I had the most absurd visit to Dunkin' Donuts the other day.
I go in and order a plain bagel with plain cream cheese and a large latte. Ordinarily I would get a black coffee, but I had just received news that I was hired for this position I really wanted, so...actually, I don't know why I'm explaining my need to treat myself.
Anyway, apparently you cannot simply get a plain latte. You must choose out of 70 plus flavors and then specifically ask for it to be "hot" instead of iced or cold or whichever other temperature they use for coffee these days.
Yes, I know that part was annoying, but it had to preface this:
While the man behind the counter is endlessly listing espresso flavors, this guy behind me begins to sigh really loudly and continues to bemoan and for the 30 second wait through which he must suffer. I was perfectly content with hearing him obnoxiously mutter, "Come on!" until he says, "Don't you know what kind of latte you want? It's really not that hard! Jesus!"
Color me PISSED.
Without turning around, I retorted, "Take it easy, big guy. You'll get your coffee!" As I turned around to complete my response with an icy glare, I saw my main offender. I was right, he was a big guy. A big guy. Huge. I felt terrible. I call people "big guy" "man" "dude" "champ"...any number of things. I've never had it backfire on me like that before.
I turned back around with my mouth open only to realize that the guy handing me my bagel had six fingers. He had a smaller thumb attached to his regular thumb. The small thumb even had a nail. My mouth opened wider.
Two things make this situation more absurd than it already was to begin with:
1.) My librarian friends and I always joke with each other if one of us is dressed as or behaving like a stereotypical librarian. Well, folks, that day I looked like no one other than your local prudish librarian. Which may or may not make what I did on my way out even more ridiculous -
2.) I stuck out my tongue. As I was leaving, the "big guy" gave me this horrible sneer and narrowed his eyes at me. So, I behaved as any other middle-class, educated, decent human being would. I stuck out my tongue at him. It was like instinct. I still have no idea why I did it, but the toddler in me seemed to have a quicker reaction time than whatever etiquette I've been taught. Ultimately, I don't regret doing it, but it's just curious to me how I did it without really thinking.
I think what pisses me off most about the situation is that I pride myself in being a really accommodating customer. I've never sent food back, I tip really well, I don't complain about waiting, I (usually) don't even think twice about picking hairs out of food and continuing on. Seriously, when it comes to serving me: I'm a dreamboat. So when someone else displays absolutely asinine behavior for no reason at all other than the customer in front of them is listening to their choices, I see red.
In a perfect world, I would've just gotten a black coffee. Then again, in a perfect world, the guy serving me wouldn't have had three thumbs.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
On ABBA
I finally watched "Mamma Mia!" last week. It made me realize (or just rediscover) a few things:
1.) Meryl Streep might just be the funniest woman on the planet. And she really is gorgeous.
2.) Pierce Brosnan's voice is mediocre-on-toast. How, you ask, did the producers work around that? Why, simply by removing any buttons on his shirt that would impede his chest hair from flowing out, over, and into the minds of all the middle-aged women of the audience. Seriously, it was ridiculous. It made me think of the only Garfield comic strip I can quote, where Jon Arbuckle's grandmother (or elderly aunt, or whatever) is asked what she wants for Christmas. Bawdy broad that she is, she answers, "Oh, just a nice throw pillow. Stuffed with John Travolta's CHEST HAIR!"
I'm telling you right now...Brosnan's glistening curls could be knitted into a nice afghan big enough to cover all of this blog's readers. Namely, me.
3.) On a similar note, I'm completely convinced that the producers found any excuse to get Colin Firth's shirt off throughout the movie. I'll be the first to admit that Firth gets me a little hot under the collar...but my attraction is entirely not torso-related. I suppose what I realized here was that some women maybe are into Colin Firth's chest and stomach. Women who are attracted to him for his physical appearance, and not for his mumbling, awkward, slightly insecure British behaviors. Weird.
4.) Listening to ABBA is as close to a celestial experience as I'll ever have. The movie didn't make me realize this but I made sure to loop ABBA while commuting all last week...so I've had a lot of time to deconstruct my feelings about them.
I've called them a guilty pleasure before, but I'm taking that back right now.
The thing about the Northern Europeans is that they seem to have found the formula for beauty in art a long time ago and now they're just building upon that. Obviously I cannot spell out this formula, for I have no Northern European blood in me.
Take, for instance, Gustav Klimt's "The Virgins":
1.) Meryl Streep might just be the funniest woman on the planet. And she really is gorgeous.
2.) Pierce Brosnan's voice is mediocre-on-toast. How, you ask, did the producers work around that? Why, simply by removing any buttons on his shirt that would impede his chest hair from flowing out, over, and into the minds of all the middle-aged women of the audience. Seriously, it was ridiculous. It made me think of the only Garfield comic strip I can quote, where Jon Arbuckle's grandmother (or elderly aunt, or whatever) is asked what she wants for Christmas. Bawdy broad that she is, she answers, "Oh, just a nice throw pillow. Stuffed with John Travolta's CHEST HAIR!"
I'm telling you right now...Brosnan's glistening curls could be knitted into a nice afghan big enough to cover all of this blog's readers. Namely, me.
3.) On a similar note, I'm completely convinced that the producers found any excuse to get Colin Firth's shirt off throughout the movie. I'll be the first to admit that Firth gets me a little hot under the collar...but my attraction is entirely not torso-related. I suppose what I realized here was that some women maybe are into Colin Firth's chest and stomach. Women who are attracted to him for his physical appearance, and not for his mumbling, awkward, slightly insecure British behaviors. Weird.
4.) Listening to ABBA is as close to a celestial experience as I'll ever have. The movie didn't make me realize this but I made sure to loop ABBA while commuting all last week...so I've had a lot of time to deconstruct my feelings about them.
I've called them a guilty pleasure before, but I'm taking that back right now.
The thing about the Northern Europeans is that they seem to have found the formula for beauty in art a long time ago and now they're just building upon that. Obviously I cannot spell out this formula, for I have no Northern European blood in me.
Take, for instance, Gustav Klimt's "The Virgins":
I'll end this by offering up a small anecdote that articulates how emotional and excited I get about ABBA. A few years ago, while walking around the Towson Festival, I stopped at a used book booth. As I was browsing, I heard this flute being played and I looked up. Across the booth there sat this little old man, playing that flute. The song he was playing was "Chiquitita" and as soon as I realized what it was, my eyes filled up with tears. Partly because it was ABBA, and hearing that man play that song made me realize how universally good that song is...but more importantly because before I realized what song he was playing I just assumed it was some ancient folk tune. That song sounded as timeless to me as anything. I really could've knelt down and wept right there. From fuckin' ABBA! It was like right there, at that moment, I had a glimpse of what humans are capable of creating.
Damn Swedes.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
UMBC've come a long way, baby!
UMBC is like a ghost town tonight. I'm not too shocked by this, though, because it perfectly illustrates how foreign I will come to feel on this campus from now on.
I'm kind of sad about the fact that I'm done with this place...so, to mourn my losses and celebrate this university's impact on me I will now thank UMBC for what it's given me:
O dusty toilet seat in my secret stall, nestled within my secret bathroom in the AoK library. I used you for the last time today, my friend. Was that a sob you choked back as I stood up? Or my thighs bemoaning their last hunch-squat over you? You've been true blue.
O old lady in the Administration building's cafe. It was you that first introduced me to the wonder that was (and is, but no longer for me) the frequent coffee drinkers' card. When I had one more punch to go before my free coffee, you said, "Make it a large one!" And I did, Doris (or Bea, or Ruth, or Sylvia...greatness like yours needs no name). I did make it a large one.
O Atrium, located in the front of the library. Not until my last semester was I aware that you were called an Atrium because, well, you don't really have any traits that I thought an "atrium" would have to possess to be called as such. I had my first Thai peanut salad in you...and my last one. Turns out, too many peanuts in a salad is not always a good thing.
O 88 steps outside of the Fine Arts building. My friend Sarah took a nasty spill on you YEARS ago and still has bruises. And yes, because of you, I joined the short-lived facebook group titled "I've got 99 problems and 88 of them are the steps outside the Fine Arts building."
O smoking section to the left of the FA building, where all of the English students would smoke. I had many an interesting chat with comrades, professors, janitors, etc. right there with you. I was also standing near you when someone told me they overheard my love, Larry David Professor Falco say that I was a force of nature. Nay, I say it is you, smoking section, who is any number of forces of nature. Of course, when I say force of nature, I mean a light drizzle, or humid evening, or pollen season. But I say it lovingly.
O Math/Psych building. I had countless English classes within you and will never be able to understand why that was. They should've added another slash to you if they were so keen to use you for subjects for which you were clearly not meant to be used.
O UMBC, with your hideous bauhausian late 1960's architecture and your swampy, swampy pond. You with your buildings that smell like chalk and b.o. I really will miss you. No longer will I walk down Academic Alley (which isn't actually the technical name for the main row of academic buildings, but I heard it during my first semester there and thought it was pure gold). No longer will I puzzle over why we have one of the least-terrifying mascots in the nation...the Retrievers. Never again will I buy over-priced, but surprisingly good! sushi from your cafe in the commons. Never again will I have to do the weird jog/walk/hike up bookbag trot across campus when I'm late for class.
Thanks for everything, pal.
I'm kind of sad about the fact that I'm done with this place...so, to mourn my losses and celebrate this university's impact on me I will now thank UMBC for what it's given me:
O dusty toilet seat in my secret stall, nestled within my secret bathroom in the AoK library. I used you for the last time today, my friend. Was that a sob you choked back as I stood up? Or my thighs bemoaning their last hunch-squat over you? You've been true blue.
O old lady in the Administration building's cafe. It was you that first introduced me to the wonder that was (and is, but no longer for me) the frequent coffee drinkers' card. When I had one more punch to go before my free coffee, you said, "Make it a large one!" And I did, Doris (or Bea, or Ruth, or Sylvia...greatness like yours needs no name). I did make it a large one.
O Atrium, located in the front of the library. Not until my last semester was I aware that you were called an Atrium because, well, you don't really have any traits that I thought an "atrium" would have to possess to be called as such. I had my first Thai peanut salad in you...and my last one. Turns out, too many peanuts in a salad is not always a good thing.
O 88 steps outside of the Fine Arts building. My friend Sarah took a nasty spill on you YEARS ago and still has bruises. And yes, because of you, I joined the short-lived facebook group titled "I've got 99 problems and 88 of them are the steps outside the Fine Arts building."
O smoking section to the left of the FA building, where all of the English students would smoke. I had many an interesting chat with comrades, professors, janitors, etc. right there with you. I was also standing near you when someone told me they overheard my love, Larry David Professor Falco say that I was a force of nature. Nay, I say it is you, smoking section, who is any number of forces of nature. Of course, when I say force of nature, I mean a light drizzle, or humid evening, or pollen season. But I say it lovingly.
O Math/Psych building. I had countless English classes within you and will never be able to understand why that was. They should've added another slash to you if they were so keen to use you for subjects for which you were clearly not meant to be used.
O UMBC, with your hideous bauhausian late 1960's architecture and your swampy, swampy pond. You with your buildings that smell like chalk and b.o. I really will miss you. No longer will I walk down Academic Alley (which isn't actually the technical name for the main row of academic buildings, but I heard it during my first semester there and thought it was pure gold). No longer will I puzzle over why we have one of the least-terrifying mascots in the nation...the Retrievers. Never again will I buy over-priced, but surprisingly good! sushi from your cafe in the commons. Never again will I have to do the weird jog/walk/hike up bookbag trot across campus when I'm late for class.
Thanks for everything, pal.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Stay tuned, citizens!
The following blogs pertain to a senior seminar for English/Teacher Education. Read on, if you like, but they might just bore you to tears.
I'll have something me-related up here soon. Don't worry about holding your collective breath...I already know you are.
I'll have something me-related up here soon. Don't worry about holding your collective breath...I already know you are.
Monday, April 16, 2007
You've Gotta Fight...
Brannon & Knoblauch: I'll start out with a quote this time around: "The more we know about a writer's skill, the more we have read of that individual's work or heard of his or her reputation, the greater the claim to authority. This claim can be so powerful that we will tolerate writing from that author which appears to be unusually difficult, even obscure or down-right confusing." (p 157) I agree with this completely. This explains why I forced myself through Orlando by Virginia Woolf. I hated it immediately but kept trudging through, just because it was Woolfie. What a waste.
I have to admit that I'm glad I read this before I started teaching. It's true that even when I peer review, I don't attribute much authority to the text of my peer and so I probably go in there with the preconceived notion that there are mistakes to be unrooted, problems to be solved. I would say that the descriptions of the Paternalistic teacher who swings to the conservative or the liberal is shockingly similar to the differing views that Bartholomae and Elbow have of student work. I would be so frustrated if a teacher gave me a bad grade and then told me that I really meant to say this or the other. I remember speaking to an unnamed student who had an unnamed professor who actually made a vocabulary change on the student's rough draft. It was something like changing the word "work" to "toil" or something as ridiculous. When things like that happen, the whole work stops being the student's.
The Lindbergh Ideal Text thing was crazy, but I can see people reading something like what that student wrote and making those comments. It's nuts, but it's happened before. What is profound to some is absurd to others.
I guess the answer to finding some sort of middle ground between the conservative paternal teacher and the liberal paternal teacher is really just that...take the middle road. Negotiate with the student. Talk to them about their work or better yet, ask them about it. Don't assume it's wrong if it doesn't neatly fit predetermined conventionality, but don't assume it's groundbreaking and has some sort of artistic agenda behind it.
Someone used the phrase, "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater" the other day and I thought of the Lindbergh baby. Maybe that's what really happened to him.
I have to admit that I'm glad I read this before I started teaching. It's true that even when I peer review, I don't attribute much authority to the text of my peer and so I probably go in there with the preconceived notion that there are mistakes to be unrooted, problems to be solved. I would say that the descriptions of the Paternalistic teacher who swings to the conservative or the liberal is shockingly similar to the differing views that Bartholomae and Elbow have of student work. I would be so frustrated if a teacher gave me a bad grade and then told me that I really meant to say this or the other. I remember speaking to an unnamed student who had an unnamed professor who actually made a vocabulary change on the student's rough draft. It was something like changing the word "work" to "toil" or something as ridiculous. When things like that happen, the whole work stops being the student's.
The Lindbergh Ideal Text thing was crazy, but I can see people reading something like what that student wrote and making those comments. It's nuts, but it's happened before. What is profound to some is absurd to others.
I guess the answer to finding some sort of middle ground between the conservative paternal teacher and the liberal paternal teacher is really just that...take the middle road. Negotiate with the student. Talk to them about their work or better yet, ask them about it. Don't assume it's wrong if it doesn't neatly fit predetermined conventionality, but don't assume it's groundbreaking and has some sort of artistic agenda behind it.
Someone used the phrase, "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater" the other day and I thought of the Lindbergh baby. Maybe that's what really happened to him.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Attention: Suppression!
Lauren: I thought this was great. It reminded me of when I was in high school and my crazy nutso World History teacher would give us sets of 50-70 identifications to do each night for homework. She wanted us to go through our antiquated history book and define whatever names or terms she had as identifications. I would do them for an hour and then start making stuff up. I remember I described Lloyd George (the Prime Minister of England right after WWI) as being the androgynous lead singer of the 1980's band, Culture Club. I did this with a ton of the identifications, as well as writing hidden messages such as "Tabatsko, I'm going to kill all of your ferns before the semester is out." I received an A on all of my identifications.
Anyway, yeah. this thing that Lauren did reminded me of how some teachers just look at format and the very basic clues as to what makes a good paper (1 inch margin, title, cited sources, topic sentences for each paragraph, etc.). I thought the whole thing really spoke to a teacher's awareness of student writing and maybe their attention focus on individual papers.
I did have a problem with the poorly graded paper. One of the teacher's comments was "Yuck" about a transition. Absolutely, the particular transition the student makes is not a great one, but I would be destroyed if a teacher wrote "Yuck" on my paper. Maybe I'm touchy on this because I have notably terrible transitions. I could just be overly-sensitive in this arena.
Anyway, yeah. this thing that Lauren did reminded me of how some teachers just look at format and the very basic clues as to what makes a good paper (1 inch margin, title, cited sources, topic sentences for each paragraph, etc.). I thought the whole thing really spoke to a teacher's awareness of student writing and maybe their attention focus on individual papers.
I did have a problem with the poorly graded paper. One of the teacher's comments was "Yuck" about a transition. Absolutely, the particular transition the student makes is not a great one, but I would be destroyed if a teacher wrote "Yuck" on my paper. Maybe I'm touchy on this because I have notably terrible transitions. I could just be overly-sensitive in this arena.
Bartholomae eats Elbow pasta for lunch.
It's been a considerable amount of time since I've read this...I fell off the good blogging wagon. :(
Bartholomae: I like this fellow. I suppose I don't really get what's so wrong about teaching academic writing. If it "passes as currency in the academy," (p 62) then teachers would be wrong to pass out Confederate dolla dolla bills (y'all) in lieu of skills that hold value in a community that students will be a part of for at least the next four years. Like it or not, academic writing is something that has proven itself to be useful to students in the past. Is everyone excited about it? Heck no. I happen to kind of like writing academically and even I don't respond "I get to write a thesis statement and support it with reliable, documented sources? Color me PUMPED!" I think Bartholomae is sort of arguing against the "tricking" of students into thinking what they are doing is not academic writing. Kind of like the vitamin pill in the twinkie, so to speak.
I have to agree with what he says about the work of Jane Tompkins and Mina Shaughnessy in that they are advocating (maybe?) that the work their students are doing is more authentic than academic writing. "The danger is assuming that one genre is more real than the other ( a detailed, loving account of the discourse on domesticity found in 19th century American women's magazines) - in assuming that one is real writing and the other is only a kind of game academics play."(69). Word, St. Bartholomae. "True" that. One time in class, Shipka was reading a list about what some people considered qualities of good writing. One that kept popping up was "honesty." Like, "I felt they were writing from the heart." or "Their writing was so completely honest." What does that mean? Does that speak to the authenticity of the piece? Who is writing inauthentic texts that we need to be so concerned with how "honest" something is? I'm confused by this whole idea, I guess. (I feel like I've blogged about this issue before, but I don't feel like going back and checking. You'll have to deal with my repetition.) Last word on Bartholomae: "You have to learn to write like E. B. White before you can learn to write like Gertrude Stein. Picasso couldn't have been a cubist if he hadn't learned to draw figures." (70) Yeah, totally. That's what I've been saying!
Elbow: Is Peter Elbow adorable? I just have a feeling he is. (Shipka, if you know the answer to this...don't tell me. Let a girl dream.)
Why is there a conflict between the role of the writer and the role of the academic? What defines an academic? Constraints of assignments or goals? Need for focus? How is that different from the definition of a writer? To me, even writers are working under the constraints of many things...language, background knowledge, audience, maybe publishability (who knows?). I guess I don't get why there has to be a stark contrast between these two roles or why they have to conflict at all. I feel like Bartholomae and Elbow really want to have them not conflict, and yet they insist they do. Elbow has a good point about approaching texts "We must try to come at these strong important texts: - no matter how good or hallowed they may be - as much as possible as fellow writers - as fully eligible members of the conversation: not treat them as sacred: not worry about "doing justice" to them or getting them dirty." (74) Point well taken. I agree with the "conversation" metaphor as well, and I think that academic writing can accomplish this.
I'm going to conclude this, because I don't know what else to say that hasn't already been addressed in other blogs. It looks like Bartholomae wants to tell his students to understand that they are just a small drop of water in the big, wide literature ocean. You know, be aware of your own ineffectuality. Elbow insists that students should believe themselves to be the next T.S. Eliot or something, that everything they write should be with the notion that it is utterly groundbreaking. My thoughts about student writing fall somewhere in between. Somewhere waaaay in between.
P.S. I found a note I wrote to myself when I first read this back in March. I was reading it at my local pub and I was overhearing conversations all night from the people around me. Here goes:
"Since when did the phrase 'Being real' replace 'Being yourself?'" If anyone can answer this, I'd be grateful.
Bartholomae: I like this fellow. I suppose I don't really get what's so wrong about teaching academic writing. If it "passes as currency in the academy," (p 62) then teachers would be wrong to pass out Confederate dolla dolla bills (y'all) in lieu of skills that hold value in a community that students will be a part of for at least the next four years. Like it or not, academic writing is something that has proven itself to be useful to students in the past. Is everyone excited about it? Heck no. I happen to kind of like writing academically and even I don't respond "I get to write a thesis statement and support it with reliable, documented sources? Color me PUMPED!" I think Bartholomae is sort of arguing against the "tricking" of students into thinking what they are doing is not academic writing. Kind of like the vitamin pill in the twinkie, so to speak.
I have to agree with what he says about the work of Jane Tompkins and Mina Shaughnessy in that they are advocating (maybe?) that the work their students are doing is more authentic than academic writing. "The danger is assuming that one genre is more real than the other ( a detailed, loving account of the discourse on domesticity found in 19th century American women's magazines) - in assuming that one is real writing and the other is only a kind of game academics play."(69). Word, St. Bartholomae. "True" that. One time in class, Shipka was reading a list about what some people considered qualities of good writing. One that kept popping up was "honesty." Like, "I felt they were writing from the heart." or "Their writing was so completely honest." What does that mean? Does that speak to the authenticity of the piece? Who is writing inauthentic texts that we need to be so concerned with how "honest" something is? I'm confused by this whole idea, I guess. (I feel like I've blogged about this issue before, but I don't feel like going back and checking. You'll have to deal with my repetition.) Last word on Bartholomae: "You have to learn to write like E. B. White before you can learn to write like Gertrude Stein. Picasso couldn't have been a cubist if he hadn't learned to draw figures." (70) Yeah, totally. That's what I've been saying!
Elbow: Is Peter Elbow adorable? I just have a feeling he is. (Shipka, if you know the answer to this...don't tell me. Let a girl dream.)
Why is there a conflict between the role of the writer and the role of the academic? What defines an academic? Constraints of assignments or goals? Need for focus? How is that different from the definition of a writer? To me, even writers are working under the constraints of many things...language, background knowledge, audience, maybe publishability (who knows?). I guess I don't get why there has to be a stark contrast between these two roles or why they have to conflict at all. I feel like Bartholomae and Elbow really want to have them not conflict, and yet they insist they do. Elbow has a good point about approaching texts "We must try to come at these strong important texts: - no matter how good or hallowed they may be - as much as possible as fellow writers - as fully eligible members of the conversation: not treat them as sacred: not worry about "doing justice" to them or getting them dirty." (74) Point well taken. I agree with the "conversation" metaphor as well, and I think that academic writing can accomplish this.
I'm going to conclude this, because I don't know what else to say that hasn't already been addressed in other blogs. It looks like Bartholomae wants to tell his students to understand that they are just a small drop of water in the big, wide literature ocean. You know, be aware of your own ineffectuality. Elbow insists that students should believe themselves to be the next T.S. Eliot or something, that everything they write should be with the notion that it is utterly groundbreaking. My thoughts about student writing fall somewhere in between. Somewhere waaaay in between.
P.S. I found a note I wrote to myself when I first read this back in March. I was reading it at my local pub and I was overhearing conversations all night from the people around me. Here goes:
"Since when did the phrase 'Being real' replace 'Being yourself?'" If anyone can answer this, I'd be grateful.
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