, don't excel. Humility will always remind you that someone else may be better, that there is always room to grow. When someone is better than you: admire their work and ask how they did it. Be humble and you will be great."

"Do you really think so?"

"I make you this promise because it is how I grow, because I had to find it myself."

Men are not typically the type to burst into tears in front of another of the same gender. We don't need to be. It can be said that we're out of touch emotionally, that we're stoic. But I think we have a limbic understanding of each other. This meeting was no different. Matilda pulled himself together. Thanked me for my time, asked a few questions about class, renewed himself with vigor and lightness, shook my hand – twice – and then walked out into the world of his business.

It is a story of personal penitence because my childhood is filled with comedic, and tragic, memories of selling myself short, especially in the area of academia.

Red Ink

Yes it is time. The time hath cometh. It arriveth from on the educathional higheth. Yesterday, I graded quizzes... with a red ink pen.
The professor, that I teach for, and I have weekly meetings to discuss the happenings of class. Our conversations are not journal note-worthy. As our meeting, wherein he nonchalantly handed over a non-negligible piece of computing equipment, wound down to a close and I walked out of his office. Just on the threshold of ear-shot,  he shouted out into the hall, "Hey!" Oh man... I was thinking he wanted his cool toy back. But no... it was worse than that. He handed a small forest worth of papers, heavy and rigidly floppy as all large bundles of paper seem to be. "Here, I want you to grade these. I gave them quizzes today." Egads!!"
    I graded 69 of them, multiple choice, 10 questions, a total of 4 lab sections were graded... with a red ink pen.  I believe it is important to use a red ink pen when grading quizzes. It shows up immediately. It instills a little fear. If red is the color of violence, then it should subliminally say: "If you miss this question again, then some form of abstract violence will befall you, or near you. So next time you miss this question, don't think a horde of undead and drunken pirates won't scallywag their way into your hidden loot at home, or lop off an extra leg in the night and leave you with a peg-leg - a dirty, dirty peg-leg (note: it would help me a great deal if you would tell your children this so that when I am eventually their teacher then the whole fear of red ink markings on quizzes will be substantiated by credible sources - you, their parents)."
     The quiz grades were poor, after creating a distribution diagram in the form of a histogram (which we all know is far better than a stemplot, stupid stemplot) I realized that the median grade was 5/10 and that most of the class scored below a 5. I knew this as I was grading. Seeing low score after low score I knew the overall grades were going to be "a touch bleak" (as I explained it to the professor). I felt like that teacher in A Christmas Story. With every successive grade my rantings grew more furious, my pen strokes more cutting, the pages themselves bleeding a 20¢ Bic red over the once living testament to nature's ingenuity, now cut, mashed, pulped, stamped and pressed into a flexible paper slate upon which the wrath of the mighty red ink pen burns out injustice with 'minus one point' and 'please read both pages of a quiz.' It was a slaughter... Laying upon the battlefield of Quiz 1, were the broken corpses of quiz papers whose sole commanding officers must have been out drinking the night before, or laughing, or clearly enjoying their Life on this planet instead of studying. Fear not frail reader, should the burden of such educational shame imbue you with darkened forebodings about the future of education in America, and indeed all the world, do know that there were a few stalwart students who clearly skewed the bell curve. One student scored a perfect grade. So please, dry your eyes, our future rests in his continued studying of raster graphics.

Overall Score
--------------------------
Red Ink Pen - 1.
Students - 0.

Oh, and I would be remiss to not give the statistics of the grades. But it's late and I am remiss.
Sleep well.

Andrew

First Day of School (Almost)

Infallible, Statistical Logic...
A common symptom of stress is hair loss. Approximately 42% of all people who undergo dramatic Life changes experience some form of increased hair loss. It leads me to wonder if some balding people just have more stress. Okay, I didn't actually wonder that, I just wanted to fill some space... y'know, to make this journal entry that much more impressive; in case an index of impressiveness exists that can be quantified and calculated by the length of one's rhetoric, necessary or not. Should this measurement for literary impressiveness exist, then surely Melville, and Dickens are Extraordinarily impressive. Haikus... sadly... not so impressive. The Warren Report, IRS Tax Code and the OED... impressive. Perhaps in looking for more examples, humorous to be sure, of impressive literature I have lost more hair at a rapid rate.
What is interesting to note is that I've undergone a few of these great Life events: quitting a job, moving across the country, starting two new jobs (research assistant and teaching assistant), finding new Love, starting school, testing milk for possible spoilage and missing the laundry mat operating hours by 3 minutes (my clothes are STANK!). So... if we multiply 42 by each entry in this list we get... (seven times forty is two hundred and eighty plus fourteen equals two hundred and ninety four) 294. I've lost 294% percent of my hair in the past 3 months. I wonder what my stat professor would say to that?

So many updates!! So much has happened in three weeks of class! To address some of the more memorable issues, here's a fast paced list complete with whatever it is I can remember at midnight on a school night:
...
...

Right... well I'm sure more than that has happened. I guess the sleepy bugs have worked their ways into my eyes and are settling down for the night, whispering soft ZZZzzzz's into my ears as they nod off, reminding me that I too should nod off.

I could leave you with one story before I am too tired too think it would be a small description of my students. God bless them. Their collective summation of: inane babbling, whiny accusations, intent study, self-love (more aligned with Narcissus and less with a graphic, if common, practice), near heraldic attempts at underachieving, repetitive questions, obvious talent, obvious lack of talent, misplaced intelligence and befuddled strides toward growing up, all remind me that I am in the right place, that teaching is where I belong. And for the natures of their complete personages hidden beneath the bars of undisclosed self-discovery, I am truly thankful.

I have a Student...
He's a good looking fellow. And... He knows it. His in class projects somehow manifest themselves around his bare-chested visages thrashing on the ax, or wailing on the drums. He, as far as I can see, truly loves how he looks. In one photoshop project, he has created a rock band where he is playing every instrument and only one of him has a shirt on. To be fair... one of their assignments was to put multiples of themselves into an image and make it look natural. I guess what is not natural here is the obvious flexing for the camera and relish at his demeanor. I don't fault the guy. He seems genuinely inspired by what he has, not happy necessarily because that implies a level of gratitude or humility. This young lad is definitely more inspired. It is uncommon these days for someone to have such self-esteem in their looks. The images though... they are funny.

The Monies...
Oh... status report. Monetarily speaking... graduate school is NOT the place to collect large sums of cash and live Life as ghetto fab or ludicrously luxurious. Through the continuously favored efforts of large bureaucratic machinations, I am now not receiving the initially agreed upon loan amount that I was expecting. In short, two of my student loans were dropped.
Contemplate, if you will, a place where sight and sound have no meaning, where $20,000 in student loans disappear. You are in... The Department of Financial Services Zone!!!!

More on that... when time permits.

- Andrew Britton
Rolling with the Punches, and Punching some of the Rolls.