Come Again Some Other Day

It has now been raining for going on 16 hours straight. I have three pairs of socks drying in the bathroom, I have to wipe off my dogs' feet every time they go outside and come back in, and my hair is made of tarantulas.

How do you non-San Diegans do this on a regular basis?

Alms for the Prof

I just read an interesting article debunking myths about teacher pay. (In case it's not clear, the myth is that we're paid enough. Cause, you know, we're not.)

I think the article raised several good points. To wit:

- We are vastly under-compensated for our education level, particularly when one takes into account the ludicrous number of hours spent planning and grading outside of the students' school day.

- Unlike wages in similar fields, teachers' wages have not kept up with inflation since 1996, and the gap between our pay and that of comparably educated professionals has been increasing since 1979.

- Many argue that our fabulous health benefits make up for our low wages (a position that acknowledges the paltriness of the wages to begin with); however, this is less and less true. I work for the only district in the county that still fully covers health benefits. Most districts no longer do so, a fact I attribute evenly between the unjustifiably rising costs charged by the health industry and the successful war being waged on unions by corporate crooks. But I digress.

Anyway, there are a litany of other interesting facts, but I'll let you read the article. However, there was one point omitted which I'd like to add. Contrary to popular belief, teachers do not receive paid holidays or vacations. We are paid for exactly the number of days we work - no more, and no less. Sure, I didn't have to go to work all last week... but I wasn't paid for those days either. I show up to work for 184 days, and I am paid for 184 days. On the one hand, that means a lower denominator for my overall wages, partially accounting for the discrepancy between my pay and, say, a financial analyst's. On the other hand, even looking at my daily wage using the number 184, my pay is still egregiously low.

Also, unlike, say, a financial analyst, I'm not actively trying to swindle my clients out of anything but their youth and freedom. Bully for me.

And now your moment of Zen:

"The rewards of working with children make up for low pay." — Hypothetical Critic of Teacher Salary Increases, per the aforementioned article

Um, has this (hypothetical) person ever met a teenager? Because, you know, having a 15-year-old tell you to go to hell - not so much with the making up for crappy wages.

2007 A.D. (After Dial-Up)

The Republican presidential candidates are having a debate hosted by YouTube.

Someone run and tell the king.

...

E.T.A.: One of the questions is posted in folk-song format. It's, um. Well, it's in tune.

An Article about Articles

Apparently the word "the" is out of vogue in some places - and by some places I mean San Francisco, and by out of vogue I mean not used in reference to freeways. A friend of mine visited recently, and when I mentioned that we would be taking "the 5" he said that he'd forgotten we do that down here... that being putting "the" before the freeway number. Rather than getting on "the 5" up in the land of really big bridges I guess they just get on "5."

I can't even type it out without feeling weird.

So is this "the" business just a southern California thing? Do you people articulate your articles when ambulating? Is this where The The got their name???

Please to be disambiguating now.

Sticking One's Foot in One's Mouth

I could write a post here extolling the myriad merits of the canine breed. I could craft an impassioned defense of all things doggy - a true love letter to every dog who has ever licked my face when I was sad, wagged his tail when I scratched his ears just so, or grunted with satisfaction when I collapsed on top of her on the couch. I could write that post, and someday I probably will.

But today, as I sat here watching my dog go about her usual business of lounging on the floor no doubt contemplating the relative merits of tennis balls and rope bones, the following thought came to me: I'm really glad I'm a member of a species that doesn't require putting my own feet into my mouth in order to complete the bathing process.

Toad the Spin Jam

A local radio station is having a "Smells like the '90s Weekend" which, while moronically named, has made me feel weirdly nostalgic. The music I grew up with is now retro. I expect my minivan to be arriving in the mail any day now.

But ever the optimist (no, really) I've decided to take this opportunity to pay tribute to what I am hereby officially declaring to be the top ten pop songs of the nineties. Seattle bands need not apply.

1. "No Rain" - Blind Melon
2. "Popular" - Nada Surf
3. "Undone - The Sweater Song" - Weezer
4. "Song 2" - Blur
5. "Sister Havana" - Urge Overkill
6. "Seether" - Veruca Salt
7. "Low" - Cracker
8. "Plowed" - Sponge
9. "Pretend We're Dead" - L7
10. "Cannonball" - Breeders

Honorable mentions go to "Walk on the Ocean" by Toad the Wet Sprocket, "Laid" by James and "Jimmy Olsen's Blues" by the Spin Doctors. And "Glycerine" by Bush. I clearly have no soul.

Now, fellow children of the '90s, tell me what I'm missing... mostly so I can go find it on Rhapsody.

Confessions of a Burgeoning Bookaphobe

Ye gods. I think going to college made me stop reading. I'd like a little less irony with my coffee next time, universe.

I used to read so much that it's a wonder my eyes didn't liquify and dribble right down my face. I have memories of my mother steering me across parking lots because I refused to put my book down long enough to locate the crosswalk; I remember having to read sentences in three or four word snippets as my parents' car passed under streetlights. I was that kid in that movie with that flashlight under the covers, entranced by dragons or detectives or dastardly deeds long after lights out.

Then I went to college.

Somewhere in between mathematically constructing a fractal and learning how to deconstruct my ontology, I think I forgot how to read. I mean sure, I can still technically read. I do it all the time - street signs, news magazines, cable bills. It's still a compulsion. Hand me a box of toothpaste and I'll probably read the back of it. I think my husband actually tried that once.

But I don't know how to read. I'm somewhere in between chapters six and seventeen in probably five different books, but I can't seem to keep my brain from skittering away to some other diversion. I don't know if it was the working three jobs or the crazy college newspaper deadlines or the being forced to digest and intelligently respond to anywhere from 20 to 200 pages of material each day, but something about getting all book-learned sure has made me book-leery. And if I can't read anymore, how in the world am I supposed to write?

Yeah, yeah, I know. Shut up emo kid.

Of Paupers and Princes

Today I watched a movie featuring a rat. I took each of my dogs for her own walk. I met my husband's uncle, a traveling pastor, and his exceedingly kind wife for the first time. I drank a glass of Merlot. I read an article in The Nation discussing the irrelevance of atheism in carving out a new Muslim identity in the New World**. I contemplated joining the Sierra Club. I ate a plate of leftover lasagna.

What I did not do was purchase anything.

In addition to being the much-touted "biggest shopping day of the year" (vomit) today is also Buy Nothing Day, a loosely organized 24-hour moratorium on shopping designed to stick it to the capitalist running dogs (and, in my case, involved literal running dogs). The crux of Buy Nothing Day is to raise awareness of the greedily excessive nature of American consumer culture and the adverse impact of that culture on our environment - and also our souls, if one trucks with such concepts.

Interestingly enough, MTV (of tits and ass fame) refused to run a paid add publicizing Buy Nothing Day on the grounds that the content was objectionable for their young viewers. Yeeeeeeeah. The add may be viewed here. Be forewarned - there's a remarkable dearth of both tits and ass. Won't somebody think of the children?

** This is what we're being called again, much to my immense amusement. The New World, that is. Not atheists. Although possibly that too.

Turkey Lurkey

In past years I've spent time on Thanksgiving thinking about the general bogusness of the holiday, the tyranny of the Spaniard, the utter lack of green bean and almond casseroles back in the day, etc. This period of obligatory oppressor's guilt is generally followed by stuffing my face with Tofurkey and pie.

Today I find this ritual to be unnecessary for one very simple reason: Clearly, we have skipped Thanksgiving altogether this year and moved straight on to Christmas. Yesterday I was at Starbucks and the usual fall decorations were replaced by shiny red things galore. Also, they played that DAMN rum-pa-pum-pum song, which, okay, is probably what I get for being at Starbucks. Fashion Valley was the same - Santas, snowmen, nary a pumpkin in sight.

Next year I anticipate saving some money by dressing up as a reindeer for Halloween.

So, Happy Christmahannukwanzugiving!

And now your moment of Zen:

"He's a holy roller, dude. I think his Bible takes place in Las Vegas and Elvis has something to do with it." - Cole the Terrible

Fascist Much?

Per my friend Lance, I just read the following article: Driver Tased for Asking Officer Why He Was Stopped.

In short, a guy is pulled over for an alleged traffic violation, refuses to sign the ticket because the officer can't explain what law he's broken, and is then tased with 50,000 volts of electricity. The article contains a link to a 9-minute video of the entire incident, which was actually videotaped by the cops. My favorite part is when the man's pregnant wife jumps screaming from the car only to have the officer menacingly wave his handcuffs at her and chase her back in. Other highlights include the man asking for his rights to be read to him only to have the officer arrest him without doing so (which, um, illegal) and the officer joking about the man having taken "a ride with Mr. Taser." (Question: Should people who name their weapons "Mr. Name of Weapon" be allowed to have them in the first place? Talk amongst yourselves.)

According the linked article, 300 people in the United States in the past year alone have died from being tased. Nonetheless, thanks to the ceaseless "pesky rule-breakers deserve whatever they get" rhetoric pumped out by our pathetic excuse for a Fourth Estate, tasing is considered an acceptable way for a police officer to control an uncooperative suspect. This is deeply problematic because the role of the police officer is simply to apprehend potential criminals. The officer's role is not to decide whether or not alleged criminals are guilty, and certainly not to mete out punishment if they are. That's why we have the judicial branch - to adjudicate.

Okay, yes, arguing with cops is pointless and inadvisable - but NOT ILLEGAL. And even if it were, it's not a crime meriting a physical beating. Those facts appear to be lost on a significant portion of the law enforcement population; or even more frightening, many of them seem not to care.

Isn't there some sort of sociopath screening process these people go through before they're all badged up? I know there are a lot of decent people who go into law enforcement because they sincerely want to do good in the world. The police officer who works at my school is a great (and sane) guy who keeps the place safe. My cousin worked undercover in vice for years keeping drugs away from kids. And rednecks. There were mullets involved. Anyway. My beef is not with them, or with officers like them. I take issue with those would-be goosesteppers who become cops because Professional Hall Monitor isn't actually a career. I suspect there are a great deal more of them than we would care to admit.

What sort of society allows its police to harass and attack members of the citizenry simply for demanding that their rights be respected? As a student of history, let me say that there is a right answer to this question, and it is not the sort of society described in the brochure.

Dealbreakers

I've been thinking a lot about what makes a plot untenable for me - those elements the presence of which makes a book unreadable, a show unwatchable (or a person unbearable). Everyone's got them. My sister-in-law, for example, couldn't deal with watching Trainspotting after she had children due to the creepy dead baby scene. Me, I can jive with creepy dead babies, but there are a few things that will send me walking right out of a theatre.

The first, of course, is violence against dogs. Go ahead and chop a guy's head off, eat someone's face, but shank Fido and you're dead to me. Not only is it virtually impossible for me to process on a purely personal level (because, you know, PUPPY!) but I also think it's a cheap trick. Killing a dog is a guaranteed way to tweak your audience's emotions without having to do any work. Conversely, killing off a sympathetic human character means you have to go through the hassle of actually creating a sympathetic character first. Dogs come all pre-symphathized. Much to my chagrin, otherwise decent movies and books fall into this trap all too often - I mean, did Johnny Depp really need to nail his own dog to the door in Secret Window?** Blech.

My second dealbreaker is unnecessary jingoism. Granted, you expect a certain amount of patriotic rah-rahing in, say, Saving Private Ryan. But when it shows up randomly in some romantic comedy or a comic book adaptation geared toward filterless kiddies, it officially enters the Land of Lame. The most recent offender I've seen was Transformers. There I sat, happily watching a beloved childhood cartoon made CGI-flesh, when all of the sudden I was bombarded with a slew on non-plot-enhancing pro-military mumbo jumbo. Oh! And Spiderman 3? With the gratuitous American flag cameo? Why? It pulls me out of the plot and annoys me to no end. If I wanted an earful about how fabulous the good old U. S. of A. is, I'd turn on FOX News.

My third and final dealbreaker is the presence of one Teddy Dunn of Veronica Mars fame. Or rather, "fame." This one is highly subjective, involving my deep aversion to talentless hacks. Moving on.

So what are your dealbreakers? (Nobody say spaceships or I'll cry.)

** And now your moment of Zen:

An imdb search in quest of Secret Window's title revealed that Johnny Depp's trademark is apparently "highly defined cheekbones." Huh.

Old

When I was small(er) I used to bounce of bed as soon as the sky turned pink and immediately accost the television in order to spend the greatest possible number of minutes watching short, pig-like men hunt wabbits (or whatever the cartoon du jour happened to be). The prospect of lounging around in bed when there was a perfectly good world just waiting to be tromped around in seemed absurd. Attempts to rouse my parents were generally met with muffled go-aways till the hour-hand hit at least eight, and just as well, because they probably would have changed the channel anyway.

Today I rolled grumpily out of bed at 10:00, largely because my neck itched and there was a dog standing on my kidney. God I'm old.

Speaking of people who are increasingly geriatrically inclined, happy birthday to my youthful partner in cartoonage, Neal. I hope you like the prostate health book I bought you.

Culinary Creativity

Yesterday I invented a sushi roll.

Innards: Two parts crab, one part tuna, one part avocado. Hat: Three parts salmon, one part avocado.

I call it the What-a-Panda-Would-Look-Like-if-It-Were-a-Fish. May later shorten to Panda Fish.

Also, I'd like to officially express my displeasure with the fact that the latest Coen brothers movie apparently involves some sort of doggie death scene, thereby preventing me from enjoying what I'm sure is otherwise a film made of awesome. What happened to the tasteful sort of man-eating mulcher scenes I'd come to expect from these fraternal auteurs?

Two paws down.


(p.s. Props to Ryan for giving me witty material to steal - e.g. blog title.)