Alphabetically, Raccoon Comes Before Racism

There was so much racism on the internet this morning that I started looking at pictures of baby animals. There are lots of racist idiots out there and when I read about what they’re saying and doing, I just can’t even. I felt a bit sick. The complimentary hotel sausages may have contributed too. I’m now sitting in a crappy hotel room, drinking crappy hotel coffee, on a beautiful Florida morning when I could be out enjoying the beach, asking myself whether or not to write yet another blog about yet another bigoted idiot I just read about on the internet. I decided to write about baby animals then head to the beach for some blanket bingo. (Did they ever actually play bingo in that movie or was the whole thing just a metaphor for Annette Funicello’s boobs?)

I met my first Florida raccoon yesterday. She seemed like the adventurous type: out and about in broad daylight, collecting garbage for the treehouse pantry.  Raccoon mamas are some of my sentimental favorites so I was pleased to see them thriving here in the subtropical sunshine. Is Florida considered subtropical or tropical? I’m not sure—I’ll have to Google that. Anyway, there are apparently mama raccoons here that enjoy the heat and humidity as much as I do. Also, don’t make me explain why seeing raccoons during the day is not an indicator of rabies. Here’s a hint: it’s spring and mama has some hungry little cubs. Baby raccoons are called cubs.

Baby rats are called pinkies, which is simultaneously adorable and makes them sound like they look like your naked little toes, which they probably do. I learned this as I was confirming via the internet that raccoon babies are indeed called cubs. Rat was alphabetically after raccoon on the list I checked. I am trying to think of an animal that exists in the world that would be between raccoon and rat alphabetically. If I think of one I’ll let you know.  Racism is between raccoon and rat, which is unfortunate because I’d rather encounter a rat than a racist. I don’t know what a baby racist is called.

You know what else has cubs? Polar bears. I watched a documentary about polar bear cubs and their mothers recently. It was narrated by David Tennant, and since I am used to his Dr. Who voice, his actual Scottish brogue made it sound like he was talking baby talk about the polar bears the whole time. Why am I telling you about animals? Because racism sucks and I am so sick to death of seeing bigotry everywhere. Sadly, the news about polar bears isn’t much better. They’re drowning and starving because we’re melting their ice shelf with our global wahoo. Stupid humans.

There are some smarter humans around here. I saw a sea turtle nest on the beach yesterday. The turtle had dug a big hole, laid her eggs, and buried them in a pile of sand. Then some good humans came along and put stakes in the sand all around the hole with signs on them notifying people to protect the turtle’s nest by leaving it alone. It was a crowded beach but everyone had given the nest a wide berth. Maybe there’s hope for some of us. One thing is certain, some animals (like the raccoon) thrive under stupid human conditions by making themselves at home in our cities and eating our garbage, while others are just trying to survive extinction.  

In summation, Florida is subtropical, radiated tortoise babies are called hatchlings, and I’d like to “alphabetize” all the racist humans. That’s a euphemism. There are some animals we don’t want to breed.

The Worst Part of Traveling is the Traveling Part

People in airports are weird. There’s a dude here who looks like Blaine (his name is Blaine!?) from Pretty in Pink. Okay, he actually looks more like James Spader than the other guy (Andrew McCarthy?) but he’s wearing an outfit that would make 1980s yuppies proud. Also, a woman just walked by me wearing furry house slippers. I mean, I understand wanting to get through security quickly but really, flip flops are more traditional. Traveling is a very disturbing process, mostly because of all the weirdos. For example there’s a bizarre woman at this gate writing a blog on a beat-up laptop, and her hair is sticking straight up in the world’s most awkward faux-hawk. For those just joining us, I’m being self-referential.

Flying isn’t my favorite mode of long distance travel. It’s not my least favorite either. If I were to rank it, I would put it slightly behind “riding in the back seat of the full sized SUV my dad is driving” and just ahead of “school bus over-capacity with unwashed soldiers in full battle rattle.”  My favorite mode of travel is probably driving myself. I like to drive; it’s why I was a truck driver in the Army. I’d almost always rather drive than fly. That way I get to be in control and I can see some sights. My window seat on the flight I just got off had a charming view of one of the jets. I it was perfect for heeding my friend’s warning to watch for gremlins ripping up the engine. I’m glad to report no mischievous creatures hampered the flight or my sanity.

My seat for the flight was the very last one. Seriously, 32F: my back was against the toilet. I was dead last getting off the plane. That wasn’t a big deal, but I really had to find a bathroom by the time I got to the terminal. I think that’s why I prefer to drive myself: The bathroom breaks are at my discretion, rather than at the convenience of two sleeping people in an extra narrow row that seemed like a hastily planned after-market add on to cram more people on an already full plane rather than part of the aircraft’s original design.

Being at my “final destination” (what a disturbing portent of a phrase) is what I actually love about traveling. Exploring new locations, eating local food, meeting new and friendly cats—I love it. There was a tiny orange tiger kitten on the airplane. Judging by his vocal dismay, I don’t think he likes flying that much either. He was adorable though. Definitely less annoying than the twenty-something in the seat next to me who kept coughing and blowing her nose through the whole flight. She did not seem familiar with either cough drops or hand sanitizer. If I start coughing in a few days, we’ll know who to blame. Also, she was reading a posthumously published Michael Crichton book so her credibility was already suspect.

In summation, food at the DFW airport is terrible but I found the best Vietnamese restaurant for dinner last night only a few blocks from my hotel. It was a good sign that the Vietnamese owner’s family and friends were all eating there.

False Data: Pie Charts Are Not Made of Pie

I’ve got a question for you: What can false data teach us? I know what you’re thinking: This is like a set-up, right? False data is false and teaches us nothing. But you’d be wrong, because everything has a lesson. That’s the teacher in me talking. Also, “everyone is an example, sometimes the example is bad” and “there are no stupid questions.” Actually, I would never say that. There are a lot of stupid questions. It’s why there is a syllabus. The main thing false data can teach us is that anything can be justified with numbers, even when the numbers are totally made up. This is true for 99% of data collected from universities and 9 out of 10 professors agree.

False data persists throughout the world, and is ever-present in media and news, unsurprisingly. I mean, there’s a solid reason why professors don’t let you use Wikipedia as a source in your research essay. Unfortunately, false data is being used as though it were real data in other, more insidious places. Today’s fake data comes to you from the halls of education.

I’m not talking about the badly sourced student paper that quotes a crowd-written, online encyclopedia verbatim, I’m talking about actual quantitative information gathered by scholars in order to either prove a thesis or rationalize funding. (And to be clear, I’m not talking about all scholars and data, so don’t get your academic undies in a bunch.) But it happens all the time, and it’s incredibly easy to come up with false data and then turn it into a fancy, eye-catching data-display that looks totally legit. Let me give you an example.

The state I live in has made up some silly laws that suggest our students’ learning at state educational facilities (i.e. the state universities) can be adequately and accurately plotted using quantitative data. Well, that’s not only ridiculous, it’s logistically nightmarish. Why? Because you can’t tell how much a student has learned based on one grade on one assignment, which is the only data the state is collecting, charting in Excel, and presenting with PowerPoints to idiot politicians who are looking to vote professors off of the higher ed island. Seriously, how will a single point of data demonstrate the occurrence of learning for students? Sure, if you collect enough of these points, you have a lot of data. But is it useful data? I guess it may prove that this state is full of average people. The bell curve is called that for a reason.

So what can false data teach us? Well, it can teach us that data used in government is typically a waste of time for just about everyone. The teachers at the class level waste time “collecting” this data, which by the way, is extra work for already exhausted instructors at the end of the semester. If instructors forget to submit this extra work, it can be easily fabricated to cut corners. Did I mention the part where the data itself is easily made up? Because that’s kind of important. I’m not saying that data is being made up for certain, but I am saying it’s easy to do. Someone in the chain of command has a stake in making sure enough data has been collected to make the Excel file look full when it’s presented to the higher-ups. The weakest link here is reliance on numerical data as representative of the complex and impossible-to-quantify concept of learning, which may or may not be faked. Also, this is why grading sucks. Did learning occur? Half the class got C’s so . . . yes? C’s get degrees.

But, it’s this data—fabricated, refined, massaged, misrepresented, turned into brightly colored pie charts—that is part of how the state determines who gets money. Because clearly, the better your pie chart is, the more deserving of new stadium seats you are. Mmmm . . . pie chart. This is the downside of bureaucracy. I’m not sure what the upside is. Perhaps it’s that I don’t have to personally arrange for the waxing of my office floor.

I haven’t even gotten to the false data present in all sorts of other government documentation upon which our great nation was founded, but rest assured, it’s there. Statistics aren’t neutral, and trusting that some numbers in a chart can tell us whether what we are doing is working is a terrible plan for education. That said, however, I’m not sure how to provide oversight in a more qualitative way. I’m sure the dirty word “socialism” is part of the answer. My bad language here just raised the rating on this blog from PG to PG-13.

In summation, false data teaches us that bureaucrats like pie.

Used Laptop: $100 – Contented Baby: Priceless

I am troubled by the fragility of the human condition today. Between the incident of a friend having his car broken into and laptop stolen to the story I read of a week-old baby being nursed by someone who was not her mother after her mother was not able to feed her, I just feel linked to other humans by a delicate thread of unpredictability and the knowledge that there are bad deeds and good ones happening all the time and there’s no telling which ones we’ll encounter on any given day. Just a heads up: It is a rainy, overcast day and I’m waxing philosophical.

In the past, I’ve spent weeks or months (maybe even a bad year) isolating in my house, mostly as a result of clinical depression and lack of social support, and what I’ve discovered is that you don’t experience all that much social interaction of any kind. I avoided a lot of the bad interactions because I wasn’t interacting at all. But not much good took place either. Being part of the world means taking the bad with the good I guess.

I found myself thinking about the thief who smashed my friend’s car window to steal his laptop: Was he/she a drug addict in need of money? Honestly, that’s the only plausible scenario I can think of. Drug addiction breeds desperation and addicts take actions they both justify and regret in order to feed their habits. I have pity for this mystery thief even as I dislike this person for being a turd of a human being.

My friend reports that a neighbor’s car was also broken into and had a guitar stolen. The thief did not want a guitar and a laptop. The thief wanted money. At some point, the thief made a choice that his/her only option was to break into cars and pawn whatever expensive items could be carried away. Guitars and laptops are easily sellable items. Don’t ask me how I know this. Breaking car windows goes beyond casual thievery and gets into the realm of desperation. Casual thieves might take something from an unlocked vehicle but it takes someone desperate to smash a window. It takes planning, premeditation. You need tools. (Have you ever tried to smash a car window? You can’t do it with your fist.) So at some point, this thief decided a good career choice was smashing car windows and grabbing expensive stuff from them for resale. This person has steeled him/herself against the guilt and shame of resorting to this means of getting money. Or this person is a sociopath. I am choosing to regard this person with pity instead of anger and fear. But I can emotionally afford to do that: It wasn’t my car.

The pendulum of humanity had me swinging both ways this morning. My detached pity for the car thief was quickly replaced by detached empathy for helpless mother with a hungry, crying newborn and no food to give it. Fortunately, she was assisted by another mother who suckled the starving infant. You totally want to read about the woman nursing a stranger’s baby. I don’t usually go in for the pathos-driven stories of babies and mothers, especially on Huffington Post (with no offense to Arianna Huffington, a fascinating individual about whom I will write more another time) but this story was different because it was less about the mom and baby and much more about humans helping out their fellow humans without concern for stupid cultural stigmas that might keep them from reaching out to someone in need. It made me a little teary. Good lord, I’m full of feels today. Ugh. What happened to my snark? I’m snarkless.

 In summation, in all sincerity, here’s hoping today is full of contentedly suckling babies and empty of smash and grab thieves. 

There’s a First Time for Everything: I Have Test Anxiety

The going rate for tutoring students in writing using my Ph.D. in rhetoric is 12 bucks an hour. Yep. That’s what I’m worth on the open market. Apparently, the ability to write well is not that valuable.  In fairness, $12 an hour is more than the federal minimum wage, so there’s that. And it beats working at Wal-Mart during December, I guess. The kicker? I have to prove that I’m good enough to do the job. By taking a test. I thought having a Ph.D. meant I was the one who gave the tests.

I am in the middle of taking this test right now. I must demonstrate my ability to provide useful, adequate feedback to students on essays for the going rate of $12 an hour. The test student is named “Ed” and he is a jerk. In his request for assistance he wrote “this assignment is stupid” and the essay he submitted, which had a four page requirement, was less than two pages long. It’s no surprise that the testing facilitators would want to provide a poor student example for their tutor testing, but really: If Ed is typical of the students they have, I am struggling to understand who’s paying for the (admittedly cheap) tutoring and what that mystery benefactor hopes Ed will learn. I am also struggling to understand what the testing agency hopes to learn from my responses to Ed. I suspect it is to see whether or not I will ignore all of Ed’s stupid comments. Also, best sample name they could come up with was “Ed.”

Should I tell Ed he’s a dumbass and will probably fail English? Should I tell Ed that the novel he is analyzing was a satire and his literal interpretation is, shall we say, a bit off the mark? Should I tell Ed his mother/father/guardian/sugar daddy is wasting his/her money on the tutoring service? I am pretty sure this is not what the testers’ expectations are. The problem is, their expectations for the test were not stated. It isn’t clear what they’re looking for in a $12 tutor. Well, except that they want cheap labor.

I am actually really good at tests. I’m good at school generally. It’s why I stayed in for so long. I found it enjoyable—fun even. But this test is not that fun. The problem isn’t with Ed —he’s fictitious—the problem is that the test has not provided any explanation of the level of feedback they want me to give. There isn’t any information on how much a tutor would know about the student, the class, or the specific assignment. I don’t even know if Ed is in high school or if he’s actually a college student. Can I tell Ed to ask his instructor for clarification on some of his questions? If I was Ed’s instructor, I would give him a disappointed frowning face and tell him to look at the syllabus. Also, Ed needs a dictionary. No, the problem isn't Ed; the problem is the test. Which I should probably finish taking.

[Pause for musical interlude. Imagine the acoustic version of “Monday, Monday” is playing.]

I think I blew it. I did adequate prep for part one but it turns out there was a part two that I was not aware of. Ed had a classmate, Ellie. Ellie is a much better student than Ed but I was sick of the test by that point and basically told her to “fix the errors” because that’s helpful feedback. I’m done with these students already this semester and they’re completely made up. I wonder how closely the test mimics the actual job. The real reason I’ve felt so anxious about this test is because I’m worried I might succeed. What if they actually offer me the job? That’s a terrifying thought.

In summation, $12 an hour hardly seems worth all the test anxiety I just endured. I will probably never get my student loans paid off. I wonder if Wal-Mart has a tutoring department.

More Fallacies of Argument: Taking a Guilt Trip

We’ve all seen them in our Facebook feeds: a pathos-ridden comment about a kid with cancer or a note about an Iraq veteran living on the streets with a photo of the kid, the vet, or more likely a tree or other unrelated nature image. The image is then followed by the guilt tripping phrase “99% of you won’t repost” because nothing says “help the suffering” more than free-floating guilt. Now, there’s nothing wrong with sharing inspirational posts about kids triumphing over diseases or concern about treatment of war vets—in fact both of those things are important social issues. The annoying bit of beef stuck in my craw is the little sliver of bone called the guilt trip. Fine, share your pathos, but skip the repost shaming: I am not a bad human if I don’t have the time to share your social media tripe. I have to go help out at the Red Cross disaster relief site.

Such posts make use of a type of fallacious argument known as the overly sentimental appeal.  As a concerned citizen and conscientious Ph.D. in rhetoric I am obligated to point out fallacies when I see them. It’s in the fine print of my diploma. This is not the first time I’ve discussed types of fallacious arguments. In fact, once I get through ten or twelve more of these, I’m going turn the whole list into a PowerPoint and start up a lecture series at my local library. You’re all invited. It will be free to the public. Get there early since the crowds will make parking a challenge. Anyway, the short explanation of this particular fallacy is when someone attempts to make an argument that uses emotion in place of reason to manipulate the audience. “In place” of means “instead of.” “Manipulate” means “twist your audience around like a jerk to get them to kowtow to your ideas, you bully.” Also, fallacious means false. That’s sort of a key word in all of these bad appeals: false. Just an FYI.

The problem I have is not one of sharing important issues on Facebook; it’s with the repost guilt trip nonsense. Who makes these things anyway?  The ones that bug me the most are the prayers and religious ones. I don’t share your religious beliefs so I don’t share your religious posts. I am the 99%. So, I actually won’t repost your prayer to Jesus for the people of [fill in the recent disaster] and I won’t let you shame me for it. Explain how reposting a fallacious and overly sentimental appeal helps people, or how my ignoring the post fails them somehow. Out of curiosity, how many of you re-posters volunteered to actually lend a hand in [the recent disaster]? Just curious.  Not sharing doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not I am an empathetic person, it has to do with me not blindly buying into collective guilt tripping and sharing every single thing that says "share." Also, I don’t click every animated gif I see that says “click here.” That’s how you get spam for penis enlargement.

Whenever I see these posts, I consider responding by making a post that is a picture of Bruce Campbell holding a shotgun, with an overlaid quote saying something very serious about blood and human flesh, and then putting it up on Facebook followed by a note that says “Help get Ash home from the war with the army of darkness. 99% of you won’t repost." The 1% that do clearly understand satire. Also, if you haven’t seen the movie Army of Darkness, you are a bad person . . . is an example of an ad hominem fallacy. More on that in next week’s episode of Zen and the Art of Not Being a D!ck on Social Media. That actually sounds like a show I would watch. Or narrate.

In summation, stop trying to guilt trip your friends on Facebook. As an alternative trip, I suggest you log off and head south to help clean up after last weekend’s tornadoes. 

Joss Whedon’s Big Gay Elephant in the Room

You always critique the thing you love . . . sort of. I read a fascinating critical analysis of Joss Whedon’s female characters this morning. As a writer and creator, Whedon is probably best known for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and all of its requisite “strong” women. In fact, the critique was all about how Whedon’s women aren’t actually written as strongly as he’s often given credit for. The critique examines Buffy, Firefly, and Dollhouse through a close reading of how the females on those three shows are much more male-dependant than die-hard Whedonists would like to think. The critique was thoughtful, well-crafted, academic—it uses Laura Mulvey’s male gaze theory as part of the scholarly perspective—and unfortunately carefully avoids talking about Willow Rosenberg anywhere in the article. Because, you know, that would undermine the entire thesis. In the history of pointing out elephants in living rooms, this is the equivalent of not pointing out the biggest, gayest elephant in the living room. That’s a metaphor: Willow is the big, gay elephant.

Am I a Whedonist? Not really. Am I a Buffy fan? Hells yeah. Does the author of the article have a strong argument? You betcha. That's the thing: I can love something AND critique it because I can hold more than one thought in my head at a time. In fact, much the essay is very thought-provoking in making a space for feminist critique of a body of work often considered “off limits” for said feminist critique. I actually tended to agree with the author that citing Joss Whedon (white, cis, straight, male) as the poster child for feminist storytelling in television is a bit problematic. The article presents a very thoughtful, persuasive analysis of why Buffy, Faith, Cordelia, Zoe, Kaylee, Inara, and Echo, the primary female characters from the three main Whedon television shows, (the author acknowledges that Angel is not on the list) are more emotionally dependent upon men than fans would like to admit, and in some cases actually brutalized by men. Yep, very persuasive, I’m convinced. It’s a good analysis. The problem is, Willow is conspicuously absent from the entire discussion. Why is there a lengthy article on Joss Whedon’s female characters without any witchy representation? Methinks the lesbians in the Whedon-verse are trouble-spots for the author and her feminist sensibilities. Feminists have historically not known what to do with lesbians and have thus ignored them. Google “lavender menace” and get back to me. Also, Willow isn’t actually a gay elephant. It’s a metaphor. Try to stay with me.

So, not including Willow in the critique is a serious oversight here. It equates to invisibility of the gay character as well as a plot hole the size of Dawn’s screaming mouth. (Mystical sisters are also mysteriously absent from the critique.) I could get into a counter-argument about how Willow’s character arc, which is typically cited as the most culturally significant character in the entire Whedonverse, because , you know, coming out as a lesbian in the 90s and then staying out for the rest of the series. I could get into the details of how Willow and Tara’s relationship actually pushed back against the notion of Mulvey’s theory about lesbians for male consumption: They were decidedly not “lesbians” in the “lesbian” porn kind of way. I could also mention the fact that Willow’s entire character shifted from being weak and self-deprecating while still closeted to being self-actualized and powerful (to the point that she could have destroyed the world) when she became concerned about women instead of men. But I won’t get into all of that trivia. The point I want to make is about crafting a good argument: If you want to critique something you love, acknowledge the contradictions; don’t ignore them.

There’s plenty to work with here. We could give Whedon a good chastising for killing off Willow’s lover, Tara, for the classic dick-move trope of “the gay character dies.” It’s one of the most heartbreaking deaths in the history of gay television (with apologies to fans of Alice Pieszecki  and Dana Fairbanks) and was arguably the single most fan-angering moment in Whendon-verse history. (It even angered the actress playing Tara, not because she died, but because she felt that they were betraying the marginalized gay fans they had championed.) There’s important, critical work to be done here and it got ignored. I love Willow but I’ve got some words for her. Loving something means never having to say you’re sorry for critiquing it. Don’t hold me to this. It doesn’t apply to romantic relationships.

In summation, if you’re actually going to point out that there are a bunch of large animals in your living room, don’t ignore the big, gay elephant. 

Selling Lemons? Don’t Make Fun of the Fruit

Yesterday I bought a trailer. It’s just a little one to pull behind my Jeep for hauling my motorcycle and whatnot, but it did cost many hundreds of dollars. I mention the price because it’s not like I was buying a pack of chewing gum from the grocery store or a new bra from Victoria’s Secret. I actually needed a sales associate to assist me, and I don’t mean by measuring my boobs and then high fiving me after announcing that I’m a D-cup. (Everyone is a D-cup at VS—that’s actually what Victoria’s secret is.) No, I’m talking about a person who can give me detailed information about an item classified as a motor vehicle with weight limits and electrical hookups and licensing requirements. It’s therefore really important that this individual not be a total moron. Dun-dun-dun.

I think because I look like a boy and have a tendency to dress like one, that sometimes grown men think they can talk to me like I’m a child. Uh…nope.  As the sales associate was walking out to the trailer lot with me, we passed by my Jeep parked in the visitor lot. The guy verbally scoffed at my Obama-Biden bumper sticker. He actually made a stupid, childish comment about my political sticker. What. The. Hell? I was taken aback to say the least. I almost left the dealership on the spot. Seriously, dude. I am about to drop a significant amount of cash on a big ticket item and your sales technique is to mock my political views? That is the dumbest marketing ploy in the history of marketing ploys. And I remember New Coke.

Now, I have on many, many occasions disagreed with other peoples’ politics. It’s half of what I talk about on any given day. But that does not mean I can’t get along with people, at least on a surface level. I might debate the finer points of the GOP’s idiocy in my blog or with close friends, but if my livelihood depends on selling expensive objects to total strangers, I would know enough to keep my damn mouth shut about politics. Also, I would know to avoid religion, sex, income, and “your mama’s so fat” jokes.

So, why didn’t I leave the dealer on the spot? It was my first instinct. My skin crawled and the hair on the back of my neck bristled. But I kept on walking towards the back lot with the dude, in total silence, which is a clear sign that I am feeling very disdainful. My silence is really quite loud. The thing was, I really wanted the trailer; it was the right size and the right price. The dealership had been recommended by a friend in whose judgment I trust about wheeled objects that can be pulled behind vehicles. I had the time and the money to get it yesterday. So, I bought the darn thing even though the general manager, Scoffy McScofferson, had made fun of my bumper sticker. Seriously, the dude was the store’s GM. How does he not know the rules about politics, religion, and yo’ mama jokes?

Here are some other things that crossed my mind, in addition to the thought that Kris Krisscofferson was an idiot: I think he opened his mouth before his brain was working properly and he knew that he had just said something incredibly stupid as soon as his lips had sunk the ships. It became obvious to him that the car was mine when I gave no response at all to his led balloon of a political commentary. He said nothing else on the painfully awkward walk to the trailer lot and was all business from that moment on. He started treating me like a customer instead of a kid (which is the initial attitude he had adopted) and went out of his way to say nothing else that wasn’t connected to trailer specifications and towing capacity.

Although I considered leaving, I didn’t, as I said. It occurred to me that leaving made me look like a whiney baby and I could actually make the guy reconsider his idiocy (and perhaps his opinion on Obama supporters more generally) if I stayed and acted like the bigger man, as it were: “I have money and wish to purchase an item, good sir. You are an idiot but I am giving you a second chance to correct that oversight.”  Also, I was a woman buying a “manly” item and I felt like I had to represent. Damnit. Thus, I acted better than I felt, and it was David Hasselscoff who ended up looking like the kindergartener. When he gave me a firm handshake at the end of the transaction, I knew that he had regretted opening his big, dumb mouth, and I had done the right thing. Plus, I have a new trailer.

In summation, it’s a good thing Stormin’ Norman Schwartzscoff didn’t say anything about my Human Rights Campaign sticker because I know karate. It says so on my t-shirt.

I’m Not a Doctor, But I Play One on TV

Many leaders of the GOP are denying climate change. I don’t even know why. What is the advantage to the political equivalent to the ostrich sticking one’s head in the sand to avoid being eaten by a lion? Their mantra is “I’m not a scientist” as though a lack of education on an issue makes the facts of that issue go away. Well, John Boehner, I’m not a mathematician but I do understand that I still have to have enough money in my bank account to keep from over-drafting, even if I need a little help from time to time balancing the ledger. My lack of math skills has not absolved me of the responsibility to myself and my creditors. Maybe I can use the “I’m no mathematician” as an excuse with the IRS when they question me about not paying my income taxes.  According to the GOP’s logic, I don’t have to obey any laws because I’m not a police officer and I don’t have to pay back my student loans because I’m not an economist.

Um, yeah, so about climate change . . . a background in science isn’t required to understand that there is a historically unprecedented drought taking place in California, Boston got like 30 feet of snow last winter, and polar bears are interbreeding with grizzlies so their offspring are better adapted to warmer temperatures. (Nature is cool, right? They’re called grolar bears and/or pizzly bears. I like grolar bear better because they sound tough and growly. Pizzly sounds like they’re going to pee on everything.)  I’m not a scientist either but I understand that there’s some serious sh!t going down with the environment. I mean really.

Here is a list of other things the GOP is not: obstetrician, gynecologist, historian, archaeologist. . . I could go on. It’s interesting how politicians’ lack of expertise in these other areas has not prevented them from intervening on related issues. Some of those careers sound suspiciously like science-related fields. What if, in answer to questions about contraception or rape, John Boehner and his cronies said things like “I’m not a doctor.” Imagine the utopia of “I’m not a linguist so I can’t talk.” Despite all the issues GOP leaders aren’t qualified to speak on and do anyway, they’ve decided climate change is off limits and “I’m not a scientist” is a legit explanation. Can they just stop it with that and go ask Neil deGrasse Tyson for some help? Even Ed Begley, Jr. could offer up some decent pointers and he was in the film This is Spinal Tap. Maybe even I, a lowly Ph.D. in English, can provide some useful scientific data.

Here are some things I know, despite my not being a scientist: The earth is much older than six thousand years. Rape can result in pregnancy. Evolution doesn’t teach that monkeys turned into humans. The only time dinosaurs and humans coexisted was on the television show Land of the Lost (which was cool as hell when I was seven years old, but even at that age, I knew it was fiction.) Global warming isn’t negated because it gets cold outside. Come on, Boehner. Don’t be an idiot. I have a serious question: How did John Boehner ever get elected with a name like that? I mean, I’m no onomastician so maybe I’m not qualified to even inquire, but I was wondering, is he related at all to Boner from Growing Pains?

In summation, ostriches don’t actually stick their heads in the sand, I don’t understand interest rates, and John Boehner is not a chef, so I guess he doesn’t need to eat.

Weaseling Out of Things is What Separates Us from the Animals. Except the Weasel.

I’ve been reading a lot of amateur writing lately. It’s interesting how young and/or inexperienced writers rely on clichés or heavy-handed, clunky metaphors to get their points across. I do it too, but when I do it it’s ironic. Because I’m a brilliant and/or lazy hipster. At any rate, this got me thinking about animal metaphors and their friends, animal similes. Most of the time clichés are a terrible addition to writing, but occasionally they work okay. Let me share my thoughts about animal clichés with you because, to be honest, neither of us has anything better to do. Okay, that’s probably a lie, but whatever. We’re both here and we’re both procrastinating.

I think my favorites involve organization. I like get your/my ducks in a row, mostly because I like the idea of organizing water fowl in a synchronized fashion. It also makes me sound like I am working hard on something. Conversely, when my ducks are just not lining up, I am herding cats. The metaphor amuses me because, as anyone who has cats knows, this is never ever going to be a workable thing. Unlike ducks, which may eventually cooperate with the struggle to arrange them, cats will simply glare at your attempts to move them, and then either bite you or fall asleep on your face.

Now if the organization of small animals isn’t your thing, some metaphors reference characteristics, like we might say someone is as strong as a bear or has a memory like an elephant, or even simply feeling squirrelly, but some of the comparisons just don’t make any sense. For example, why is someone said to be sick as a dog? Are dogs known for their special susceptibility to illness? Similarly, why do we say healthy as a horse? It’s the opposite problem from the above cliché—horses aren’t known for their extreme disease resistance or ability to withstand injury. In fact, horses are sort of delicate creatures. Might as well say sick as a horse and healthy as a dog for all the sense it makes.

Sometimes television shows gets all clever and makes up their own animals. Star Trek tried to be all sci fi with the horse one and change it to something that sounded galactic, so now we have “healthy as a Rigelian ox” in our lexicon, which is probably a thing I’m going to start saying because, as I already told you, I am a brilliant and/or lazy hipster. Probably more of the latter. Also, I now have Chief O’Brien’s voice in my head saying “time to pluck a pigeon.” I never got that. Aren’t pigeons the ones that do the plucking?

While I’m talking about it, why do we tend to attribute intelligence to owls? I’m not sure they’re really that much smarter than most other birds, are they? I mean, they’re cool as hell, yeah, but smarter? I think the smartest birds are probably those in the Corvidae family. Perhaps we can start saying “sharp as a crow” or “perspicacious as a passerine.” What? It could catch on. Ravens might even be able to finally shake off that bad reputation Edgar Allen Poe stuck them with. And just so the zoology majors don’t jump me after school: All birds in the Corvidae family are passerines but not all passerines are in the family Corvidae. Hashtag bird facts.

This brings up an important issue. The poor sloth has gotten a very bad rep. The fuzzy little critters are synonymous with sin. That’s just not fair. Maybe if we want an animal metaphor to equate to sinning, we can go with hateful as a human. That’s probably the most accurate one of all.

In summation, animal metaphors are a bottomless well. It’s pretty much turtles all the way down.

How to Polish an Apple: Step 1. Follow the Directions

I was hoping that this week, which is finals week, would be free of drama. Well, it’s Tuesday, and my streak is already over. But what fun would no drama be anyway? To be fair, it’s not my drama. I’m as cool as cucumber, as chill as a pill, as lazy as a Susan (with apologies to all the hard working Susans out there.) I just want to read some clever prose and eat a few shiny apples. Don’t make me get out of my chair.

I gave a final exam yesterday, which basically means I sat in the classroom while my students wrote nose-browning essays on what they learned in my class. The final reflection is designed to give students the opportunity to look back on the course and see what they got out of it without raising their blood pressure too much. I want to read their final thoughts, but I also want them to be able to coast to the end. Unfortunately, some of them just can’t get to the finish line without engaging maximum overdrive—some students have saved their nitrous blast all semester and they’re hitting the gas when they should be applying the brakes.

There are students who understand the fine art of apple polishing. I have read some lovely final essays (and I actually got some yesterday.) Some of my favorites include a student who quoted my lecture joke: “The rhetorical canon is not an actual cannon. Don’t blow it.” It was clever and relevant to his self-reflection. I had another student use a Dungeons and Dragons metaphor for feminism throughout his essay. He likened fighting the patriarchy to sword-wielding adventurers slaying a Displacer Beast. That’s how you shine fruit, ladies and gentlemen—appeal to the interests and ego of the instructor.

So, when a sweaty panicked student comes into my office half an hour before the exam asking for an extension, I just have to shake my head. For what? I wonder. What is so overwhelming about my brown-nosy, ass-kissy final essay that might require the granting of extra time? The stakes are so low on this last bit of writing, that even a C student could crap it out in half an hour without any preparation. Also, this was a C student.

I told him to go to the computer lab and use the next 30 minutes to finish whatever he thought needed an extension. I checked some emails and went to the exam room. The final started at 2:15 p.m. He arrived at 2:45. Seriously, there’s easing over the finish line, and then there’s running out of gas. Most of his peers finished their essays in approximately 15 minutes. He sat there for over an hour. I started to wonder what he was even working on. It should not take that long. Finally, when he turned in his essay and left, I discovered what was up. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. *sigh*

At the beginning of the final (you know, before he got there) I asked if everyone knew what they were doing. A few people raised their hands and asked for clarification on logistics: Can we leave when we’re done? Do I need to write the date? Nothing major. Everyone pretty much knew the drill. Why? Because I had given them detailed, written instructions three weeks in advance so they would have adequate time to prepare. Also, they had time during class last week to draft their outlines. Because I’m cool like that. The only way a student could not be prepared for this final “exam” was if that student had missed a lot of class in those last three weeks. (If this blog was a movie, there would be an ominous musical crescendo to signal the upcoming drama. Dun-dun-dun! That’s called foreshadowing.)

Let me back up for a moment. If you recall from a week or so ago, I wrote about the terrible idea of using student evaluations as sole criteria for instructor retention. I mentioned a student who was so clueless, he had stopped showing up to class because he “heard” the course was over and he didn’t have to attend anymore. I think you see where I’m going with this. Yes, same guy. He forgot how to college.

Now, here’s my point. He wasted his time on the wrong work. In fact, he did way more than what was actually assigned to overcompensate for the previous week’s blunder. That’s probably the reason he was panicking and wanting an extension. He was trying to reinvent the wheel in order to drive his car the last few yards to the finish line. (He had some peers roll in on four flats, but that’s another story.) I am more than willing to work with struggling students all semester long but there isn’t much I can do half an hour before the final.

In summation, if you’re trying to impress your instructor at the eleventh hour, at least read the instructions. 

Not Just Crazy, Texas-Sized Crazy

Last night I dreamt that I couldn’t remember my combination. To my locker from high school. I couldn’t even find my locker, but I knew, panicking, that when I did, I wouldn’t be able to open the door. My hands were full of books, and I had to pee. It was an actual traumatic nightmare. What the hell, brain? Why is my subconscious worrying about this? It’s as though my brain was attempting to convert the paranoia of Texas Governor Greg Abbott into something relatable in my world. The likelihood that I will need to get into my locker at my old high school is approximately the same as the probability that Obama is planning a military takeover of the State of Texas. I mean really. It’s not just movie-plot preposterous, it’s actual dreamland ridiculous. To all of my friends in Texas (and I have several) I ask: What on earth is in the water down there?

Now, for the record, this locker combination panic dream is actually a reoccurring one for me and I tend to have it when I’m worrying about things I absolutely can’t control and about which my subconscious has apparently categorized as low spiritual priority. Basically, it’s the “stop fretting about nothing” dream. So, it really is a good metaphor for the current situation in Texas: the governor is fretting about nothing. Can we give him a helpful nickname? Arnie was the Governator; I think Abbott needs a moniker too. Maybe The Great White Dope? Let’s go with that.

The level of unwarranted panic on the part of the Dopeinator is off the chart. I don’t even know how to quantify it. I live in a world where the government is not out to get us. Yes, they’re totally effed up about a lot of stuff, and yes, there is a lot of corruption, and yes…well, suffice to say things aren’t perfect. But come on. Turning Wal-Marts into massive detention centers for disobedient Texans? Or whatever bat-poop scheme His Dopeness is accusing Obama of? That is an Orwellian level of paranoia. In fact, I think that is the scale I can use to quantify the crazy. On a scale of 1 to 10, I give the governor of Texas 9.9 Orwells. Also, I never give tens. I’m a tough grader.

NPR has reported that Texas governor might be pandering to the right wing crazies. Even Forbes.com is calling him a nut-job, and they’re not exactly a haven for leftist hippies. Fellow Texas politicians are using words like “idiot” and “horrified” and the governors of the six other states who are participating in the military training exercises are shaking their heads in confusion. I mean, there’s far right on the political map, and then there’s the "here there be dragons" part of the map. Abbott is worried about dragons. Didn’t he see The Hobbitt? You can’t kill a dragon with regular weapons. Duh.

I read the NPR article and I’m still not clear on the finer points of what Abbott's fear is. I think ISIS is involved somehow and immigrants from Mexico as well. There was something about the joint military forces and Green Berets running some black ops. This isn't even an X-Files episode level of conspiracy—we’re in Lone Gunmen spin-off land here people.

So, to my friends in Texas: don’t worry. I’m sure that Obama’s invasion plan has a strategy for airlifting all the liberal Texans out before the missile strikes. This includes all of the major universities and the entire city of Austin. Unfortunately, there may be some Democrats in the rural areas who get left behind. All of the fracking that’s been taking place in Texas is actually part of the preemptive strike: it’s weakened the ground to the point that the Chinooks can get giant nets around the entirety of Cowboy’s stadium and move it to Detroit to revitalize the automotive economy. (Obama is playing the long game, ladies and gentlemen.) You scoff, but I ask you: Is my plan any more ridiculous than what Governor Dopey thinks might be happening?

In summation, evacuate Texas while there’s time. If only I could find my locker—I think that’s where all the nukes are being kept. To the current occupant of #323: You’re on high alert.

Keeping it Simple, Turkey Sandwich Style

So, here we are at another Friday. It’s the last day of classes for the semester and finals are next week. The students may be stressed, but for instructors like me, it’s coasting towards the finish line. I will grade final essays next week, but in all honesty, if my students haven’t figured it out by now, well, let’s just say that you can’t pull off a “hail Mary” in English class. I have yet to read a final essay that changed my entire outlook on a student’s performance through the whole semester. School isn’t like TV. Learning is more about gradual change than it is about dramatic plot twists right at the end. So, the mantra for today is “keep it simple.” Sometimes the best course of action is to not make things complicated. Wishing for piles of money or fame and excitement is just asking for trouble. Today, I just want a sandwich.

I’m going to pull a Homer Simpson and make a wish that can’t backfire. I wish for a turkey sandwich. I don’t want any zombie turkeys, and I don’t want to be turned into a turkey myself. I just want it to have some lettuce and a little mustard, with a bit of Swiss on some good bread, and if the turkey is a little dry, I swear to the powers of the turkey sandwich-granting gods that I will curse them forever. Just give me a nice quiet day with a nice turkey sandwich.

My cat has this simplicity thing down. She’s sitting in the window watching a bird outside. She keeps glancing at me like “Oh…look at that! Please can I go out there and eat its face??? PLEASE!!????” Her mood is like mine today, which is to say, in the moment and interested in eating a bird. It is the worst possible mood for getting anything done: squirrelly. I really just want a turkey sandwich, not to sit here and write about how everything is terrible. Everything IS terrible, but I feel good, a bit peckish, but good. Who am I kidding? I’m sure I’ll eff that up any second now. I will be heading to campus soon, after all. Yes, I have a cynically positive outlook on life today. I should try to enjoy the simple things today. Like turkey sandwiches.

I don’t have much to complain about at the moment (except for my lack of meat and cheese on rye.) People watch television for the drama, not the business as usual. Can you imagine a show where the whole premise is just some random person getting up in the morning, having  coffee, going to work, having a simple lunch, doing some errands, maybe paying a few bills, coming home, watching a little TV, and going to bed? Dullsville would be the name of the show and it would be cancelled after two episodes. But honestly, isn’t that what most of us strive for? A dull and predictable life with no major traumas to upset the balance? Maybe a nice vacation to the beach once in a while, but for the most part, stability is preferable to chaos. Unless you’re like me, then you want to get in there and monkey with the works. I am a meddler. I meddle. I get bored easy. I need distraction. It’s why I joined the army. I didn’t have enough to do while I was working on my Ph.D. Stable job, good career? I quit. I’m going to New Orleans.

So, that’s why I am feeling squirrelly today. All is well and I am not particularly busy or distracted by troubling news. I need a bit of an upset in my life—an unexpected something to disrupt my boring routine. I think a lot of people get this way—that’s probably why people drink beer on Fridays. I’m not a Friday beer drinker, so I have to get inventive. Yesterday, I got a new tattoo. Today I’m going in search of the perfect turkey sandwich. Tomorrow? Who knows. Maybe I will attempt to take over the world. Or play video games all day. That seems more likely. World domination takes more planning. I still don’t have enough robot minions for that.

In summation, enjoy your simple turkey sandwich life today. 

The Gay Agenda Finally Revealed!

I learned a new word yesterday: “Gaystapo.” I discovered it in the comments section of an article on the Supreme Court’s current debate about marriage equality. I know I’ve warned about the dangers of reading the comments section but I just couldn’t help myself. The article was about a conservative Christian group’s demand (demand!) that two of the liberal justices recuse themselves from the debate taking place. They’re concerned that Elena Kagan and the Notorious RBG (yes, just those two women) are biased in favor of equality.  HAHAHA. Wait, what? Crap, I think they’re serious.

So, some douche-nozzle referenced the agenda of the “gaystapo” in his comments about “what’s wrong with America” or some other rant. Honestly, I started skimming when I hit the word “gaystapo.” Apparently, "big gay" (WTF does that even mean?) is now affiliated with the Femi-Nazi party and has its own branch of the military. Awesome, when do we get our uniforms? Those things are gonna be on fleek because in addition to applying pressure to the Supreme Court, the “gaystapo” also controls the fashion industry. The Lesbo Luftwaffe will soon take to the skies and begin a calculated airborne assault on the sanctity of marriage. Their agenda? Drop some serious F-bombs. Don’t even get me started on the agenda for dealing with the GOP congressman from Texas who said that the Baltimore riots are happening because of gay marriage. We’ve got more than F-bombs in our arsenal.

Seriously, whoever is disseminating the word “gaystapo” please stapo. Your casual slur is not only a propaganistc tool that subtly and wrongly suggests that a traditionally marginalized group has somehow gained (imaginary) political and social power to effect some secretive destruction of capitalism and democracy, which you, for some reason, feel personally threatened by, but it also demonstrates total ignorance and disregard for people actually hunted by Nazis during the holocaust, many of whom were LGBTQ identified. Yes, you dear bigot, have managed to negate the very real and terrifying experience of actual victims of Nazi hatred and murder with a single word. Your casual use of the word “gaystapo” disrespects the memory of people actually tortured and killed during the holocaust. Shame on you.

The bigots spreading this propagandistic hyperbolic nonsense are the same folks terrorizing ignorant conservative voters with the fairy-tale notion that there is a “gay agenda” and it somehow involves destroying the sanctity of straight-identified people’s marriages. I honestly don’t even understand how this would be accomplished. Seriously, can someone explain it because I really don’t get it. How does one couple’s marriage have any impact on another couple’s marriage? Also, my personal agenda is to get my laundry done and clean out the cat box. Clearly, I am a big threat—there are some powerful odors coming off of the piles of dirty clothes and cat poop.

The hypocrisy on the part of these religious groups to demand that the two justices step down temporarily from a secular (secular!) court proceeding because those justices don't share their religious beliefs of the religious group is...well, I think hypocritical is the correct word choice. Here’s the deal: if groups who purport to be about small government and religious liberty are as concerned about freedom from “big” special interest groups with money and political power as they claim, I suggest they turn their attention to the pharmaceutical and tobacco industries. These are two very organized, well-funded corporate power structures that are actually influencing legal decisions at the federal level, and those decisions have a direct impact on Joe Average for whom these religious and conservative groups claim to be speaking. Also, big pharm and big tobacco actually do have an agenda and it stinks way more than my laundry room.

In summation, if conservative Christian groups are really worried about the imaginary agendas of LGBTQ people and the supposed bias of the Supreme Court justices, I can’t help but wonder if they also believe that there are monsters in their bedroom closets. Take that as you will.

Urban Legends in Higher Ed: Professor Strawman’s TOTAL BS 101

Today’s lesson is about not believing everything you read on the internet. I know, I know—I should not need to teach this lesson, but here we are. What, pray tell, has motivated this, you ask? Let me share: Today as I skimmed through my Facebook feed, I happened upon a video shared by a friend from a random person. The video was white text on a black screen telling the story of an atheist college professor challenging his students to prove the existence of god as part of his course’s requirements. Of course it was ridiculous. Also, it was a five and a half minute video consisting only of scrolling text, which made me even more annoyed with the straw man argument. There’s a reason the internet video doesn’t give the name of the professor or the name of the university where this supposed incident took place: It’s because they don’t exist. It’s total fiction.

So, here’s the deal: just because someone posts a video with a (sort of) plausible sounding plot, does not make it true. In fact, much of the video is actually the plot of a 2014 Kevin Sorbo movie called God’s Not Dead. The internet video as well as the film has the professor attempt to discredit his Christian students’ faith in Jesus by forcing them to prove god exists in order to pass the course. It’s a well known film starring the former Hercules: The Legendary Journeys’ leading man, who has been publically vocal about his perceived ousting from mainstream Hollywood because of his Christianity. Now whether Sorbo has actually experienced the discrimination he claims, I won’t discuss, because he may have a case there. What I will touch is the nonsense plot of the film (and the crappy derivative internet video.) There is so much wrong with the notion of a college professor using atheism as a grading rubric, I don’t even know where to start. Oh wait, yes I do: with the straw man part where the whole thing is complete bullsh!t.

For the uninitiated, a straw man argument is a logical fallacy that, according to Wikipedia, is “based on false representation of an opponent's argument To be successful, a straw man argument requires that the audience be ignorant or uninformed of the original argument.” While I typically don’t consider Wikipedia a critical source, in this case, they have it right. Not surprisingly, learning about this and other fallacies of argument are part of the curriculum of critical thinking and communication courses widely taught at intuitions of higher learning across the United States. People who believe the straw man are, as Wikipedia notes, “ignorant or uniformed.” Let me help inform such folks about why the godless professor video is total bunk.

No professors would ever do this, even atheist ones. Why? Because they would get fired. Also, because this would not have the outcome the video suggests, which is that no students challenge the professor in class for fear of his “authority” or something. My baloney has a first name, it’s T-H-I-S - M-O-V-I-E. Seriously, I have been teaching for a long time and I can tell you with 100% certainly that students will not hesitate to challenge you in class on things with which they disagree, even without any proof that they’re remotely right. They don’t like the cell phone policy? You will hear about it. They think your PowerPoint is bad? You’ll hear about it. Challenge their religious beliefs? Oh my god, will you hear about it. You’ll also hear from the chair of your department, the dean, and possibly the president of the university because that is where the students will go. It will become national news. You, dear atheist professor, will then be forcibly retired. Read about the professor in Kentucky who has to teach evolution in his biology course if you want to hear a real story of what students do when instructors challenge their religious beliefs. Also, contrary to what Faux News may tell you, believing in science is not the same as not believing in god. You can do both.

So, the whole story is a fabrication. This brings us to the why questions. Why would someone circulate this total fiction on the internet (or in Hollywood, though Sorbo’s film was not widely viewed. The stupid text-only internet video has actually been watched more times than the movie.) Here’s why: conservative busy-bodies needed a platform which allows them to make a straw man argument vilifying liberal arts education in order to discredit the notion of the liberal issues du jour. Making up a story about something so anti-freedom of religion is a good way to stir the pot. Seriously, why else would you want to create a monster like Professor Strawman who forces students to “earn” grades by disproving god? That’s not how the scientific method works. The problem (and the danger) of course, is that videos like this get circled all over the web by everyone and their sister’s cousin’s dog’s buddy and somewhere along the line, one of these internet denizens claims that this absurd injustice “happened to a friend of mine.” People believe the lies and real professors trying to teach real courses become targets for groups like the Faith and Freedom Coalition who claim religious persecution at the hands of "powerful" socialist atheists (or whoever they think is going all 1984 Big Brother on them.) The reality is this nonsense is actually brought to you by the same people who gave you the Scopes Monkey Trial and abstinence-only sex education, not real liberal arts professors trying their best to do a hard job for crap pay.

In summation, stop believing videos you watch on the internet. Seriously, people: Have some appropriately-placed skepticism about poorly made videos with no source citations.

Tuesday is a News Day—Where Do I Begin?

Today I am not discussing the gay marriage issue currently being presented to the U.S. Supreme Court. I am not going to get worked up about the racial tension over what’s been going on in Baltimore despite how important this issue is for all of us. Neither am I getting into the tragedy unfolding in Nepal following the major earthquake. Honestly, I don’t even know what to do with all of this weighty stuff. These issues are very important and I feel ill-equipped to present a fair but sarcastic version of such serious news. Instead, I am staying much closer to home. Sadly, the local news includes bomb threats and student deaths. If you’re looking for a lighthearted, funny blog today, I suggest you flip back to February 5th—it was all about cupcakes.

It’s barely Tuesday of dead week—the traditional, and in this semester’s case, poorly named week before finals. We’ve already had a bomb threat and the death of a student. Every year between spring break and the rush to the end of the semester, I caution my students to be careful during their off hours. I worry, I tell them. I’m a worrier. Usually they scoff or nod annoyed, like I’m a fretting grandma telling them to take a sweater on an 80 degree day. Then, inevitably, something really bad happens on campus and they’re all just a little wiser, a little more grown up.

Although authorities have yet to release information about the student’s death, the issue of the bomb threat is easier to decipher. A student, struggling to complete whatever monumental essay had been laid at his feet (I’m speculating it was a male,) decided to do the most logical thing ever to buy himself some additional time to complete his grade-determining term paper, which was to call in a bomb threat. Unfortunately for him, the search for the bomb (which tellingly was reported in the computer science building next to the library) was completed by 6:30 a.m. on Monday, negating any classes being canceled and not disrupting the work in day for most people. The majority of the disruption was for faculty; if they have the warning system set up to notify them by phone, they got a call in the middle of the night. I have my campus security notifications set to email only, so I slept through it.

When I saw my students in class yesterday, I reminded them that school work was not something worth risking federal prison time for. When they catch the perpetrator of the threat, he’s heading for Leavenworth. They were all a bit more circumspect. Most of them treated the potential bombing pretty seriously. I guess the threat of death by violence isn’t that funny. Many of them recall the incident from last year when the irate young man drove his car onto central campus and was eventually shot and killed by police. Sadly, for these young people who grew up in post 9/11 (also a Tuesday,) random violence in public spaces is “normal” and sobering.

Since we don’t know anything about the student found dead in her dorm room yesterday afternoon, there isn’t much to say quite yet. The authorities don’t suspect foul play, which means either she had a health issue of some kind, or substances were involved. No matter what the cause, the impact is that another set of parents are being notified that their child is dead at the beginning of her life, and the roommate who found her is going to have a very rough finals week. This is the third such death on this campus that I can remember in recent years. Last year, a student narrowly avoided being killed during the rioting (don’t get me started on stupid white kids rioting because of alcohol instead of racial injustice—I said I wasn’t talking about that) but suffered severe head trauma from which he may never fully recover.

The three deaths that stick in my memory are the student who drowned in shallow water while drunk, the student who froze to death while intoxicated, and the student who passed out from booze on the train tracks. The last one was my colleague and friend’s student at the time and he had to read about it in the papers. The rest of his classes that semester were rough. I guess my point is that college is often the place where high school graduates come thinking it will be an extended party free of parental oversight, but discover they may actually have to do some growing up, occasionally very rapidly.

In summation, Tuesdays are the worst. There is a lot of bad stuff going down right now. The good news is that there are still lots of pictures of kittens on the internet. I, myself, am going to go spend my hard-earned paycheck on a well-deserved deep tissue massage and hope for better news tomorrow.

Lessons from an Eight Dollar Haircut

This weekend was the big “spring sale” down at the local hair salon. Or barber shop, or whatever they call it. If you know me at all, then you know I’m not likely to frequent anywhere quite so fancy as to call itself a “salon.” Well, unless that salon is actually a classical French gathering of intellectuals standing around talking about the novel Candide while drinking demitasse café au laits and eating cucumber sandwiches, then also probably not, but at least I could handle the conversation about political satire in the 18th century. No, I actually went to the hair whachamacallit (remember that candy bar? Do they still make those?) to get a cheap cut and I am here on a Monday morning to share my cautionary tale with you.

The local barber shop was offering their haircuts at the low, low price of $7.99 per head. I needed a haircut. I was getting that dog hair around my ears thing that I really hate, and I’m not one for being picky when it comes to getting that fuzz shaved off. Keep in mind, the going rate I am accustomed to is twice this amount—$14.99—so the sale seemed like the perfect time to get in for that much needed trim. Let us all pause for a moment and ponder the meaning of the Latin warning of such deals: caveat emptor. Yes, let the buyer beware indeed.

My hair is now much shorter. Granted, that was the desired outcome. The sides and back of my hair look fine.  Honestly, it’s kind of hard to screw up shaving down to the skin. But, and—cue the Sir Mix-A-Lot soundtrack—this is a big but. (Get it? Because he likes big butts? Shut up.) The top and front of my hair though. . . How can I put this? It looks like I paid $7.99 for a haircut. The very front is about a half inch shorter than the top and cut at a very obvious blunt angle. This basically has the effect of making me look like either I allowed a six-year-old cut my hair with safety scissors or I had inadvertently gotten chewing gum stuck up there and was forced to take drastic action.

I thought perhaps I was just being overly sensitive to the new haircut and that no one else would notice, but no. I saw a friend last night and the first thing she said was “It’s shorter in the front.” And then she hastily added “but you can just spike that up with a bunch of product.” Thanks, friend. I was already *this* close to shaving my head. Don’t push me over the edge. Perhaps if I dye my hair blue people won’t notice. Also, I am now slathering something vaguely slimy on my head that is referred to colloquially as “product.” Product sounds like what you ask your drug dealer for when you meet in an alley.

Now, I have been complaining about the cold, rainy weather this week and have been wanting a sunny spring warm-up. Well, apparently Mom Nature has a sense of humor because it is now officially too warm and sunny to get away with wearing a stocking cap. I have three classes to teach today and any product I glop on my head is going to get sopped up by the lining of my motorcycle helmet en route to campus. This whole scenario actually sounds like the plot of a Voltaire novel after all. Don’t scoff: If motorcycles had existed when Voltaire was alive I’m sure he would have included them in some sub-plot about an idiot riding without a helmet. I’d like to say that the lesson here is “don’t cheap out on the haircuts” but honestly, given the chance, I would do it again. I am the Scrooge McDuck of beauty tips. That’s the theme of my new YouTube channel.

In summation, if you see me around town today, please don’t make fun of me. I case you’re wondering, I still tipped the hairdresser.

Sometimes the Minority Voice Just Keeps Quiet

There is an article on Yahoo News right now that is ridiculous. It opens with this: “When the Iowa Faith & Freedom Coalition plays host to nine Republican White House hopefuls [in Iowa] this weekend, the conservative Christian group will simply be pursuing its stated mission to ‘take back our state and country’." Now, there’s nothing wrong with quoting directly, but whoever interviewed the speaker here did not ask this person any obvious questions, which that statement is begging for. Such questions might include: Take it back from whom? Where was it taken? Faith in what? Freedom for whom? Is this code for “push those fags back in the closet where they belong”? (I say this because the issue of gay marriage was mentioned as a key issue multiple times in the less than 600-word article.) I wanted the interviewer to interview the group’s representatives, not just document its party line.

With that in mind, I did some of my own investigative journalism. The interview was conducted by a woman named Luciana Lopez, and I can’t help but wonder what her thoughts were as she spoke to these coalition members. Actually, her personal politics are successfully veiled from the public, which I discovered by reading her Twitter feed from the last four months. The only hints about her personal preferences are that she likes Tom Hanks and has experienced discrimination based on her Hispanic name and appearance. Here’s a tip: If someone writes articles for credible news outlets like Reuters IN ENGLISH, it’s a safe bet that they speak English. You don’t ask the people named Anderson if they need a Norwegian translator so don’t ask people named Lopez if they need a Spanish translator. By the way, both of those names are among the top 40 most common surnames in the U.S. so, yes, that is an apples-to-apples comparison.

Anyway, Luciana Lopez appears to be a credible news reporter attempting to do her job with this interview thing while (at least on some level) being keenly aware of the fact that she was a non-white woman in a sea of conservative white men at a gathering of something called the “Faith & Freedom Coalition.” Whatever her personal thoughts and feelings on the politics of this group were, I am merely pointing out that she didn’t ask any pertinent follow-up questions about this group’s platform. The entire article goes back and forth between quotes of a bunch of white dudes (and one white lady named Connie) about “faith” and “freedom”, and I started to wonder if Lopez was being silent because she was simply biting her tongue so hard.  Also, she uses the words “scrum” and “bloc” unironically. (Or maybe it was ironic. They are strange adjectives that make their subjects sound weird.)

After some analysis of this news article, I began to wonder if Lopez was simply letting the speakers say whatever the heck they wanted because they sounded suspiciously like well-trained parrots. Or perhaps she fell asleep with her microphone recording? At any rate, the article ends with a former Iowa Republican Party chairman saying “faith and freedom folks, its title sort of discloses the content.” That it does, sir. That it does.

Unfortunately for him, it’s not the message he thinks.  The word faith is about belief in something. The problem, of course, is that he’s using it to mean the adherence to prescribed conservative Christian values that, if you don’t believe the way he does, you’re wrong and should be punished. (Not by God as his religious text might suggest, but by the government, under the control of people his group has purchased.) Further, the word freedom (which I’ve analyzed in these pages previously for being one of those notorious framing devices George Lakoff warned us about) implies the notion of rights and abilities guaranteed by legal language. Suggesting that this group will “take back” its freedom implies it’s been taken away at some point. Fine, except no one has taken away this group’s freedom. In reality, it is a religious group mucking about with politics. That’s actually frowned upon by, like the Constitution or something. Also, this coalition’s talking head sounds like he’s badly quoting dialogue from a Mel Gibson film. You know the one I mean.

In summation, if the name of your political organization sounds like an extremist group from a movie, you may want to reconsider how you interact with news media. The fact that they aren’t interrupting you with pesky questions does not indicate endorsement. 

On a Scale of 1 to 5, I Give Professor McPhee a Score of Potato

In high school, teachers have been conditioned to “teach to the test.” (Thanks, Obama. Wait, no. We need to blame that nonsense on Dubya.) In college, professors are increasingly being conditioned to “educate to the evals.” It’s no secret (especially among higher ed. faculty) that relying on course evaluations as the primary (or in many cases, only) method for evaluating an instructor’s effectiveness is the worst possible way to determine how good instructors are at their jobs. Now it seems, the courts want to add their fingerprints to this crime scene, and in a big way. It’s great if we want to reassign the blame for this criminal act to the government. The problem, of course, is that the damage is done—the house has been emptied of its valuables. The stereo equipment has been pawned for pennies on the dollar two counties over and we homeowners are left sitting here trying to make a go of it with nothing to show for our efforts but the ratty old grammar textbook that even the thieves didn’t bother with.

There is an excellent article on NPR right now that discusses the problem of student evals in depth—with research! Here’s an excerpt that accurately describes a serious problem with reliance on student evals as a measure of instructor effectiveness:

"If you make your students do well in their academic career, you get worse evaluations from your students," Pellizzari said. Students, by and large, don't enjoy learning from a taskmaster, even if it does them some good . . . An easy-A prof may earn five stars in return for handing out good grades. But this leniency, his research suggests, does the students no long-term favors.

That’s right—handing out A’s like Halloween candy gets you smiley faces from students, but it doesn't result in an educated populace. I have to rely on these students’ decision-making abilities about my healthcare and finances years from now when I’m confined to my bed in the nursing home and I want them to be critical thinkers and socially aware of the world, not people who coasted through college by getting beer money from hocking their roommate's iPhone.

 Another serious issue related to asking students what they thought of the instructor is that some students have no idea what the course was supposed to teach them so they equate doing poorly with the instructor’s personal feelings, either towards them as individuals or towards their socio-political beliefs. Rarely do poorer performers recognize that their grades reflected an inability to distinguish between "their" and "there." Worse, there are students who don’t even know what’s going on at all. Case in point: I received an email from a student this morning apologizing for not attending my classes this whole week. His reason? He “was informed” that the semester was over and his attendance was no longer required. Institutional practices have students like this evaluating my skills as an educator. Several such students noted that they didn't like my fashion choices. Also, I am apparently going to hell.

 When it comes to gen ed. courses, often students don’t know why they’re required to take the classes and feel like their time is being wasted before the semester even starts. It’s difficult to get good evals from students who explicitly state on the first day that they’re only taking this bullspit course because the university wants their tuition money. There is a disconnect between what it means to get a liberal arts education and how liberal arts classes may, you know, be important to that goal. In a broader sense, these students have never been told by anyone along the education ladder—parents, high school teachers, academic advisors—that attending college (especially at a large university) will not magically result in them “making lots of money” down the road. College is not vocational training. I suggest if that’s your goal, you invest your tuition money in an apprentice plumbing program. You won’t have to take stupid critical thinking courses and in a few years’ time you can be pulling in $60K annually.

 In summation, my favorite student course evaluation of all time said simply “Bush/Cheney 2004!!!” It was from Spring 2009. That student gave me a slightly higher rating than the one whose entire evaluation was a single word: poop. That’s the current value of my teaching.

You Might Be a Troll If…

…you register for a free account on a website you don’t regularly read because you want to post negative comments on an article about abortion, gay rights, police brutality, or another hot button topic. If you left feedback on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram for someone you don’t know disparaging that person’s ideas, opinions, creative works, or personhood, you might be a troll. You might be a troll if you are a member of a privileged group complaining of “reverse discrimination” or the infringement on your right to be a douche-nozzle. Or, you might just be an @$$hole with an opinion. What’s the old joke about what everyone has? Oh yeah, those two things.

I read an article this morning about two women who’d posted two photos of themselves via their Instagram account. The photos were their pregnancy announcements for their friends and family. In the photos the two women posed identically, except they switched places with each other from one to the next to highlight the baby belly of the one that was expecting. They now have two children together, and their family photos are as beautiful as any I’ve ever seen. For whatever reason, some troll decided to muck up an exquisite series of snapshots (of total strangers) by posting a bunch of rude and ignorant comments about the women’s sexual orientation. What are you doing, troll? How is this effective discourse? Are you operating under the misguided belief that your grammatically incorrect sentences will convince this family to disband? I have some news for you: It won’t and you are a troll. Also, I think you may be a graduate of the Westboro Baptist Church school of effecting social change. This is not an accredited institution.

I’m not new to the internet. In fact, I am a member of the www old guard. I’ve had the same email address for fifteen years. I participated in the earliest iterations of online communities and have had plenty of experiences with trolls. It’s actually interesting how much things stay the same over time. We may have changed the rules for web sites, social media, and YouTube celebrity status since the early days of hard coding JavaScript to make a button wiggle, but it seems the trolls are still struggling to learn the basic rules of grammar and netiquette. Remember hard coding JavaScript into your Angelfire-hosted Xena: Warrior Princess fan website to make Xena’s chakram spin? Good times.

So, yes, my experience with trolls goes back a long way. In all honesty, today’s internet trolls are yesterday’s high school bullies, and I’ve learned a lot about dealing with bullies since high school (but that’s a topic for another day. Look for my tell-all memoir in a bookstore near you.) What’s interesting to note is that trolls haven’t really evolved much since their high school bullying days. They’re still jerks who think that the person with the loudest, cruelest taunt is the winner. Winner of what, I’m not sure.  Mostly, just making people feel bad, I guess. Good job, bully-troll! That’s a feat worth being remembered for.  I am going to have a custom trophy made in the shape of a golden #1 engraved with the text “Most Victims in Therapy.” I will take a picture of this trophy and post it in reply to the comments of people who say things like “Eww, faggiots. Stop shoving you’re homo lifestyle in my face.” Also, the offensive slur you were looking for there was “dyke” not “faggot.” At least have some standards in your own hate speech. 

Since the very earliest interactions on the internet, trolls have had these same kinds of grammar and mechanical problems with their attacks. You’d think they’d compare notes after all these years and correct some of the grosser errors. You're, your, and yore are not interchangeable. I question your ethos when you make these kinds of elementary school mistakes. I will say one thing for the Westboro Baptist Church nutjobs: They appear to proofread their crazy. Their signage sticks to small words they know how to spell.

In summation, you might be a troll if you are green, wart-covered, and live under a bridge asking unwary travelers trivia questions in exchange for safe passage. This is what I imagine internet trolls actually look like anyway.