In other news:
A Panda Bear eats, chutes, and leaves.
These grammarians are not so bright as they seem...
Put that in your chute and smoke it.
Vengeance!
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
To Set Things Straight
Some things you should know about James:
He doesn't say intimidating things ala Christopher Walken, but he does do the intimidating things that Christopher Walken would say. You will not be told that "your tone is all wrong." He won't say, "Your talkin to my guy all wrong. You do it again, and I'll stab you in the face with a soldering iron." James isn't much for conversation.
However, if you do make the mistake of using the wrong tone with James' guy, then, you may very well be stabbed in the face with a soldering iron. There's witnesses to this very occurrence. Witnesses who swear they couldn't believe that liquefied metal could plunge daringly through a man's left cheek and out his right with such grace. This happened twice just last May. Neither time were words exchanged.
James likes to make a point, going as far as to say that he'd do two or three years in Riker's to achieve that end.
And as such, if he feels a point needs to be made, he'll come right through this computer screen and make one. Don't say you haven't been warned. Chuck Norris has nothing on me.
He doesn't say intimidating things ala Christopher Walken, but he does do the intimidating things that Christopher Walken would say. You will not be told that "your tone is all wrong." He won't say, "Your talkin to my guy all wrong. You do it again, and I'll stab you in the face with a soldering iron." James isn't much for conversation.
However, if you do make the mistake of using the wrong tone with James' guy, then, you may very well be stabbed in the face with a soldering iron. There's witnesses to this very occurrence. Witnesses who swear they couldn't believe that liquefied metal could plunge daringly through a man's left cheek and out his right with such grace. This happened twice just last May. Neither time were words exchanged.
James likes to make a point, going as far as to say that he'd do two or three years in Riker's to achieve that end.
And as such, if he feels a point needs to be made, he'll come right through this computer screen and make one. Don't say you haven't been warned. Chuck Norris has nothing on me.
The Legend
Pseudonym Jim (please call me James) is an evil, heinous, villainous soul. He plunges his worn battle axe into innocents without hesitation. He pillages villages, ravages cabbages, and rhymes unabashedly and without scheme. Worst of all--he feels no sorrow for what he has done. He'll wake up bright an early tomorrow and repeat it all over again.
When he was young, he called out in class without ever raising his hand. He spoke solely in profanities and vulgarities. He had no consideration for what anyone thought of him. His personal hygiene was abhorrable, his bad habits incorrigible. He didn't learn much in the classroom, but the playground, well that was his battlefield. He killed three peers with a dodgeball in one day, and believe me, there's witnesses who will attest to that.
"I heard he filled the dodgeball with rocks,"
some said.
"No, he simply has superhuman strength,"
others insisted.
I know the truth.
"James rules! Not O'Doyle, James! Long live James! Long live James! Long live James!"
But they called him Jim. They insisted that if he was only a pseudonym, he could do no harm. They knew they could never bring those three children back. Nor the others, the many, many others. They insisted that if they could kill his legend, they could kill him with that legend.
They were wrong.
When he was young, he called out in class without ever raising his hand. He spoke solely in profanities and vulgarities. He had no consideration for what anyone thought of him. His personal hygiene was abhorrable, his bad habits incorrigible. He didn't learn much in the classroom, but the playground, well that was his battlefield. He killed three peers with a dodgeball in one day, and believe me, there's witnesses who will attest to that.
"I heard he filled the dodgeball with rocks,"
some said.
"No, he simply has superhuman strength,"
others insisted.
I know the truth.
"James rules! Not O'Doyle, James! Long live James! Long live James! Long live James!"
But they called him Jim. They insisted that if he was only a pseudonym, he could do no harm. They knew they could never bring those three children back. Nor the others, the many, many others. They insisted that if they could kill his legend, they could kill him with that legend.
They were wrong.
Monday, October 29, 2007
A Leaf
A leaf is only a leaf if you let it be a leaf. Theoretically, a leaf could actually be whatever you decide you would like it to be. For my purposes, this leaf will be a window—not a window glimpsing my imagination, but a window into my past.
A leaf makes me feel reminiscent of my past. The same leaf that now sits on my windowsill could just as easily be the leaf that long ago initially crackled but was later reduced to dust beneath my footstep, blew out to sea, and was absorbed in a high tide. The leaf on my windowsill is green, but the former leaf was not.
The former leaf was glowing orange and fire red. It was in a giant pile of its brothers, some of whom shared the same color, but some of whom were as yellow as the sunshine, as green as the Irish countryside, or even a miraculous purple that occurs only in a select few of those who have fallen to the ground victim of a harsh Autumn wind. Even those leaves whose brown staunchly contrasted the life in their still-green counterparts, did not feel it was their business representing death, as George Moore or James Joyce might have once suggested.
No, those rogue brown leaves refused to represent death. Rather, they represented life to come. They persevered to maintain their status as a longing certainty that everything is cyclical. The children who played atop of these leaves, crushing them into smaller and smaller tattered bits, fed off of their spirit.
I fed off of their spirit. The brown leaves, the orange-red, the green and the yellow, even that miraculous purple. And so it is that a green leaf on my windowsill reminds me of my days spent in youthful bliss.
This green leaf is a window in itself. The window that allows me to view neatly raked piles of Autumns past—when stress didn’t seem omnipresent, worries were few, and jumping in was not a choice but a certainty.
To be continued...
A leaf makes me feel reminiscent of my past. The same leaf that now sits on my windowsill could just as easily be the leaf that long ago initially crackled but was later reduced to dust beneath my footstep, blew out to sea, and was absorbed in a high tide. The leaf on my windowsill is green, but the former leaf was not.
The former leaf was glowing orange and fire red. It was in a giant pile of its brothers, some of whom shared the same color, but some of whom were as yellow as the sunshine, as green as the Irish countryside, or even a miraculous purple that occurs only in a select few of those who have fallen to the ground victim of a harsh Autumn wind. Even those leaves whose brown staunchly contrasted the life in their still-green counterparts, did not feel it was their business representing death, as George Moore or James Joyce might have once suggested.
No, those rogue brown leaves refused to represent death. Rather, they represented life to come. They persevered to maintain their status as a longing certainty that everything is cyclical. The children who played atop of these leaves, crushing them into smaller and smaller tattered bits, fed off of their spirit.
I fed off of their spirit. The brown leaves, the orange-red, the green and the yellow, even that miraculous purple. And so it is that a green leaf on my windowsill reminds me of my days spent in youthful bliss.
This green leaf is a window in itself. The window that allows me to view neatly raked piles of Autumns past—when stress didn’t seem omnipresent, worries were few, and jumping in was not a choice but a certainty.
To be continued...
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I'm in the Witness Protection Program
So, during my long hiatus, I came upon a job teaching sixth grade. I decided I didn't want my students reading any thing I might have written during my "formative?" years.
For some time, I was content to just not write and/or leave my posts hidden until I could find an appropriate way to deal with this dilemma. My solution would of course need to appeal to my laziness. Nothing ever came along. However, I've decided this will have to do.
Yes, my full name is in the email address that's attached to this account, but I've done rigorous testing to ensure my privacy. By rigorous testing, I mean that I've googled myself. My feelings: if Google can't find me, a bunch of sixth graders can't either.
Just to be safe, I won't deliberately demean or make fun of any of my students as a coping mechanism on this blog. At some point, I'll make a new blog for that.
Pseudonym Jim, over and out.
For some time, I was content to just not write and/or leave my posts hidden until I could find an appropriate way to deal with this dilemma. My solution would of course need to appeal to my laziness. Nothing ever came along. However, I've decided this will have to do.
Yes, my full name is in the email address that's attached to this account, but I've done rigorous testing to ensure my privacy. By rigorous testing, I mean that I've googled myself. My feelings: if Google can't find me, a bunch of sixth graders can't either.
Just to be safe, I won't deliberately demean or make fun of any of my students as a coping mechanism on this blog. At some point, I'll make a new blog for that.
Pseudonym Jim, over and out.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
To Learn or Not to Learn
I talked to my mother and father today, coaching them on the need to nag my brother into actually completing college. (He'll begin college this fall). Kind of makes me think: Was it worth it? Five years. Two degrees. I don't know, 30 or 40 classes. Hundred-something credits. Was it worth it?
Do I actually know more at 23, post-college, than I did at 18, pre-college? The answer is obviously yes. However, there's a good chance I would have picked up a thing or two over the past five years with or without the benefit of a college education.
I now have a job as a teacher. Yes, I'm still in school; I'll just be sitting in a bigger desk facing the opposite direction. I'm weighing my options in regards to more school. Part of the masters application process will be completion of a general knowledge exam. Five years of school and I'll be taking a "general knowledge exam" just to earn the right to keep going. What the hell is "general knowledge?"
Could we file how to change a tire under general knowledge? Somehow I don't see the exam featuring a jack or tire-iron. Then again, I didn't learn how to change a tire in school; no, some things can't be picked up in a classroom as easily as they can on the side of a highway in pouring rain.
Do I actually know more at 23, post-college, than I did at 18, pre-college? The answer is obviously yes. However, there's a good chance I would have picked up a thing or two over the past five years with or without the benefit of a college education.
I now have a job as a teacher. Yes, I'm still in school; I'll just be sitting in a bigger desk facing the opposite direction. I'm weighing my options in regards to more school. Part of the masters application process will be completion of a general knowledge exam. Five years of school and I'll be taking a "general knowledge exam" just to earn the right to keep going. What the hell is "general knowledge?"
Could we file how to change a tire under general knowledge? Somehow I don't see the exam featuring a jack or tire-iron. Then again, I didn't learn how to change a tire in school; no, some things can't be picked up in a classroom as easily as they can on the side of a highway in pouring rain.
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