The Sound and the Jury

What do you call someone who serves on a jury?

If your name is Anna, you might say a "jury duty server." If you're anyone else, however, the answer is "juror." Say it aloud, but don't go out of your way to enunciate. Juror. Juror. Jrurr. Jurrrrr. The quicker and more frequently you say it, the more absurd it sounds. Plus, it's guaranteed to make Michael Michael and I giggle, because when you get someone to say "juror" aloud, ey look like an idiot. Sucker.

For a while, this word has been an inside joke of sorts. Like any inside joke, however, it takes a different amusing path when it somehow hits the mainstream or pop culture. Sort of like when we found out that lots of people used Laura's famous "poop on a stick" comment, though in an entirely different context.

I started watching some of the first season of 30 Rock on DVD these past couple weeks and was positively delighted by these clips:


Adding "rural" to "juror" is a brilliant, brilliant move. Rural juror -- I can't stop saying it. Or, hell, I can't stop trying to say it anyway. You try saying it five times fast.

Rural Juror is the new Toy Boat.

Belted

Assistant Principal: I love your belt.
Teacher: Thank you, it's [insert forgotten designer name]. I like it because on one side it's black and on the other side it's brown, so you can flip it over to match your outfit.
Assistant Principal: Oh neat...
Kevin: Hey, my belt's like that, too!
At this point, I look down to show off my belt, only to discover it is not around my waist as expected.
Kevin: I could have sworn...
Assistant Principal: Mr. [Kevin], I don't even want to know.
Kevin: Maybe I...
Assistant Principal: Again, I don't even want to know.

I still could swear I was wearing a belt that day.

Shark Attack

Here's a conversation from college that has been saved on my computer for more than a year and a half and has never been deemed funny enough to make it to the blog. The more time passes, the more I realize I should just delete it. Except, I can't. So in the interest of purging it, I share it here and bid it farewell.

P: M told me not to check my bag unless I absolutely had to, because they might lose it and then I'd be that guy who has to keep wearing the same clothes every day. But I was like, whatever, man, I always check my bag, and I did, and you know what happened?
A: (with all of the fake interest one could muster for an obvious rhetorical question) What?!
P: (realizing ey needs to switch it up) I was attacked by sharks! Right there in the airport.
**laughter**
J: Seriously, that's, like, my biggest fear.
**more laughter**
J: What's funny? I really am scared of that.
**further laughter**
J: What? They always lose people's bags.
K: See, I thought we were still talking about shark attacks in the airport.

Maybe you had to be there...

That Is Not the Truth

Now that I teach language learners, I feel a little guilty for having a fondness for Engrish. The best rationale I can offer is that mistakes in the English language are much cuter and more genuine when made by a non-native speaker. The fact that the use of English, even when used incorrectly, has become "trendy" in some cultures is additionally amusing to me.

I have a Vietnamese student who is a good student, but writes with awkward syntax and is often clearly confused, bless eir heart. For example, when I distributed a survey at the beginning of the year, the student's response to "What celebrity do you despise?" was "Christmas." On this same student's binder, the student has written the phrase "freinds 4eva" featuring pictures of eirself and only eirself. It's cute, really.

This language learning class is comprised mostly of students of Mexican descent who largely ignore the two Asian kids, except when there is a chance to make fun of them. When one of the Asian students makes a grammatical error, you'd think my Mexican students must be English scholars the way they criticize their peers, never mind that their dumb asses make errors at least as frequently. They also pick on the Asians students just to get a rise. One student loudly exclaimed that the Vietnamese student had a crush on the slobbish, drug-abusing Mexican student, an obvious mismatch. My Vietnamese student immediately became cross. "That is not the truth! That is not the truth!" The student's dismissal struck me as odd since most kids in America would say something like "That's a lie!" or "Not true!" "That is not the truth" seemed extremely formal. And familiar. And then it occurred to me where I encountered such a phrase before -- printed on this Japanese shirt:


What does this mean exactly? Putting aside the obvious errors, why would anyone want to wear that message anyway? And just what does the teddy bear signify? Peopie is one letter away from People, but also Poopie, which might muddy the interpretation further. I get the haunting feeling that this apparel was made by some patriarchal system to discourage women from accusing their rapists when they must have secretly wanted it all along. Then it was mass produced and the euthanasia (youth in Asia) bought it since it featured English words and a cute teddy bear.

Teeheehee. That is why Engrish is awesome. And that - that is the truth.

I Will Always Love You

During my graduate program for education, my peers and I would discuss our own educational backgrounds as a point of reference. My classmate with the most colorful background, Herman*, would often discuss eir background as a drug addict who dealt and used in eir school with no consequences. According to Herman, the worst teacher ey ever had was an English teacher who never cracked a book, instead putting on The Bodyguard every single class and proceeding to take a nap on eir desk, while the students openly snorted coke and took meth in the classroom. Initially Herman took part in these activities, but when ey finally decided ey needed to clean eir act up, Herman actually had to drop out of school in order to avoid contact with illegal substances.

Now more than a decade later, Herman is now a teacher emself in a school equally as notorious for drug use and teachers who don't give a crap. Herman does give a crap, and tries a heck of a lot harder than showing The Bodyguard in order to educate the students. Oh, and Herman's sober now, too, though ey still does feel high each time ey hears Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You."

Clear Channel: Clearly Corrupt

On my commute to work, I hear a lot of local morning radio talk shows. Most of the programs are insipid, particularly since they share the same on-air personalities. One such individual named Valentine (a not-so subliminal message to love him) started on 102.7 before moving suddenly to 98.7 at the beginning of 2007 and then this past week or so moved to 104.3. That means Valentine's been on three of the area's major radio stations in the span of less than a year. I figured I was observing a minor scandal with a wayward disc jokey disregarding loyalty and jumping between rival stations for increased pay and notoriety. When I researched the matter, however, I found out these were hardly rival stations. The reason Valentine is able to bounce so easily between these stations is that they are all owned by the same evil corporation, Clear Channel.

Chances are that if you hate mainstream radio, it's because of Clear Channel. Clear Channel owns over 1,100 radio stations across the country and runs them poorly. It takes the corporate approach to providing entertainment in that it seeks profits above all else. It has such a monopoly on the industry that it can do what it wants, including using its multiple stations in a given area to eliminate any competition. Clear Channel is widely known for utilizing payola, a system where wealthy record companies pay the stations to play their music. Though this practice is illegal in its simplest form, naturally there are plenty of loopholes that allow both parties to perpetuate their illicit business deals. If you've ever wondered why radio stations play the same crappy songs so frequently, look no further than some manipulated form of payola. Clear Channel makes money off of providing sub-par music. And it gets away with it, to boot. You can confirm that Clear Channel owns the worst stations in your area by searching its website here.

Though I've loathed the conglomerate for a long time now, I briefly worked for Clear Channel four years ago. The place I was interning for had formed some sort of loose partnership with Clear Channel as a means for promoting one another. For two days when there was nothing particularly pressing to do at my regular internship, I was relinquished to Clear Channel to assist. On the first day, I did menial tasks like hang signs. I did it poorly, I assure you: I hung them crooked and used such tiny pieces of tape on the back that they were bound to fall.

On the second day, however, I had the opportunity to distribute promotional materials with another intern on the the main street of Hartford. Clear Channel had a lot of Pop Tarts to give away for one reason or another, so my job was to distribute them to passersby. It wasn't that difficult, most people were more than happy to accept free Pop Tarts. Things proceeded swimmingly until word spread amongst the homeless community of Hartford that Pop Tarts were being handed out for free. The homeless were an aggressive clientele, but I understood that these people were hungry, so of course I didn't mind giving them Pop Tarts. Clear Channel minded, though. The supervisor came out and told us that we were to distribute Pop Tarts to "radio listeners only," which was a vaguely politically correct manner of saying that homeless people don't own radios and to not give them the product.

Right. You try giving Pop Tarts to just the people who look like they've bathed recently. It was hellish. I watched the Clear Channel intern struggle to abide by the rules and attract the ire of the homeless. On the other hand, I continued to give Pop Tarts to everyone who approached me, most of whom did appear to be homeless. My excuse was that "I couldn't tell for sure if the person was homeless," which I think is pretty legitimate, it'd be pretty discriminatory to make a snap judgment based on appearance. Besides, what were they going to do - fire me from a job I didn't really have? 'Tever! Within half an hour, we were swarmed with homeless people, which naturally kept all the "radio listeners" away from our area. As I kept handing out Pop Tarts, the other intern relented too, I suspect mostly out of fear.

The supervisor finally came out again to shut down our operation. The goal was not to make Clear Channel look like a homeless shelter, so they took away the Pop Tarts. Instead, we were given shoddy radio station keychains to distribute. Even the "radio listeners" weren't interested in accepting these. Unfortunately, the bat call was already out, and the homeless population continued to come to inquire about free Pop Tarts. The first few times I tried to offer a keychain as a consolation before realizing how ridiculous this freebie was. When you don't own a house or a car, you probably don't have use for a keychain.

Frustrated with the situation and Clear Channel in general, I told the other intern that I had to return to my other job for a meeting. Since my other job was not really expecting me, I just got in my car and drove home. I did not listen to the radio on the way home that day.

Say Hello to These

I'm pretty into this photograph taken by Andrew at a Margarita Monday a few months ago. I look like an idiot, which is always fun. What am I doing exactly? My left arm is contorted in such a way that I look mentally ill, cheering for who knows what. The redeeming aspect is Heather, laughing maniacally. That is unrestrained laughter in photographic form; if she can get her mouth open any wider, I'm afraid to see it. My whole deformed arm could probably fit in there.

Michael Michael feels the picture reminds him of that time on Arrested Development (AKA favorite television show ever) when the narrator demonstrates that Kitty does everything just like her boss, George Sr., including laughing like him, as evidenced by this photo:


Let's do a side by side comparison:


Yeah, I'm convinced. Heather=Kitty. In order to illustrate the point further, I would offer a similar comparison of both Kitty and Heather flashing their breasts while announcing, "Say good-bye to these!" but I'm afraid that Heather's dad would have me murdered.

Perverted Students

My ninth grade students are utterly perverted. Truthfully, I was too at their age (and I'll save you the trouble of commenting that I still am - shut up,) but I never put my teachers in a situation where they were forced to acknowledge this fact.

Since I'm in a new classroom, there are still some drawers that I have not yet opened. When a student asks for paperclips which I do not have, I decide to check some of the other nooks of the room as I have previously found other supplies left behind by the room's former occupant. Opening one drawer, I see nothing but two pieces of a shredded napkin and a long hair. I comment to the student that the drawer's contents are "weird" and the student replies with a suggestive, "What have you been doing, Mr. [Kevin]?" It occurs to me that this might be some sort of masturbation reference, but my honors student wouldn't possibly say such a thing to eir teacher. "What is that supposed to mean?" I say, giving em a chance to clarify. Without a sense of fear, ey says, "Oh you know..." For crying out loud, it is a masturbation reference. "That's gross," I say and walk away.

This incident is not isolated. When I have my students write extended metaphors or similes for life, one of my respectful students volunteers, "Life is like sex: good when you're with the right people." I remind everyone what kind of subjects are school appropriate, then take the next volunteer: "Life is like Flaming Hot Cheetos: it's good." Hmm, I might prefer inappropriate to stupid. I ask the student to push it further and make the comparison deeper. "It's... crunchy?" "Well, explain it. How is life crunchy?" "Um... okay, nevermind. Life is like an orgasm." Exasperated, I tell the student, "No, no, no, let's stick to Cheetos."

In my class for students still learning the English language, I have a student, "Ned," who emigrated from Cambodia a few years ago. Ned is adorably innocent compared to eir peers, a class comprised of mainly Mexican and Mexican-American students. When we discussed the concept of something being more valuable when it is rare for context in a story, I used baseball card as an example. Since then, not a class has gone by where Ned doesn't try to sell me eir one worthless baseball card, confused as to why I won't give em thousands of dollars for it. In our last class, I grew so tired of it, I actually check Ebay to demonstrate the card's real worth. Ned is unimpressed with the going rate, unwilling to go below a few hundred dollars.

For one assignment, I break my students, including Ned, into groups to design a review game for the short stories we've read. The Latino students decide they want to make "this Mexican game where you take a donkey and put a tail on it." Evidently, they feel Pin the Tail on the Donkey is too cultural for me to be familiar with it. I approve the game, so long as they incorporate a trivia aspect into it somehow. Ned is placed in charge of drawing the donkey; it looks more like a deformed dinosaur. As I circle around the room, I spy Ned cutting construction paper into tiny penises. I inquire what exactly ey is doing, and Ned replies that ey is making donkey tails. Oh right, donkey tails, though Ned's rendition of donkey tails is about as phallic as one could get without drawing veins on it. Rather than contributing any assistance, Ned's group mates just laugh at em, though Ned clearly doesn't get it. This much is evidenced when Ned places the "tail" between the dino-donkey's hind legs as an example of how the game will work. I have to continue "monitoring other students" so that I don't burst into laughter.

Later, I see the donkey idea has been scrapped in favor of a turkey, easily drawn by tracing a hand. You're all familiar with the classic game Pin the Tail on the Turkey, right? One of the main components of the game is to write clear instructions for the game for others to follow. The instructions that Ned writes are pretty much incomprehensible, except for the objective portion. "You win if you stick the tail up the turkey's butt." Apparently, putting the tail (which looks like a penis, remember) up the butt is what distinguishes Pin the Tail on in the Turkey from its lesser donkey counterpart. Upon discovering this peculiarly phrased rule, I cannot contain my laughter, a hearty, unmanageable chuckle which Ned questions. "I'm just... it's... it's an amazing game." Ned's response? "Does that mean you'll buy my baseball card?"

If any of my ninth grade students are going to be perverted, it better be by accident.

Luck Be a Liability

I used to never win things. Well, that's not actually a fair statement, as I've won plenty of things: an award for my graduate thesis, a bowling trophy, $250 at karaoke, a couple of scholarships to colleges I chose not to attend, and for two consecutive years in elementary school I won free games of miniature golf when I guessed the correct (or closest) amount of golf tees in a jar. But all of these things are based on merit. (And don't tell me that guessing about golf tees isn't merit. After years of sucking at estimation games, I realized I was far under-guessing, so I learned to always double whatever my instinct was then throw in an extra handful for good measure. Strategy.) Merit is good and all, and perhaps more important than winning something via luck, but I want prizes based off games of chance. Just once, I wanted to win something by random draw. Technically, after my senior prom, I won free miniature golf games (a reoccurring theme), but my mom was in charge of the prizes. For the record, it wasn't an instance of nepotism, but by the time the prizes were being handed out, most people had left, presumably to get drunk, so she ended up handing out prizes to anyone still there, so I don't think that counts.

Every month at work when we have staff meetings, there is a raffle. We're contractually obligated to attend, so it's not as if these raffles are a motivating factor; instead they serve to spread good will. At the beginning of my first year, each time the raffle occurred, I would tell the coworkers seated around me how I "never win" these things. For a while, the main give-away was literacy posters. Once when one teacher won the same literacy poster two months in a row, ey publicly gifted it to me, saying, "Kevin says he never wins these things" effectively passing off possession of the dumb thing and looking like a good person in the process. Apparently, this gift was enough to set the wheels in motion and turn me into a winner. Since that occasion, I have won the raffle 7/8 times. In these victories, I've amassed a second literacy poster (at which point the principal recalled that I had received the first one and inquired why it wasn't yet on my wall, meaning I was unfortunately obligated to hang it), an extra tube of chapstick, a shirt with a corporate logo, a hat, a generic and unhelpful book, a coupon to a fast food restaurant, and two dozen free digital photograph prints.

Here's the thing: I am not interested in even one of those items. It's all pretty much crap. I don't need it, I don't want it, I can't give it back, either. I tried with the shirt for example, saying "oh, I won last time," but the principal asked, "You don't want it?" in such a way that I would seem ungrateful for not accepting it.

What's worse it that I'm noticing it's starting to build up some resentment, too. You can't help but start to resent someone who is consistently lucky, even when the prizes aren't too desirable. I feel that my coworkers are more likely to remember the amount of times I've won rather than taking into account that it was just a tube of chapstick. They'll make snippy comments, even in jest, but when I try to offer/insist on sharing the wealth, they always decline, undoubtedly because it's not about the prize anyway. I would stop putting my name in the running, but the slips are how the administrators conduct attendance at the meetings, so I'm essentially bound to play.

Though I've been a fortunate person in a lot of ways, throughout my life I've always wanted to be lucky in the more traditional lottery-winning sense. But not now. With approximately 5 prizes given and nearly 100 people in the running, the odds of winning 7/8 times are, well, I'm no math teacher, but I'd say nearly astronomical. I'd like to have the ability to beat those odds on something with higher stakes or more worthwhile, but instead it's happening in this entirely unimportant, actually irritating situation. To have my unprecedented amazing streak of luck occur in this fashion makes me feel downright unlucky.

Rereunion

Pitzer College built a new dormitory, celebrating its completion with a ribbon cutting ceremony yesterday. Indeed, the construction has come a long way since being just an unconventional outlet for pervs. I had some friends attending the event, but it was a Monday, so of course I had better, more margarita-y plans in mind. Besides, if you've ever seen one ribbon cut, you might as well have seen a whole ribbon factory impaled, you know what I mean? (You shouldn't, that doesn't quite make sense.) On my ride home from work, I was hungry and not in the mood to make dinner, so when I found out Pitzer was serving free food for this event, suddenly my mind was changed. Yes, Pitzer, I will attend or your ribbon cutting ceremony, or rather, yes, I will eat the food you provide then leave before the ribbon cutting ceremony.

I met up with Christine for the meal. At first glance, I was surprised by the food, it looked fancy, and as I expressed to Christine, "I thought it would be, well, you know..." (Outdoor meals at Pitzer are notoriously underwhelming.) Rest assured, though it appeared snazzy, it tasted bland as ever. Still, a free dinner was better than one I paid for, even if it includes quasi-cooked carrots. (Overheard: "Are these raw?" "I can't tell, but they're wet.")

Notably, a lot of people were moved to stay because of the speeches, two of which were notably delivered by Robert Redford and Ed Begley Jr. As of late, Redford has been a total fop (Friend of Pitzer, and yes, I made that up) after filming part of Lions for Lambs starring Mr. Katie Holmes and some up-and-comer by the name of Meryl Streep, an upcoming movie that he directed. I was also displaced temporarily from one of my grad school classes so they could film an interior classroom scene, so I'm definitely going to have to see this movie. Check out the trailer, and get excited. The first three scenes shots are of Pitzer (excluding the roaring lion, of course):

1. Look, there's pretty Pitzer and the clock tower. I've rode my bike there, too.
2. Look, there's Mead Hall where I once lived. There are fliers on the door where I once posted fliers.
3. Look, there's the hall director's office. I've half-heartedly promised to stay sober while others consume alcohol in my dormitory suite there.
Obviously, there is much more aesthetically-pleasing footage of Pitzer to be found than certain news outlets would lead you to believe.

At any rate, these celebrities came to speak in order to commend the school for constructing buildings "pursuing the highest level of green [environmental] certification." Still, I was not interested. Don't get me wrong, I'm proud too, but the green on my mind then was that of the tint of margaritas. And with that, Christine and I bounced to "greener" pastures: Margarita Monday.

It was a good choice. Sure we missed the "light show" at Pitzer (what is Pitzer, Disneyland? A four-year-old's birthday party?), but as usual, a great time was had by all. Spencer spent a long time pondering whether to have a third margarita because he had to finish his last grad school paper, then suddenly found himself drinking his sixth, which I'm pretty sure might actually be dangerous. I'd be interested in reading this paper. Personally, I limited my intake as I vowed to last week after a gross next morning. Even having two, however, can cause problems. When Michael Michael asked how my day was, I told him that I spent nearly an hour trying in vain to plunge our clogged toilet. The alcohol clearly clouded my judgment, since as I said this fact, the guest (who I love) who had clogged the toilet was sitting next to me. Everyone instantly recognized this faux pas, as did I about two seconds too late, and reacted. Wouldn't you know, the only person not to hear my toilet comment was the clogger emself. So then the person asked me to repeat my comment, I hesitated but owned up to it and thankfully it went over well. I made sure to make it clear that the toilet breaks/clogs frequently (which is entirely true), calling it a "shitty toilet" without recognizing the pun. It is at this point that Passed Out Patty, who I was going to drive, insisted on driving me instead. I agreed, provided she leave me in charge of unlocking the doors. Burn!

So we wound up back at Pitzer for the alumni-only after party. Yet again, it was a reunion I never expected to go to until I actually went. As much as I don't like being on my old campus anymore, this event was one I could enjoy as everyone there was at least a bit out of place. They served a lot of free booze, but I stuck to my vow and abstained, though insanely Spencer, not even an alum, didn't. I chatted up the lead singer of 90 Proof and spouse, which is always pleasant. I also saw old familiar faces and recounted with them the places on campus where I pooped outdoors. Erica, a current Pitzer senior, crashed the festivities temporarily, so I made a point to throw appetizers on the floor in front of eir while screaming about how I was wasting eir tuition money. There was talk of an after-after-party, but as a responsible teacher, it was time for me to turn in. Besides, I was nearly out of poop stories anyway.

Beeing Smart

I'm trying to teach something, but I have one student trying to distract me just for the sake of being a nuisance. After repeated attempts to get me off track, the student says, "There's a bee near you." I ignore this statement. "It's on your head," the student tries again, which I also ignore. Another, more trustworthy student chimes in, "There really is a bee on your head." At this point, I can feel the bee on my head, but I will not be derailed. "Well, a 'B' is still higher than anything any of you have in this class, so pay attention."

I receive scattered applause and laughter. The bee lingers in my hair. Sometimes, teaching is fun.

Learning from YouTube

My alma mater Pitzer College has received a wealth of media attention recently for a class called "Learning from YouTube." It is the first college class in the nation with the popular video sharing website as its subject, with all of the assignments and classes also occurring on YouTube. Inevitably, the class, and in turn the college as a whole, has been criticized for its lack of educational value and essentially rendering it a joke.

Is YouTube not a worthy subject for study? The world watches more than 100,000,000 videos on YouTube daily, making it a media phenomenon without parallel. Media Studies is a discipline that critically examines our media, making it a crucial entity for its students to study. To me, the real joke would be to not investigate YouTube, to not question its implications. By giving something a free pass as something that doesn't warrant our critical attention, particularly something so huge, we give it the freedom to behave as it chooses without repercussions. Let us not forget that YouTube is a corporately owned enterprise. As easy as it is to consider it some sort of utopian by-the-people-for-the-people website, it is actually a privately operated entity that easily conceals this fact because of its ubiquity, much like Google. Wait, Google owns YouTube? Maybe there is something to this subject.

There are so many questions to put forth to this emerging form of media. Why do we YouTube? Why do we do so much of it, no less? How has it changed the media and the way we look at the world?

I feel that a lot of the public flack comes from the portrayal. It's very simple to describe the class as something where students are watching and posting YouTube videos without getting into its complexities and academic content. If all I heard was someone dismiss the course in such a manner, I too would think the professor, students, and college were idiots. And yet, that's exactly the problem. The mainstream media gets away with stating uninformed opinions as facts and dispersing these opinions to the masses. Media Studies scholarship exists to look critically at the practices of media institutions and question/critique its power and products.

Though I rarely watch television news, I often see promos which frequently feature YouTube related stories to attract interest. One such example I remember is when a local news program promised a story with the star of the YouTube video "I Got a Crush... On Obama." (Personally, I find the premise of the video to insipid to watch more than a few seconds of it, but I'll link it for your perusal.) Obviously, the program directors thought they hit gold by combining sex, politics, and an Internet phenomenon, and heck, maybe they did, but I do not consider this news. Hence, it comes as no surprise to me that the mainstream media works to put down the field of Media Studies, as it better enables it to get away with a variety of things we as the media-consuming public should not allow it to.

I'm particularly intrigued by this news clip that demonstrates no qualms about ridiculing its academic merit:

Prior to reporting on Pitzer, it airs a tribute to the Regis & Kelly talk show while also including an advertisement as to what time you can watch the show, not so coincidentally on the same channel. What makes that story newsworthy? Where is the journalistic integrity? They go out of their way to make Pitzer look ridiculous, rather than showing any number of the pretty locations on the campus, they instead show footage of the new dorms under construction. Also, the comment from the newscaster about the students enrolled in the class being lazy and incompetent is completely ignorant. It is my experience that all places of learning, with students of all intelligences, there are some who take their studies seriously, and those who do not. The newscaster outed himself as one in the latter group, and as someone who took college (well, my undergrad anyway) seriously and as an opportunity to expand my mind, I resent the implication that a scholar of Media Studies is lazy from someone who probably majored in broadcast journalism and learned nothing critical toward his own form.

You know who should host the news? Katy. Before the media attention, I first heard about Pitzer College's YouTube class from my housemate, Katy. While she was working for the PR department of the school, without warning, Katy was asked to tape the college's first YouTube press release. As someone with dyslexia, Katy's biggest fear is reading in front of people, so doing it on tape was all the more frightening. Fortunately, she did great, and the best part is when you can see her unscripted smile of satisfaction at the 1:07 mark after reading all the words correctly.

Good job, Katy.

Maybe my confidence in the quality of the class stems from my knowledge of the class' professor, Alex Juhasz. I had the privilege of taking two classes, both of which were academically driven, with her during my years in the Pitzer Media Studies department. Juhasz is a socially conscious individual who uses media as an avenue for her activism, someone who participates more often on the fringe of mainstream media rather than in the thick of it. For that reason, I can understand how awkward it is for her to discuss the merits of her scholarship with such venues as CNN to people who are either clearly missing the point or at least choosing to do so.

That said, Juhasz does a good job of explaining her course here:

Indeed, there is a lot that can be discussed with this development in media. Juhasz outlines the intriguing concepts of the democratization, pedagogy, access, expertise, control, limits, and censorship of YouTube. The class is largely student driven, based upon student discovery and participation on YouTube. Juhasz is the first to admit it is an experimental course that has potential to fail. Still, education is a journey, and even failures can be learned from. I think it's a mistake to assume that all classes should have a set plan and concrete objective. My most profound learning experiences were never clear from the start, but instead have been part of a more fluid path. Discovery, or failing that, the search that yields perhaps no discovery, is where true learning occurs. I'm confused as to why so many people seem to think that something that has not been studied before is not worth studying. On the contrary, I feel that those are the things most appropriate to study, in a sense examining the unexamined.

What worries me are some of the contributions from the students. One of the unique aspects of the class is that all of the classes are taped and posted to Youtube; the students' assignments are as well. While I don't have the time to commit myself to observing the class as closely as desire to, I have begun peeking in on the project, especially in light of the media attention. I keep hoping for the dialogue to be pushed to a more profound level, and while some students are taking it there, it seems that others perhaps did sign up in the hopes of getting credit for watching cute videos of cats yawning. It's early yet, so the level of discussion still has plenty of time to elevate to superb academia, and again, you have to expect some floundering to occur in courses that rely so heavily on experimentation, so I assure you that I'm hardly dismissing it.

Another unique thing about the form of this course is that, if I chose to, I could participate in it. Anyone can, really. There are certain aspects of YouTube not yet broached, and though I can silently hope that the class winds up there, I also have the ability to respond and take the discussion there. While I should feel empowered to do so, the very thought frightens me. Although I can blog endlessly with little fear of the information I put out there, no matter how incriminating and self-depricating, my insecurities prevent me from transforming myself into a talking head. But it's something to think about anyway.

When 2 + 2 Doesn't Equal 4

I love the act of critical thinking and pushing my students to think further. I almost don't care what they're thinking about, as long as they're doing it, since, in my professional opinion, teenagers are fairly adverse to the act. The instant response to when I assign something that requires legitimate thought rather than performing a mindless task is for them to complain that it's "unfair" or "makes [their] head hurt." When my students fail to see the value in thinking, I am pained. To me, education is about activating those muscles, learning and practicing how to think critically later in life. I will consider my job successful if I've produced students who are capable of thinking and questioning at higher levels outside of academia; ultimately, whether or not they've developed an affinity for Poe is irrelevant to me.

In class, I will often state multiple times that there is more than one correct answer so that my students won't settle for the first correct one I hear. It's disheartening when I see a student erase their equally correct answer for the example I provide, as it shows that these kids see no value in a response of their own. Still, no matter how hard I work to champion an individual's input, ey'll always abandon eir own creations for the one I told eir neighbor was correct.

This fact doesn't dissuade me from trying. On Thursday, after I repeated yet again that multiple answers would be acceptable, a student asked "Is there ever a time when there isn't more than one answer?" I smiled when ey asked me, because I relish any opportunity that a student challenges me to think beyond the realm where I have a ready answer; it probably has something to do with the fact that I enjoy learning more than teaching. "That's a really good question," I said while pausing to think. "I suppose there's often only one answer in math." My reply sat for about five seconds before the student retorted that that wasn't true. Another student that antagonizes the first student said, "When does 2 plus 2 ever equal anything other than 4?" The first student retorted, "Well, you could also say 2 + 2 = 6 - 2." The student was absolutely right, and I was consequently floored. I told the student that I agreed and appreciated em provoking me to think. Though it was entirely sincere, I'm not sure most of the students grasped that, since being made to think is not a worthwhile pursuit for most of them. The second student jumped back in to ask, "Okay, if your math teacher asked you what is 2 + 2, and you wrote down, 6 -2, would that be correct?"

Well, no. But yes. Yes and no, really. The idea that one answer might be inherently more correct than another is an interesting concept; while I can't deny the validity of the first student's answer, there is much truth in the second student's retort. Their brilliant perspectives have given me something to ponder a lot since then, and it excites me again to see that they are capable of thinking.

Turn Around

It's been a while since I've performed karaoke; as I've mentioned in the past, my interest in the sport tends to wax and wane. This past weekend, about ten of us went into LA to a place with a bar, karaoke, and a bowling alley. Needless to say, that was the place to be -- what more could you ask for? Alas, that meant plenty of other people were there, too, so the wait to perform karaoke was ridiculously lengthy. During that time, Anna and I debated what song would be most ridiculous to perform, when I had an epiphany: "The Monster Mash." Bad spoken word with dumb background vocals would make for one of the more intentionally lame karaoke experiences ever. Alas, the song was not an option within this KJ's selection, so we decided to save this brilliance for another time, particularly a time of the year that would be even less seasonal.

Still, I would not be deterred from my mission to sing, and branching off from the monster theme, I selected one of my all-time favorite songs "Zombie" by the Cranberries. When it was my time to perform, I felt as randy as I ever have on stage and was pretty theatric about the whole thing. I asked the audience to "be prepared to cry," expecting that I would perform it in a soulful, despairing way. Ultimately, I found rage in me instead, and essentially screamed the whole thing with a lot of violent head thrashing and zombie movements. It wasn't quite singing, but it was definitely a performance, perhaps my best to date. Judging from my friends' facial expressions, the performance definitely shocked and pleased my friends. I couldn't help but look mostly at Jessica's coworkers, however, because they were looking at me without expressions of enjoyment, but rather strange stares of "what the hell?" that oddly inspired me to keep doing my thing. At the end, I spontaneously sputtered, "Thank you for paying respect to the living dead!" Normally, I limit my laughter toward my own jokes, but that escaped my mouth without any real consciousness, so even I couldn't even help but cackle a bit at that.

Later in the week, in honor of RJ's last night in southern California, we headed to the lesbian bar, The Hook-Up for some karaoke fun. It was significantly less crowded than my previous excursion, but still featured some amazing singers and, again, a disproportionate amount of Melissa Etheridge songs, including one endearing yet perhaps cliched parody of "I'm a Lesbian" sung to the tune of "I'm the Only One." Said the KJ at the song's conclusion, "Thank you, Captain Obvious." The other thing I like about the bar is that most of the singers change the pronouns used in the songs to queer them; if I ever return, I'll probably break out the gender neutral pronouns and rock their respective worlds.

As far as my group of friends went, Stacy went first and earned many fans for her rendition of Donna Summer's "On the Radio." I followed with "The Freshmen" by the Verve Pipe. Stacy warned me not to do it, as it wasn't in the spirit of the bar, but I thought that singing a melodramatic tale of suicide to a group of people out to have fun would at least be amusing to my friends and myself. As it turns out, Stacy was right. It kind of fell flat because who really wants to hear The Verve Pipe, besides me, I suppose. Oh well. RJ followed with Elvis' "Suspicious Minds" which is one of my favorite songs of all time, and we all crowded and loved on him at its conclusion, the proud and devoted friends that we are. We'll miss him, the little sucker.

Before we left, Stacy and I went for a duet, Fleetwood Mac's "You Can Go Your Own Way." Midway through the song, Stacy and I each found ourselves with a lesbian accompanying us, sharing the microphone. In some circumstances, a drunk stranger trying to share your spotlight is unappreciated, but in this circumstance it was very much appreciated, just as it was later when we also had the opportunity to close out the night with "Total Eclipse of the Heart," thus fulfilling a longtime karaoke fantasy of mine. At first, Stacy wanted us to just sing it all, but I insisted on going for the duet, the hysterical call and response of:

"Turn arounddddddddddddd
Every now and then I get a little bit lonely...
Turn arounddddddddddddd
Every now and then I get a little bit tired... "
Etc.

Turn around, RJ. Turn around.

A Mythical Creature with Rabies

On Monday, I mentioned that I hoped to kill the foul taste of ant death in my mouth with some alcohol from Margarita Mondays. Unfortunately, it worked too well, as I ultimately ended up with the taste of vomit in my mouth instead while teaching the following morning. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Last year, after some experimentation, I came to discover that the pitfalls of Hungover Tuesdays sometimes outweighed the joys of Margarita Mondays and that moderation was the key to happy, functional teaching. Since I go for the social element even more than the beverages, having one or two margaritas is plenty. In these first few weeks since returning to work, I've been a responsible Margarita Monday attendee. This past Monday, however, I bought my two drinks upfront, then had a drink purchased for me by the restaurant, took a tequila shot I couldn't finish in honor of RJ's last Margarita Monday (thanks for the assist, Shea), and then was talked into "splitting" a margarita two more times toward the end of the night. This was fun, but excessive. I couldn't help it though, the event was blissful; I thoroughly enjoy the company of everyone who attends' and just smiled the whole way through.

Recently, we've taken to hitting the basketball court after our margarita session. Inevitably, it's a largely pitiful, unskilled game. Hustle is limited to stumbling, and a lot of us seem to think we can hit three pointers that really amount to air balls. And yet, it's a hoot. Last week, a member of our party climbed up the hoop and sat on the backboard, where upon he exposed his penis. Slam junk! This time around, everyone kept their pants on, but after some sweaty play, some shirts came off. The trouble didn't arise until it was time to come home and Shea couldn't find his nice work shirt. I can't imagine someone stole it, but it definitely went missing permanently, meaning he had to walk back shirtless. I wasn't part of his traveling pack, but apparently on his journey, he adopted the name Shirtless Man and climbed trees, ran head first into a stop sign, and caught a mouse with his hands. The last part I'm pretty sure came immediately after I received a call from Michael Michael wherein he asked where I was, then screamed something about seeing a "mythical creature with rabies" and hung up. As Shea later recounted, he thought he was trying to catch a toad, and was of course taken by surprise when it wound up being a mouse. If none of that makes sense, it's because it shouldn't. Shea arrived home without his shirt, covered in dirt and blood. I think I stayed up long enough to laugh and lightly interrogate him for explanations he couldn't articulate, then passed out.

It was not a pretty Tuesday morning. I acted as chipper as I could muster so as not to raise suspicion, but I really thought I might vomit in class. That night's homework was for me: moderation.