touchmonkey

I wear a lot of hats at school. That doesn’t mean I drive the no-hats-at-school nazis crazy, it’s just a cliched way of saying I have a lot of different responsibilities. In addition to being a regular classroom teacher, I’m the English Department Chair and the ASB Advisor. (Note to film buffs: I have nothing in common with Matthew Broderick’s character in Election). It’s the ASB hat that brings me the most grief.

You see, as ASB Advisor I’m responsible for overseeing all of our school’s clubs and non-athletic activities (our Athletic Director gets to deal with all the soccer moms and monday morning quarterbacks). I teach the Leadership class, advise the student council, and pretty much coordinate all the school dances and open gyms and talent shows and assemblies. This means I’m the guy teachers and students and parents complain to when kids at the last dance were shaking their… um… pirate treasure* too vigorously. Or when too many kids at the last dance chose not to dance. Or when the concession stand nachos are too big. Or too small. Or when there aren’t enough pep assemblies. Or when there are too many. I could go on whining, but I’m sure you get the picture.

Anyhow, we had a sophomore class meeting planned for what would wind up amounting to half of third period one day. Several teachers were understandably unhappy. I wish more teachers valued their class time enough to get worked up when it’s abbreviated. One, however, was a little bit too unhappy for my taste.

As I made my way through the halls before school last Tuesday (the day of the 3rd period class meeting) this teacher made eye contact with me and asked if she could ask me a question. I know her well enough to know that my preferred response of “you just did!” would not be met with laughter so I simply smiled and said “sure!”

We stepped to the side of the hallway as it was getting close to the first bell of the day and some students were already making their way through the halls towards their morning classes. When she didn’t return my smile I had a feeling this might turn out to be a Difficult Conversation.

I should take a moment to explain that this particular teacher is one that I’m usually thrilled to work with. She’s an experienced teacher who really knows her subject area well. She’s a masterful instructor who has high standards for her students and works hard to help them achieve. Students grow in their knowledge, skills, and understanding because of her classes. So all that made this next part especially… difficult.

She really didn’t waste time with pleasantries. As soon as we’d sidestepped to the side of the hall, she demanded that I “fix this ridiculous schedule.” I knew she was talking about that day’s third period sophomore meeting, but I wanted to be sure.

“Are you talking about having third period cut in half today?”

“What else would I be talking about? I want to know what you’re going to do to fix it!”

Now, unlike most assemblies and school activities, this one wasn’t mine. It was something the principal was bringing in, but I don’t believe in passing the buck so I didn’t feel like throwing my boss under the bus on this one. Knowing that it wasn’t possible to cancel the thing but not wanting to make this teacher feel ignored, I asked her what she would like to see happen. Of course she wanted it cancelled. I told her I didn’t think we could do that at this late date.

“Well, at least have it at the end of third period so we can actually teach something today.”

This sounded like something I could actually help with so I told her I’d ask the principal about it right away. Somehow this was a mistake. Her face flushed and her volume increased dramatically.

“DON’T YOU TRY TO PASS THE BUCK ON THIS!” Several students scurried past, eyes fixed studiously on the hallway floor. Other students gathered on the periphery, perhaps waiting to see if I was going to get beat up. Spittle began to fly from this teacher’s mouth as she began to rant at me: “DON’T YOU KNOW MY STUDENTS HAVE A QUIZ ON FRIDAY HOW ARE THEY SUPPOSED TO BE READY? YOU KEEP HAVING ALL THESE STUPID ASSEMBLIES THIS IS WRONG, WRONG YOU KNOW HOW ARE KIDS SUPPOSED TO LEARN ANYTHING WHEN YOU’RE ALWAYS TAKING THEM OUT OF CLASS” and on and on and on and on she went.

When she ran out of breath, I waited a moment to make sure she wasn’t just reloading for another salvo. She wasn’t, she expected a reply. To which part of the diatribe, I wasn’t entirely sure, but I knew she wanted a response.

“I understand what you’re saying. I feel the same way when my classes get interrupted or cut short because of stuff like this. That’s one of the reasons we’ve really limited the number of assemblies this year.” I figured this was a decent start to a reasonable response. I mean, she had literally just been yelling at me, nearly at the top of her lungs. My response was measured and careful. It was also not what she wanted to hear.

“YOU’RE CRAZY IF YOU’RE GOING TO TELL ME WE HAVE FEWER ASSEMBLIES! THEY HAPPEN ALL THE TIME. A WEEK DOESN’T GO BY THAT YOU’RE NOT CUTTING MY CLASSES SHORT!” She was objectively wrong about all these things she was shouting at me, but I’m old enough now (or maybe I’ve just been married long enough) to know that even when you win an argument, you lose. So I chose not to point out her faulty reasoning or flawed information.

“I hear what you’re saying and I’m sorry today’s class meeting causes problems for you. Can I tell you why we chose to do it this way?”

“DON’T YOU WORKSHOP ME!”

“I’m sorry.. what?” I was honestly confused.. I had no idea what she was talking about.

“YOU HEARD ME, I SAID DON’T WORKSHOP ME!” She was half right, at least.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t understand what you’re saying.” Maybe I should have had more coffee.

“I’VE BEEN TO THOSE WORKSHOPS! YOU’RE DOING THAT LISTENING THING, I’VE BEEN TO THOSE WORKSHOPS, I JUST WANT YOU TO TELL ME YOU’RE GOING TO FIX IT!” At least now she was making sense, if a bit loudly still.

“Wow.. I’m really sorry I made you feel that way, I want you to know it really wasn’t my intention.” Seriously it wasn’t my intention to ‘handle’ her, but then again I’m not sure what she would have preferred… for me to lose my cool and shout back at her?

“STOP IT! I TOLD YOU TO STOP WORKSHOPPING ME! I’VE BEEN TO THOSE WORKSHOPS!” It was clear now that we weren’t going to make any further progress in this discussion. I shrugged and said “I’m sorry” as I headed for the office mentally kicking myself for not asking her to step into the library at the onset of the discussion where the students wouldn’t have had to witness her meltdown. I was also replaying the whole exchange in my head, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong to make her think I was merely using “workshop tricks” to manage her rather than actually communicate with her.

When I got to the office, I asked the principal about moving the class meeting to the end of 3rd period rather than the beginning. He agreed and we made the change.

I know this particular teacher has a lot of stress factors in her personal life right now and I’m smart enough to understand that those stress factors are most likely the true source of her rage, but I’m still pretty miffed at her for such an unprofessional display. It’s been just over a week now since the hallway explosion and I haven’t followed up on it. I feel like she owes me an apology, but I’m not sure that I’m willing to spend the energy to resolve whatever conflict there is between us. I’m torn between writing her off as a bitter old mound of rage that isn’t worth my time and working to build a better relationship with her since bad vibes just aren’t a good thing to have around.

*For anybody still reading and who is still wondering what the heck pirate treasure has to do with dancing, it’s BOOTY.

I really thought we’d seen the height (depth?) of stupid ad copy back in the days of the McDonald’s “I’d hit it” ads that featured a young urban male expressing “I’d hit it” about a cheeseburger. I guess he really, um, likes his beef. Sadly, that obviously isn’t the extent of advertiser stupidity.

Take Dairy Queen, for example. Somehow, someway, in whatever cultural vacuum DQ lives in, they thought it would be a good idea to make a drink that’s part coffee (dark) and part milkshake (light) and name it the MooLatte. Go ahead and say it out loud. Sort of boggles the mind, doesn’t it? Either that or it warms the heart to see a major retailer coming out in favor of mixed race children…

It gets better though (or worse, depending on whether or not you’re the schmuck paying for some pinhead to write your ad copy). I really can’t add anything to make this product sound more inappropriate for children. Heck, I can’t make it sound more inappropriate for adults! Hasbro has “upgraded” the super-soaker water gun with their all-new Oozinator.

Here’s the marketing verbiage in case Hasbro comes to their senses and does a rewrite:

“Sneak up on your opponents with a surprise bio-ooze attack! Just when they think you’re coming at ‘em with water, blast ‘em with a shot of icky bio-ooze! Shoot out globs of gooey bio-ooze and then drench ‘em with water! It’s a double blast attack that’ll keep your opponents on their toes and running during every water fight. With the OOZINATOR blaster you don’t just get soaked, you get drenched!”

I was one of those people who laughed hysterically at the scene in Reality Bites when Winona Ryder’s character is asked to define irony. She froze up, unable to actually define the term, despite the fact that she used it all the time.

It was funny because it was true. It exposed the hypocrisy of the pseudointellectual - the sneering know-it-alls who actually don’t. And while I made it a point to memorize every possible definition of irony after watching the movie, I certainly haven’t veered very far from my hypocritical roots as a pseudointellectual.

I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill faker, no sir! I’m no smartypants dilletante who settles for weaving twenty-five-cent words into otherwise normal conversation. I take it to the limit. And I know when I’m quoting cheesy songs.

I take intellectual hypocrisy to the next level because I’m a teacher. Every day I lecture my students about the importance of personal organization and time management. I preach on and on (and on and on) about the absolute necessity of writing regularly in order to hone their craft. I even mark up their papers with lots of red ink when too many sentences begin with the same word.

Then I go and neglect my own writing so badly that my blog goes months without an update, my novel remains stalled in its second chapter, and every other sentence I compose begins with the most self absorbed of pronouns.

I am the Pot.
Goo goo g’ joob.

Dangit.

I just broke an eight-year-long-no-puking-streak. If we eliminate vomiting for… uh… collegiate indiscretions the streak would stand at ten years. That’s right, it’s been ten years since I’ve had the puking flu, and I got it BAD this week. We’re talking gut-wrenching, dry-heaving, Exorcist-like Retching. My son, who isn’t scared of ANYTHING ran away and hid under a chair when he heard me hurking up in the bathroom.

The manner in which I broke my streak… repeatedly… was so violent that I burst the blood vessels around my eyes, leaving me with puffy red eye sockets that looked as if I had just lost a boxing match and a completely bloodshot right eye. I’m not talking about a few red veiny areas on the eyeball — I’m talking about the entire white of my eye turning deep red… it’s actually kind of cool looking in a Death Rock Metal Band kind of way.

Anyway, I’m better now, though significantly weaker and lighter. Hmm.. now I don’t need to diet after the holidays! I’ll just pig out at Christmas and break even due to the week of the flu!

Jon Wood’s Gaming for Grades in the latest edition of The Escapist sounds exactly like the self-deluded rationalizations I would use to convince myself it was ok to postpone writing that term paper in order to play one more round of Marathon back in my college days.

Don’t get me wrong, his arguments are tantalizing for a teacher like me who’s also something of a closet gaming geek. How cool would it be to play video games in class? That’s about all it would be though: cool… as in nifty rather than useful. Make a case for the actual educational benefits of games in school and I’ll be the first in line to champion the cause. But just because some games might possess narrative elements does not make them stories worth studying. Heck, there are countless stories in print form that would be a waste of class time to discuss… and they’re better written than 99% of the dreck that passes for narrative in today’s video games.

What the heck — why not replace literature with video games? We’ve already replaced math with graphing calculators. I guess I better make sure my kids learn how to speak Punjabi so they can have a shot at a McJob in twenty years.

According to Henry David Thoreau, The most distinct and beautiful statement of any truth must take at last the mathematical form. So here goes:

.5+.5!=1

Confused? Maybe our old pencil-making friend didn’t have it entirely right. Or maybe it’s me that has it wrong. After all, good old Henry David did, in fact say at last rather than at first. The formula above is Computergeekese for one half plus one half does not equal one.

Actually I find it quite interesting that Thoreau, a noted transcendentalist, would be caught advocating cold hard mathematical reason as the pinnacle of expression. You see, it’s actually mathematical thinking that gives rise to the problem at hand.

My teenage years were spent obsessing over the singular goal of meeting and wooing the girl of my dreams. I suspect there’s nothing terribly unique about this, as it seems to be the driving force behind just about every decision most adolescents (the chronological as well as the emotional) make. There’s nothing wrong with this innate urge but I believe we embark on nothing more than a fool’s errand when we pursue this goal with the wrong purpose in mind, which brings us back to the little formula up top.

Between the ages of twelve and twenty-one I composed (and promptly destroyed lest they be discovered) countless anguished love poems about the great yearning in my heart for the affection of (insert girl’s name here) and how (insert girl’s name here)’s love would complete me. Imagine my horror when Tom Cruise came along and stole my line in Jerry McGuire. That’s right, I said it first. Which is to say, I was wrong first. Jerry McGuire just made women across America swoon while being wrong.

The problem, you see, lies in seeking completion in another person who is seeking the same thing. I don’t want to quibble about actual fractions here, because it works out the same regardless of whether we think of ourselves as halves or thirds or whatever. The fact of the matter is - human relationships are multiplicative rather than additive. I spent my formative years feeling like half a person (.5) who could only be completed by the addition of my ‘other half’ (.5). Were relationships additive, this would work great: a half plus a half equals…. a whole! Unfortunately, and apologies for the bad pun, even when I found another human fraction to add to my own, rather than feeling whole I couldn’t escape the hole in my heart. In fact, I inevitably wound up feeling lesser than I had solo. I’d been run over by relational multiplication:

.5*.5=.25

But wait you say, what if a whole and complete human being who has achieved the ultimate in personal enlightenment should take it upon themselves to rescue somebody who doesn’t quite have all the answers yet! The multiplication problem still remains:

1*.5=.5

Well I’ve strung you along far enough now and the conclusion should loom large in the realm of the obvious. If my basic contention is that human relationships are multiplicative rather than additive, the only possibility for a healthy relationship is when two complete people find one another mutually irresistible.

1*1=1

There is, of course, the question of what it takes to be a complete person and how one determines if the object of their affections is as well. That, I’m afraid, is another topic for another post but I’ll leave you to consider this: Henry David Thoreau appears to have had it right after all, for the mathematical form of this relational truth carries a certain elegance even my verbosity cannot tarnish. Unfortunately, I believe G.K. Chesterton said it best when he claimed that You can only find truth with logic if you have already found truth without it.

I’ve spent the past few years sneering at all the pathetic bloggers in the world. What a bunch of boring navel-gazers. Now I’ve finally broken down and become one of them. But I promise not to do any belly-button staring. At least not at my own.

One of the things I’m most excited about with touchmonkey is the opportunity it provides me to cover topics I would hesitate to broach if I were writing under my actual name. I know conventional wisdom holds that internet anonymity is often misused as a license for anti social behavior, but I’d like to think that anything anti-social I have to say here is strictly called for - rather than the typical anonymous internet tough guy rantings that pollute message boards, list serves, and… blogs.

So — what will touchmonkey cover? Anything and everything that seems worth writing about. At the very least, it will be a good writing exercise. At best? Somebody might learn something.