Thursday, August 30, 2012

Quick my heart, and berby stir

I must too fast my wordys be
for today is inservice day


Lacking access to Greenwich Mean Time, I was late for the inservice day.

Which is a little unfortunate, since they chose this particular morning to honor me for ten years of service in front of several hundred staff members.

One can only imagine the awkwardness: the Supertintrident clutching my certificate and 25.00 Target gift card, repeating my name into the microphone; so many educators turning their heads, munching their mini-Snickers, looking around for me and only me.

Like Tom Sawyer at his own funeral, I wish I had been in the rafters, watching them say nice things about me.

I discovered having a blog is a similar experience to this.

I also dreamt last night that I was a stick of gum, being placed carefully into a backpack.

I kept waving one gummy hand to the dreaming me.

Here is what it looked like, sort of:

Darn it.

I have a much better sketch of this haunting image here in my hand, but I can't scan it into the computer.

It's drawn on the back of my Explanation of Benefits package, which is a neat document wherein they explain how all my paychecks are silly because they are not made of money anymore, just deductibles and marshmallow fluff.

You will never see the artistry I hold in my hand, the bold lines that describe the impossible, the man of gum waving goodnaturedly to the man of flesh.

You won't see it because our technology department did something awesome.

They updated our computer but none of our peripherals. The second these became Windows 7 machines, our printers, scanners, and cameras became oddly shaped and impractical paper weights.

How did they not notice the obvious age and obscurity of our scanner?

For crying out loud, it consists of a little man named Walter who takes what you want scanned and draws a copy of it directly onto your monitor.

So having a blog is like being present at your own funeral, lurking nearby, in that sometimes people talk about you on the Internet without your knowledge.

For example, I got a few hits from something called "Get off My Internets".

Someone on there wrote, in reference to me, "sometimes I read him and think, that dude needs a therapist.."
which I thought was pretty good.

Luckily this was posted in the section titled "Stay on My Internets", which was very flattering.

So if you want to talk about me somewhere on the Internet, please do, which is basically the pointless summation of this pointless digression.

But all that to the side, I missed my recognition and had to ask someone what they said about me.

She thought for a moment, "Um...they said, 'does anyone know where he is?'"


Take that, all you doubters of my competency!

Give me the Target card, I'm off to buy Legos and a Moon Pie on this fine, fine inservice day.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

How badly to think about hard things

I recently decided to become smart.

This process begins with a trip to a library.

After checking out a large stack of books on such topics as String Theory, the Higgs bosom, and fringe physics, I go home.

I have always envied the ease with which scientific people be sciency.

It comes so natural to them, and I wish I had something that came naturally to me.

On the toilet now, flipping through one of these tomes, it occurs to me that I have no idea what anyone is talking about.

I am sitting at the school computer because summer is over.

My thoughts are no smarter now than they were a month ago, despite my lavatorial dabblings in science.

This is my 11th year at this job.

If a man sobs in a classroom with three other people around, does the falling tree make a sound?

Does nothing ever change in Gweenbrick's bag of thematic tricks?


Still chubby, still bald, still puzzled by a total lack of financial security.

I did eat an entire bag of tortilla chips smothered in melted cheese recently, a depression fueled dip in the moral quagmire of nacho orgies and all night Minecraft.

When you check the clock at 3.00 in the morning, yellow grease stains fanned out in a spatter pattern from your slack, open mouth, your mind on a dizzying high from the pixellated tower you have just formed, built according to the Golden Mean, you realize that your life has spun its great climax and you are now half dozing through the twilight of its afterglow.

There is no progress or regression; there is just aged, feeble stasis, most notable for its wretched breath and forward head posture.

Forward head posture is one of my deepest fears, which goes a long way towards pinpointing just exactly what is wrong with America.


Have not drawn in a month so a bit rusty.