Good reasons not to go to college…
1. You’re probably dumb.
2. Since the evaporation of viable blue-collar careers, college graduates have flooded the labor market. Anyone with even a cursory understanding of economics knows that if you flood the market with a commodity, the commodity loses value, which is exactly what has happened to the undergraduate degree. The BA is the new high school diploma, the minimum level of educational attainment for jobs that didn’t require a 4-year degree as recently as a decade ago. These days, secretaries, data-entry clerks, and bank tellers are college graduates. It’s not as though these jobs realistically need to be filled by people who have a solid understanding of modern English poetry, but in any given year there are enough young adults moving from academia into the working world that companies can afford to have discriminating tastes.
3. It’s crazy expensive, and you can’t afford it. Almost no one can, hence student loans, which are a massive source of debt. When I say massive, I mean massive. The amount of debt incurred by students attempting to cover their school fees is over $800 billion. And what was a major contributing factor to the complete collapse of the US economy? Well, debt, of course. All those graduates now working as unpaid interns and part-time administrative assistants will spend the rest of their lives paying off vast student loans, with interest. That’s a serious problem.
4. Yes, these days it’s essentially impossible to cultivate a lucrative career without an undergraduate degree, but it’s also become essentially impossible to cultivate a lucrative career with one, so fuck it. Try your hand at organic farming or go to New Zealand to shear sheep or something. Learn the art of cheese-making. Live simply, and save yourself the time and debt.
5. As if the sheer number of college graduates hadn’t already destroyed the value of a college education, now we have to contend with for-profit universities doling out degrees willy-nilly. The fact that you can earn an economics degree at the University of Phoenix makes my economics degree from an actual university less attractive to potential employers, who’ve encountered plenty of functionally illiterate econ grads. I say down with the for-profits. Their tuitions are high, their accreditations questionable, and their educations shitty. If your degree is from a school that allows you to earn your GED while accumulating college credits, it shouldn’t count.
6. Even the educations offered by elite schools have gone downhill, which I suspect has a lot to do with the low-quality of the average high school education; getting all A’s at a public school is no great achievement these days. That coupled with the fact that the SAT is becoming less and less important in the determinations of university admissions officers leads me to wonder just how exactly schools are vetting prospective students these days. My suspicion is that there’s a lot of emphasis unduly placed on extracurricular activities, and other pretty useless bullshit, which is why your average college freshman is all energy and enthusiasm signifying nothing. For my American readers that was a witty allusion to Shakespeare, best known on these shores for his CliffsNotes.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
I love the smell of bus exhaust in the morning!
Top ten reasons why New York is the worst place in America:
1. The whole city smells like piss.
2. In the rest of the country, when fully ambulatory people notice they’re in your way, they generally step aside without hesitation – this is the norm. Your average New Yorker, on the other hand, will stand in the middle of a grocery store aisle, watch as you approach him, and refuse to budge until you come to a complete halt and say, “Excuse me.” I think that transplants from other parts of the country should take their shopping carts and start mowing down the natives, but I’ve yet to convince anyone else to sign on.
3. The New York Dialect is Stupid Part I: New Yorkers can’t ask questions properly. Instead of saying, “She wondered when he would change his shit-stained underwear,” like everyone else in the Anglophone world, New Yorkers say, “She wondered when would he change his shit-stained underwear.” Unacceptable.
4. New Yorkers Relish Confrontation Part I: Someone holds open the door for you as you’re walking out of Starbucks, and you give a nod of appreciation before walking away. What you, the outsider, fail to understand is that to the New Yorker, holding the door for a stranger is a selfless act of kindness on par with donating a kidney. Therefore don’t be surprised if, as you’re walking away, the irate door-holder screams after you, “YOU’RE WELCOME.” Just consider yourself lucky that he didn’t chase you down for a face-to-face. Roughly 1 in 50 will.
5. New Yorkers get most of their information about life between the coasts from the movie, “Deliverance.”
6. New Yorkers Relish Confrontation Part II: You encounter a person you know vaguely by sight, but not by name. Since you really have no idea who this fucker is, you think that if you’re unfortunate enough to make eye contact with him, a little smile will suffice. Not so. New York etiquette dictates that you must greet with great volume and enthusiasm people whose names you not only don’t know, but will never know. Deviate from this etiquette, and this virtual stranger won’t hesitate to give you a good dressing-down. Apparently New Yorkers fail to recognize the irony in combating (perceived) rudeness with rudeness.
7. The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) Sucks Part I: A few weeks ago, I was sitting on a crowded subway train, idling in a station. So there we all were, waiting and waiting and waiting, not with patience per se, but without too much howling and weeping. Finally, a voice came over the PA informing us that our train had in fact been out of service for the past half hour, and would be going nowhere, a fact the MTA hadn’t seen fit to share at any point during the first 30 minutes of our adventure. One disgruntled passenger vowed to punch an MTA employee in the face. I hope he stuck to his word.
8. New Yorkers earnestly believe that visitors and transplants find the city exciting, which is retarded considering they also believe we wouldn’t bat an eye if forced to squeal like a pig while getting anally raped by an inbred psychopath (see # 5). You can’t have it both ways, dickholes.
9. The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) Sucks Part II: I pay $104 a month for the privilege of riding trains and buses in New York City. As recently as 2008 I was paying only $76 a month, but the MTA, strapped for cash as per usual, ups the fares roughly every three days. So given these inflated fares, where is their money going? Obviously not on new trains, or on maintenance, or on cleaning, or on automating announcements, or on setting up stations as wireless hubs; that much is clear. The money goes to salaries, big, fat, bloated salaries. It’s not unusual for rank-and-file MTA employees to be compensated to the tune of $100,000 a year. In this dismal economy, I’m surprised more of them aren’t murdered.
10. The New York Dialect is Stupid Part II: How do you say the word, “radiator?” Well, if you’re one of the 300 million Americans not from New York, the first syllable is pronounced, “ray,” as in “a ray of sunshine.” If you’re one of the 8 million people from New York, the first syllable is pronounced, “rad,” as in “when you were hanging ten out there, it was totally rad.” Whenever a New Yorker says radiator, a little part of me dies.
1. The whole city smells like piss.
2. In the rest of the country, when fully ambulatory people notice they’re in your way, they generally step aside without hesitation – this is the norm. Your average New Yorker, on the other hand, will stand in the middle of a grocery store aisle, watch as you approach him, and refuse to budge until you come to a complete halt and say, “Excuse me.” I think that transplants from other parts of the country should take their shopping carts and start mowing down the natives, but I’ve yet to convince anyone else to sign on.
3. The New York Dialect is Stupid Part I: New Yorkers can’t ask questions properly. Instead of saying, “She wondered when he would change his shit-stained underwear,” like everyone else in the Anglophone world, New Yorkers say, “She wondered when would he change his shit-stained underwear.” Unacceptable.
4. New Yorkers Relish Confrontation Part I: Someone holds open the door for you as you’re walking out of Starbucks, and you give a nod of appreciation before walking away. What you, the outsider, fail to understand is that to the New Yorker, holding the door for a stranger is a selfless act of kindness on par with donating a kidney. Therefore don’t be surprised if, as you’re walking away, the irate door-holder screams after you, “YOU’RE WELCOME.” Just consider yourself lucky that he didn’t chase you down for a face-to-face. Roughly 1 in 50 will.
5. New Yorkers get most of their information about life between the coasts from the movie, “Deliverance.”
6. New Yorkers Relish Confrontation Part II: You encounter a person you know vaguely by sight, but not by name. Since you really have no idea who this fucker is, you think that if you’re unfortunate enough to make eye contact with him, a little smile will suffice. Not so. New York etiquette dictates that you must greet with great volume and enthusiasm people whose names you not only don’t know, but will never know. Deviate from this etiquette, and this virtual stranger won’t hesitate to give you a good dressing-down. Apparently New Yorkers fail to recognize the irony in combating (perceived) rudeness with rudeness.
7. The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) Sucks Part I: A few weeks ago, I was sitting on a crowded subway train, idling in a station. So there we all were, waiting and waiting and waiting, not with patience per se, but without too much howling and weeping. Finally, a voice came over the PA informing us that our train had in fact been out of service for the past half hour, and would be going nowhere, a fact the MTA hadn’t seen fit to share at any point during the first 30 minutes of our adventure. One disgruntled passenger vowed to punch an MTA employee in the face. I hope he stuck to his word.
8. New Yorkers earnestly believe that visitors and transplants find the city exciting, which is retarded considering they also believe we wouldn’t bat an eye if forced to squeal like a pig while getting anally raped by an inbred psychopath (see # 5). You can’t have it both ways, dickholes.
9. The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) Sucks Part II: I pay $104 a month for the privilege of riding trains and buses in New York City. As recently as 2008 I was paying only $76 a month, but the MTA, strapped for cash as per usual, ups the fares roughly every three days. So given these inflated fares, where is their money going? Obviously not on new trains, or on maintenance, or on cleaning, or on automating announcements, or on setting up stations as wireless hubs; that much is clear. The money goes to salaries, big, fat, bloated salaries. It’s not unusual for rank-and-file MTA employees to be compensated to the tune of $100,000 a year. In this dismal economy, I’m surprised more of them aren’t murdered.
10. The New York Dialect is Stupid Part II: How do you say the word, “radiator?” Well, if you’re one of the 300 million Americans not from New York, the first syllable is pronounced, “ray,” as in “a ray of sunshine.” If you’re one of the 8 million people from New York, the first syllable is pronounced, “rad,” as in “when you were hanging ten out there, it was totally rad.” Whenever a New Yorker says radiator, a little part of me dies.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Teach your children well.....
The 80’s was a great time to be alive. Teenage girls thought Boy George was sexy. Charlie Sheen was intermittently coherent. Our President was an actor who had once shared top-billing with a monkey. The UK, meanwhile, was governed by a lady robot. There must have been other world leaders, too, and I’m sure they were equally improbable.
Of course having been born in 1982, I couldn’t tell my Ronald Reagan from my Ronald McDonald, which isn’t to say that my generation missed out on all this lunacy. We most certainly didn’t. From Super Mario Brothers we learned that mushrooms make you big and turtles make you small; Fraggle Rock introduced us to paganism and trash heaps; some of us even had dolls that could crap into a diaper.
As weird as all that was, I submit that the picturebooks of the period were the ultimate embodiment of 80’s insanity. Deviousness, gluttony, misery, pent-up rage, and unwarranted aggression were no longer off limits, and the purveyors of kid-lit went nuts, churning out creepy book after creepy book. So my question is, was that a bad thing? My mind was undoubtedly warped, but was it perhaps warped for the better? What follows is something of a guide to a selection of picturebooks plucked from my personal collection. As an adult – which I sort of am – can I determine which books are good for kids and which are bad? Join me now for a trip down memory lane…
“Begin at the Beginning” by Amy Schwartz
The heroine of this book, Sara, is a second grader who’s chosen to paint for a school art show a subject that would tax the genius of DaVinci. Eventually, Sara’s mother manages to teach her daughter the difference between healthy ambition and unrealistic ambition; aim for the stars, but know your limits.
Verdict: Bad. The general message is positive, but that’s not the whole story. On every other page Sara’s shoveling more junk into her greedy little mouth: butter and jelly sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, pretzels, chocolate cake. The snacks are described in loving detail, the illustrations are of fat characters, and the effect is altogether jarring. “Begin at the Beginning” is less about learning to achieve, and more about Sara’s burgeoning eating disorder.
“Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs” by Judi and Ron Barret
While we’re on the subject of eating disorders, let’s explore this gem. The story centers around a town called Chewandswallow, a typical town but for its weather (and its name). Three times a day, the sky opens up and pours onto the town’s citizens a bounty of food – it rains soup, snows ice cream, hails pizza, etc. Everyone seems pretty pleased with this arrangement until the weather shifts. The food itself gets bigger, and begins to fall more or less constantly; the supply far outstrips the demand. After some poor saps are chased down the street by a pack of giant donuts, the townspeople take action. They fashion rafts out of massive peanut butter sandwiches, and sail away, never to see Chewandswallow again.
Verdict: Good. Yes it’s all about food, but the overriding message is that gluttony isn’t all it’s cracked up to be; as glorious as it sounds, you wouldn’t actually want to be buried in delicious food morning, noon, and night. Well, that’s the theory anyway…
“Love Helps You Grow” by Hedvig Johnson
This choice item from the “Rose-Petal Place” series opens with some dreadful poetry about the new day dawning, so you can tell right off the bat that no effort was spared. Sunny Sunflower and Orchid visit their pal, Rose-Petal. Sunny asks Rose-Petal if she likes her new dress, and as it turns out, Rose-Petal’s fondness for the dress borders on the unseemly. She and Sunny become so immersed in their mutual love-fest that they don't notice Orchid skulking away, sad and alone.
Enter the obligatory villain, an opportunistic spider named Nastina. Upon learning of the rift between Orchid and her friends, Nastina spies her chance to take down those twee flowers. She convinces Orchid to drink an evil potion, assemble her flower brethren, and complain to them about the grave injustices she’s suffered. Unfortunately for Orchid, it soon becomes apparent that the more she whines, the more she shrinks; desperate, an eensy-weensy Orchid turns to Rose-Petal for help. "Push jealousy away," Rose-Petal advises. And push Orchid does, until she’s returned to her original size. Our heroes triumph and our villain is foiled, at least until the series’ next installment, “Lily Fair Learns a Lesson.”
Verdict: Bad, mostly because it’s a treacly turd, but also because it champions repression. Show me a kid who represses his feelings, and I’ll show you a kid whose future involves a clock-tower and a gun.
“Frog and Toad” by Arnold Lobel
The Frog and Toad series is one of the most terrifying entries into the pantheon of kid-lit. These books center around two friends named Frog and Toad, who conveniently happen to be a frog and a toad. Frog is tall and green and trim; Toad is short and brown and squat. Frog is a leader; Toad is a follower. Frog is something of a renaissance man; Toad is neurotic and clinically depressed. So far, Frog sounds like a pretty affable guy, but this illusion is quashed after just a few pages of one of these stories, when it becomes apparent that Frog is in fact a twisted sadist, and Toad his preferred victim. These amphibians’ relationship is straight out of “Blue Velvet.”
Essentially, each story shows Toad miserably sleeping away his life, while Frog dreams up passive-aggressive schemes that, once carried out, play Toad for the fool without casting Frog in an overtly negative light. Just for shits and giggles Frog might give Toad a too-big hat and suggest that the warty, little nitwit think big thoughts to make his head grow. Or he might, noticing that Toad is for all intents and purposes suicidal, write a cheerful note to his friend, only to entrust its delivery to a snail. As every pretty girl needs her ugly friend, every Frog needs his Toad. So, are these stories unhealthy for a child’s mind?
Verdict: Could go either way. It really all depends on the lessons you hope to impart. If you want to show your kids what horrors await if they don’t stand up to bullies, these books could be just the ticket. If, however, you want your kids to believe that the meek shall inherit the earth, these are not the books for you. Meek little Toad is not the lovable underdog who ultimately gets the girl. He’s the tragic figure who gets the girl, then finds out Frog’s fucking her behind his back.
Of course having been born in 1982, I couldn’t tell my Ronald Reagan from my Ronald McDonald, which isn’t to say that my generation missed out on all this lunacy. We most certainly didn’t. From Super Mario Brothers we learned that mushrooms make you big and turtles make you small; Fraggle Rock introduced us to paganism and trash heaps; some of us even had dolls that could crap into a diaper.
As weird as all that was, I submit that the picturebooks of the period were the ultimate embodiment of 80’s insanity. Deviousness, gluttony, misery, pent-up rage, and unwarranted aggression were no longer off limits, and the purveyors of kid-lit went nuts, churning out creepy book after creepy book. So my question is, was that a bad thing? My mind was undoubtedly warped, but was it perhaps warped for the better? What follows is something of a guide to a selection of picturebooks plucked from my personal collection. As an adult – which I sort of am – can I determine which books are good for kids and which are bad? Join me now for a trip down memory lane…
“Begin at the Beginning” by Amy Schwartz
The heroine of this book, Sara, is a second grader who’s chosen to paint for a school art show a subject that would tax the genius of DaVinci. Eventually, Sara’s mother manages to teach her daughter the difference between healthy ambition and unrealistic ambition; aim for the stars, but know your limits.
Verdict: Bad. The general message is positive, but that’s not the whole story. On every other page Sara’s shoveling more junk into her greedy little mouth: butter and jelly sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, pretzels, chocolate cake. The snacks are described in loving detail, the illustrations are of fat characters, and the effect is altogether jarring. “Begin at the Beginning” is less about learning to achieve, and more about Sara’s burgeoning eating disorder.
“Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs” by Judi and Ron Barret
While we’re on the subject of eating disorders, let’s explore this gem. The story centers around a town called Chewandswallow, a typical town but for its weather (and its name). Three times a day, the sky opens up and pours onto the town’s citizens a bounty of food – it rains soup, snows ice cream, hails pizza, etc. Everyone seems pretty pleased with this arrangement until the weather shifts. The food itself gets bigger, and begins to fall more or less constantly; the supply far outstrips the demand. After some poor saps are chased down the street by a pack of giant donuts, the townspeople take action. They fashion rafts out of massive peanut butter sandwiches, and sail away, never to see Chewandswallow again.
Verdict: Good. Yes it’s all about food, but the overriding message is that gluttony isn’t all it’s cracked up to be; as glorious as it sounds, you wouldn’t actually want to be buried in delicious food morning, noon, and night. Well, that’s the theory anyway…
“Love Helps You Grow” by Hedvig Johnson
This choice item from the “Rose-Petal Place” series opens with some dreadful poetry about the new day dawning, so you can tell right off the bat that no effort was spared. Sunny Sunflower and Orchid visit their pal, Rose-Petal. Sunny asks Rose-Petal if she likes her new dress, and as it turns out, Rose-Petal’s fondness for the dress borders on the unseemly. She and Sunny become so immersed in their mutual love-fest that they don't notice Orchid skulking away, sad and alone.
Enter the obligatory villain, an opportunistic spider named Nastina. Upon learning of the rift between Orchid and her friends, Nastina spies her chance to take down those twee flowers. She convinces Orchid to drink an evil potion, assemble her flower brethren, and complain to them about the grave injustices she’s suffered. Unfortunately for Orchid, it soon becomes apparent that the more she whines, the more she shrinks; desperate, an eensy-weensy Orchid turns to Rose-Petal for help. "Push jealousy away," Rose-Petal advises. And push Orchid does, until she’s returned to her original size. Our heroes triumph and our villain is foiled, at least until the series’ next installment, “Lily Fair Learns a Lesson.”
Verdict: Bad, mostly because it’s a treacly turd, but also because it champions repression. Show me a kid who represses his feelings, and I’ll show you a kid whose future involves a clock-tower and a gun.
“Frog and Toad” by Arnold Lobel
The Frog and Toad series is one of the most terrifying entries into the pantheon of kid-lit. These books center around two friends named Frog and Toad, who conveniently happen to be a frog and a toad. Frog is tall and green and trim; Toad is short and brown and squat. Frog is a leader; Toad is a follower. Frog is something of a renaissance man; Toad is neurotic and clinically depressed. So far, Frog sounds like a pretty affable guy, but this illusion is quashed after just a few pages of one of these stories, when it becomes apparent that Frog is in fact a twisted sadist, and Toad his preferred victim. These amphibians’ relationship is straight out of “Blue Velvet.”
Essentially, each story shows Toad miserably sleeping away his life, while Frog dreams up passive-aggressive schemes that, once carried out, play Toad for the fool without casting Frog in an overtly negative light. Just for shits and giggles Frog might give Toad a too-big hat and suggest that the warty, little nitwit think big thoughts to make his head grow. Or he might, noticing that Toad is for all intents and purposes suicidal, write a cheerful note to his friend, only to entrust its delivery to a snail. As every pretty girl needs her ugly friend, every Frog needs his Toad. So, are these stories unhealthy for a child’s mind?
Verdict: Could go either way. It really all depends on the lessons you hope to impart. If you want to show your kids what horrors await if they don’t stand up to bullies, these books could be just the ticket. If, however, you want your kids to believe that the meek shall inherit the earth, these are not the books for you. Meek little Toad is not the lovable underdog who ultimately gets the girl. He’s the tragic figure who gets the girl, then finds out Frog’s fucking her behind his back.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
The Sound of Music
These are a few of my favorite things…
State Motto: “Live Free or Die” – New Hampshire
Most states went with platitudes about God, equality, and righteousness; New Hampshire opted for a full-on threat, which is pretty badass. The silver medal has to go to Maryland for the supremely retarded, “Manly deeds, womanly words.”
Police Procedural: “Law & Order U.K.”
Everything’s better with accents.
Bizarre Japanese Invention: Smoker’s Mask
Are you a smoker? Are you also busy? Ever wish there were some way to indulge your habit without sacrificing productivity? Well now you can with the smoker’s mask, a plastic apparatus you affix to your face as a doctor might affix a surgical mask to his. Just strap it on, fill each of the mask’s 20 holes with a cigarette, fire ‘em up, and smoke a whole pack in one shot. If you don’t die, the rest of the day is all yours.
Idiomatic Expression: “A stitch in time saves nine.”
There are ways in which I’m a bumbling fool, as evidenced by the fact that I didn’t grasp the meaning behind this expression until a few months ago. Before that, I thought of it as kind of sci-fi, something to do with the nature and potential non-linearity of time. I’m disappointed that its true meaning is so prosaic, but for me it will always be very “Back to the Future.”
Holiday: Halloween
Turkey or candy? Candy. Presents or candy? Candy. Fireworks or candy? Candy. The only downside of my preferred holiday is the age restriction. Where do the arbiters of Halloween get off telling me I’m too old to collect candy from strangers? If I’m enthused and encostumed (a word which doesn’t exist, but should), cut me a break.
Convicted Criminal: Armin Meiwes
This guy – German, unsurprisingly, and someone I’ve discussed on this blog before – trolled the internet in search of a human who would consent to being eaten. Astonishingly he found someone, and Mr. Meiwes enjoyed this man’s flesh for nearly a year. He’s my favorite criminal because, despite being convicted of murder, Mr. Meiwes at no point violated the will of another, making him the cuddliest cannibal in the western world.
Religion: Mormonism
I want to know about the underpants.
State Motto: “Live Free or Die” – New Hampshire
Most states went with platitudes about God, equality, and righteousness; New Hampshire opted for a full-on threat, which is pretty badass. The silver medal has to go to Maryland for the supremely retarded, “Manly deeds, womanly words.”
Police Procedural: “Law & Order U.K.”
Everything’s better with accents.
Bizarre Japanese Invention: Smoker’s Mask
Are you a smoker? Are you also busy? Ever wish there were some way to indulge your habit without sacrificing productivity? Well now you can with the smoker’s mask, a plastic apparatus you affix to your face as a doctor might affix a surgical mask to his. Just strap it on, fill each of the mask’s 20 holes with a cigarette, fire ‘em up, and smoke a whole pack in one shot. If you don’t die, the rest of the day is all yours.
Idiomatic Expression: “A stitch in time saves nine.”
There are ways in which I’m a bumbling fool, as evidenced by the fact that I didn’t grasp the meaning behind this expression until a few months ago. Before that, I thought of it as kind of sci-fi, something to do with the nature and potential non-linearity of time. I’m disappointed that its true meaning is so prosaic, but for me it will always be very “Back to the Future.”
Holiday: Halloween
Turkey or candy? Candy. Presents or candy? Candy. Fireworks or candy? Candy. The only downside of my preferred holiday is the age restriction. Where do the arbiters of Halloween get off telling me I’m too old to collect candy from strangers? If I’m enthused and encostumed (a word which doesn’t exist, but should), cut me a break.
Convicted Criminal: Armin Meiwes
This guy – German, unsurprisingly, and someone I’ve discussed on this blog before – trolled the internet in search of a human who would consent to being eaten. Astonishingly he found someone, and Mr. Meiwes enjoyed this man’s flesh for nearly a year. He’s my favorite criminal because, despite being convicted of murder, Mr. Meiwes at no point violated the will of another, making him the cuddliest cannibal in the western world.
Religion: Mormonism
I want to know about the underpants.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The post-apocalyptic hellscape that is elementary school
There are some people in this world – actually a lot of people, but I’m going to start off on a charitable note – who are dumb. Really, really, appallingly dumb. This can neither be helped nor escaped. No state, country, or continent in the world is safe from the slow-witted, with the possible exception of Antarctica, whose only residents are scientists. Unfortunately, in exchange for being surrounded by exclusively intelligent people, said residents are forced to live in the post-apocalyptic hellscape that is Antarctica. Go figure.
For a variety of reasons mostly related to Americans’ dogged insistence that just about anyone could grow up to be the President of the United States, calling people dumb violates this country’s unspoken social code: we’re all equal except for I make 30 times as much as you and oppose income redistribution. The assumption underlying this code is that we’re all born with equal potential, so if you don’t succeed it’s on you, And because Americans are not only dumb but willfully ignorant, we blindly accept this assumption as fact. That’s a shame since the assumption is manifestly untrue. We’re born into different circumstances, both genetic and environmental, that affect our ability to succeed. That a biracial man from Kansas was elected President is not proof that you too could get there one day. He’s smarter, luckier, more charming, and better-looking than you. That’s not fair, but it is true.
This assumption, which, I would like to re-emphasize, goes mostly unquestioned, really fosters our idiocy; through our refusal to acknowledge differing levels and forms of intelligence within our population, everyone is losing. Just ask a smart kid in a public elementary school classroom how he feels about school. Odds are he’ll deploy the adjective, “boring,” at least once in his answer. This isn’t, I posit, an indication that the kid isn’t interested in learning. Most smart people enjoy learning since they tend to be good at it. It’s in fact an indication that the kid simply isn’t learning, which leads me to wonder why and how this could be. How is it possible to spend hours upon hours every day “learning” and to still learn nothing? Because of the dumb kids.
Now I’m not blaming the dumb kids. They can’t help it, and they’re obviously entitled to an education just like everyone else; the more Americans who are literate, both linguistically and mathematically, the better off we all are. But I can’t dream up a reasonable rebuttal to the argument that lumping kids of all abilities into a single classroom forces the teacher to teach to the lowest common denominator. I personally reacted to this by being the kid who always volunteered to read aloud or solve a math problem on the blackboard, not because I especially wanted to, but because I knew I’d do it quickly and correctly; a dumb kid bungling things would invariably cut into recess time, so when you think about it I was really quite the elementary school hero. Whether or not this self-assignation is valid, the scenario perfectly illustrates the problem: the dumb kids struggle and need a lot of assistance, which annoys the smart kids, who are already disgruntled at the inanity of the lessons, and the smart kids’ annoyance undermines the self-esteem of the dumb kids who are just smart enough to pick up on it. No one wins.
The crux of my argument is that the time has come to return to the antiquated practice of tracking students: the smart kids in one class, the dumb kids in another, and the special ed kids will just sit and color. I firmly believe that all children would benefit from this set-up, and that the greatest benefits would be reaped by the kids on the lower end of the scale. For the first time in their lives, the dumb kids would have a shot at some modicum of scholastic success, the chance to not be overshadowed by Asian kids with pocket protectors whose parents don’t take “B+” for an answer. If an academically-challenged rascal didn’t understand something, he wouldn’t be so embarrassed to seek assistance. He might even volunteer to read aloud or do the odd math problem in front of the class since little assholes like me wouldn’t be there, straining to beat him to the punch. All in all, he’ll turn out a fuck of a lot smarter with tracking than without.
I realize that this little screed is dripping with arrogance and elitism, and, yes I’m laboring under the assumption that I would have been in the smart class had such a thing existed during my childhood. Let’s not fret over my superciliousness, and just assume for the sake of argument that I’m not delusional about my own intellectual capacity. How would my life have been different in a tracked elementary school? Well, learning probably would have been more interesting, or at least less tedious. I might have been spared some of the mockery I endured for being such a weird little creature. Mostly, I would have been less bored and annoyed. It’s not as though in the absence of the class dregs, I would have studied quantum mechanics or something; all little kids have certain limitations, so neither class’ curriculum would have strayed too far from that which was actually in place in 1992. The smart class would have just read tougher books and done a little more with fractions.
Before I wrap things up, it would behoove me to acknowledge the most obvious, but also the most valid, opposing argument, which has nothing to do with the children’s self-esteem; I think I’ve argued pretty persuasively that everyone’s self-esteem would in fact increase under a tracking system. The argument I consider reasonable states that it’s important for kids to be exposed to a wide array of people, and such exposure would be greatly lessened if children were tracked. This is absolutely true, but I’m not a tracking fundamentalist – I see no problem with having all the classes come together for art, music, and gym. I might even throw in social studies and science, neither of which presents as conceptually difficult in elementary school. I also don’t know that mere exposure to people who are different allows a person to become more accepting and generous and open-minded and well-rounded. Kids self-segregate no matter what. Smart kids eat their peanut butter sandwiches in the presence of other smart kids, while dumb kids enjoy their peanut butter sandwiches with their own friends, a band of rapscallions who are probably not about to set the world on fire.
Ultimately, my strongest defense against this argument is that some degree of separation during our formative years would ultimately bring us together. If I’m right – and I clearly believe I am – that less intelligent children would benefit more from this system than their more intelligent counterparts, tracking could prove to be a great equalizer, lessening the gap between smart and stupid. Maybe by the time my hypothetical lower-tracked kids graduate from high school they will have learned to read and write. Maybe some of them will even go on to college (more about that in an upcoming post). If you like my plan, know that I’m available for school board meetings and other functions. As some piece of inspirational “art” in some small-town mall probably once said, “Together, we can make a difference.”
For a variety of reasons mostly related to Americans’ dogged insistence that just about anyone could grow up to be the President of the United States, calling people dumb violates this country’s unspoken social code: we’re all equal except for I make 30 times as much as you and oppose income redistribution. The assumption underlying this code is that we’re all born with equal potential, so if you don’t succeed it’s on you, And because Americans are not only dumb but willfully ignorant, we blindly accept this assumption as fact. That’s a shame since the assumption is manifestly untrue. We’re born into different circumstances, both genetic and environmental, that affect our ability to succeed. That a biracial man from Kansas was elected President is not proof that you too could get there one day. He’s smarter, luckier, more charming, and better-looking than you. That’s not fair, but it is true.
This assumption, which, I would like to re-emphasize, goes mostly unquestioned, really fosters our idiocy; through our refusal to acknowledge differing levels and forms of intelligence within our population, everyone is losing. Just ask a smart kid in a public elementary school classroom how he feels about school. Odds are he’ll deploy the adjective, “boring,” at least once in his answer. This isn’t, I posit, an indication that the kid isn’t interested in learning. Most smart people enjoy learning since they tend to be good at it. It’s in fact an indication that the kid simply isn’t learning, which leads me to wonder why and how this could be. How is it possible to spend hours upon hours every day “learning” and to still learn nothing? Because of the dumb kids.
Now I’m not blaming the dumb kids. They can’t help it, and they’re obviously entitled to an education just like everyone else; the more Americans who are literate, both linguistically and mathematically, the better off we all are. But I can’t dream up a reasonable rebuttal to the argument that lumping kids of all abilities into a single classroom forces the teacher to teach to the lowest common denominator. I personally reacted to this by being the kid who always volunteered to read aloud or solve a math problem on the blackboard, not because I especially wanted to, but because I knew I’d do it quickly and correctly; a dumb kid bungling things would invariably cut into recess time, so when you think about it I was really quite the elementary school hero. Whether or not this self-assignation is valid, the scenario perfectly illustrates the problem: the dumb kids struggle and need a lot of assistance, which annoys the smart kids, who are already disgruntled at the inanity of the lessons, and the smart kids’ annoyance undermines the self-esteem of the dumb kids who are just smart enough to pick up on it. No one wins.
The crux of my argument is that the time has come to return to the antiquated practice of tracking students: the smart kids in one class, the dumb kids in another, and the special ed kids will just sit and color. I firmly believe that all children would benefit from this set-up, and that the greatest benefits would be reaped by the kids on the lower end of the scale. For the first time in their lives, the dumb kids would have a shot at some modicum of scholastic success, the chance to not be overshadowed by Asian kids with pocket protectors whose parents don’t take “B+” for an answer. If an academically-challenged rascal didn’t understand something, he wouldn’t be so embarrassed to seek assistance. He might even volunteer to read aloud or do the odd math problem in front of the class since little assholes like me wouldn’t be there, straining to beat him to the punch. All in all, he’ll turn out a fuck of a lot smarter with tracking than without.
I realize that this little screed is dripping with arrogance and elitism, and, yes I’m laboring under the assumption that I would have been in the smart class had such a thing existed during my childhood. Let’s not fret over my superciliousness, and just assume for the sake of argument that I’m not delusional about my own intellectual capacity. How would my life have been different in a tracked elementary school? Well, learning probably would have been more interesting, or at least less tedious. I might have been spared some of the mockery I endured for being such a weird little creature. Mostly, I would have been less bored and annoyed. It’s not as though in the absence of the class dregs, I would have studied quantum mechanics or something; all little kids have certain limitations, so neither class’ curriculum would have strayed too far from that which was actually in place in 1992. The smart class would have just read tougher books and done a little more with fractions.
Before I wrap things up, it would behoove me to acknowledge the most obvious, but also the most valid, opposing argument, which has nothing to do with the children’s self-esteem; I think I’ve argued pretty persuasively that everyone’s self-esteem would in fact increase under a tracking system. The argument I consider reasonable states that it’s important for kids to be exposed to a wide array of people, and such exposure would be greatly lessened if children were tracked. This is absolutely true, but I’m not a tracking fundamentalist – I see no problem with having all the classes come together for art, music, and gym. I might even throw in social studies and science, neither of which presents as conceptually difficult in elementary school. I also don’t know that mere exposure to people who are different allows a person to become more accepting and generous and open-minded and well-rounded. Kids self-segregate no matter what. Smart kids eat their peanut butter sandwiches in the presence of other smart kids, while dumb kids enjoy their peanut butter sandwiches with their own friends, a band of rapscallions who are probably not about to set the world on fire.
Ultimately, my strongest defense against this argument is that some degree of separation during our formative years would ultimately bring us together. If I’m right – and I clearly believe I am – that less intelligent children would benefit more from this system than their more intelligent counterparts, tracking could prove to be a great equalizer, lessening the gap between smart and stupid. Maybe by the time my hypothetical lower-tracked kids graduate from high school they will have learned to read and write. Maybe some of them will even go on to college (more about that in an upcoming post). If you like my plan, know that I’m available for school board meetings and other functions. As some piece of inspirational “art” in some small-town mall probably once said, “Together, we can make a difference.”
Monday, March 14, 2011
In George We Trust
George Carlin once said, “I don’t have pet peeves — I have major psychotic fucking hatreds.” Me too…
1. Phone calls. It’s the 21st century, so you can stop calling me. The good lord gave us email and text messages so that we might communicate without listening to each other’s stupid little voices. Take advantage.
2. “Between he and I.” When it comes to grammar, don’t err on the side of fancy.
3. New York City. When I first moved out here, the residents always asked if I thought it was “exciting.” No – I’ve been to Detroit. Now THAT’S an exciting city. New York’s skyscrapers are adorable and all, but my sympathetic nervous system won’t be ignited by anything less than a dozen dead hookers in a vacant lot.
4. Anything vanilla-scented. Next time, choose a more grown-up scent, like cigarettes or mothballs.
5. The majorly duck-footed. My stance on the matter is that they’re indefensible. I just can’t stand the sight of them.
6. Forgetfulness. I suspect it’s selective more often than not, which means a lot of these assholes are choosing not to process information they don’t find interesting. I’m not interested in anything you say either, but I still listen.
7. Pedestrians shocked by the presence of cars in the street. The street is where cars live, yet a discomfortingly high percentage of people wander off the sidewalk without looking, only to be stunned by the sight of cars barreling toward them. If a driver can prove in a court of law that just prior to impact the pedestrian he hit was surprised, the driver should walk.
8. Canadians. People in Arizona and California hate Mexicans, but in the upper-Midwest it’s the goddamn Canadians, infecting us with their goofy accents and preposterous-looking currency – if there’s a duck on it, it’s not money.
9. People talking in public restrooms. You may not be attempting to construct an elaborate illusion of privacy, but I am. Shut the fuck up.
10. Daylight Saving Time. It’s great to leave the office in daylight, but getting up this morning was profoundly traumatic.
1. Phone calls. It’s the 21st century, so you can stop calling me. The good lord gave us email and text messages so that we might communicate without listening to each other’s stupid little voices. Take advantage.
2. “Between he and I.” When it comes to grammar, don’t err on the side of fancy.
3. New York City. When I first moved out here, the residents always asked if I thought it was “exciting.” No – I’ve been to Detroit. Now THAT’S an exciting city. New York’s skyscrapers are adorable and all, but my sympathetic nervous system won’t be ignited by anything less than a dozen dead hookers in a vacant lot.
4. Anything vanilla-scented. Next time, choose a more grown-up scent, like cigarettes or mothballs.
5. The majorly duck-footed. My stance on the matter is that they’re indefensible. I just can’t stand the sight of them.
6. Forgetfulness. I suspect it’s selective more often than not, which means a lot of these assholes are choosing not to process information they don’t find interesting. I’m not interested in anything you say either, but I still listen.
7. Pedestrians shocked by the presence of cars in the street. The street is where cars live, yet a discomfortingly high percentage of people wander off the sidewalk without looking, only to be stunned by the sight of cars barreling toward them. If a driver can prove in a court of law that just prior to impact the pedestrian he hit was surprised, the driver should walk.
8. Canadians. People in Arizona and California hate Mexicans, but in the upper-Midwest it’s the goddamn Canadians, infecting us with their goofy accents and preposterous-looking currency – if there’s a duck on it, it’s not money.
9. People talking in public restrooms. You may not be attempting to construct an elaborate illusion of privacy, but I am. Shut the fuck up.
10. Daylight Saving Time. It’s great to leave the office in daylight, but getting up this morning was profoundly traumatic.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
There's a reason I call these things rants......
Over the past few days, I’ve been pondering the likelihood that the population of New York City boasts more than its fair share of club-footed individuals. If it doesn’t, then I must somehow be disproportionately likely to find myself walking behind one of them, because I would estimate that about 10% of the people who descend the subway steps in front of me are dragging a faulty leg behind them; if my train is waiting in the station, its doors about to close, it’s 50%. Can’t we find better treatments for this condition? I know it sounds drastic, but perhaps if the afflicted foot were amputated and replaced with an ergonomic prosthetic, we’d all be happier. Just exploring options…
The clubfooted, I understand, have no choice in the matter, and so in my more charitable moments I accept them for who they are. The morbidly obese, however, are another story. I have some serious, serious issues with food and an abysmally slow metabolism to boot, and I still manage to avoid venturing into that 250 – 500 lb range. If I can do it, so can you. It could be as simple as not requesting extra cheese on the large pepperoni pizza you indulge in on a daily basis; or ridding yourself of the stash of Little Debbie snack cakes hidden in your sock drawer; or replacing one of your four scoops of sour cream mashed potatoes with a vegetable, say broccoli or carrots. I’m not asking you to look good in a bikini, just to take up a little less space.
Of course you’re well within your rights to maintain your sleek 328 lb frame, but in the interest of common decency, please refrain from plunging your jumbo ass onto the subway seat next to mine. It’s not wide enough for your ample frame, so you’re going to spill onto my seat, and given that my own ass is somewhere between substantial and vast, that’s space I can’t afford to lose. This morning no fewer than three morbidly obese women wound up sitting on my lap, one of whom made the experience even more pleasant by emitting an assortment of barnyard noises. Have you no shame?
Now if you thought my solution to the clubfoot problem was ingenious, keep your socks on: if a single seat on the train can’t contain you, you pay double fare. Pretty great idea, right? After all, this kind of disincentive worked with smoking. Now that smokers are shunned and ostracized and forced to take their habit outside, inclement weather be damned, it’s just not worth it anymore. It’s an expensive hassle that marks you as one of THOSE people in the eyes of the non-smoking majority. Maybe double fare on the train will spur you into action, or maybe an artificial increase in the price of fast food would do the trick.
Whatever happens, I’m not going to sit back and take it anymore. When I spy someone waddling toward me on the subway, I will invoke the principle of manifest destiny, and annex all surrounding seats. The pressure from your weight, the heat from your body, and the pig snorts from your nose give me that right. If I’m in a generous mood, you may sit next to me at the very reasonable price of $1.25, half the cost of my seat; if it’s been a rough day, you’re shit out of luck.
The clubfooted, I understand, have no choice in the matter, and so in my more charitable moments I accept them for who they are. The morbidly obese, however, are another story. I have some serious, serious issues with food and an abysmally slow metabolism to boot, and I still manage to avoid venturing into that 250 – 500 lb range. If I can do it, so can you. It could be as simple as not requesting extra cheese on the large pepperoni pizza you indulge in on a daily basis; or ridding yourself of the stash of Little Debbie snack cakes hidden in your sock drawer; or replacing one of your four scoops of sour cream mashed potatoes with a vegetable, say broccoli or carrots. I’m not asking you to look good in a bikini, just to take up a little less space.
Of course you’re well within your rights to maintain your sleek 328 lb frame, but in the interest of common decency, please refrain from plunging your jumbo ass onto the subway seat next to mine. It’s not wide enough for your ample frame, so you’re going to spill onto my seat, and given that my own ass is somewhere between substantial and vast, that’s space I can’t afford to lose. This morning no fewer than three morbidly obese women wound up sitting on my lap, one of whom made the experience even more pleasant by emitting an assortment of barnyard noises. Have you no shame?
Now if you thought my solution to the clubfoot problem was ingenious, keep your socks on: if a single seat on the train can’t contain you, you pay double fare. Pretty great idea, right? After all, this kind of disincentive worked with smoking. Now that smokers are shunned and ostracized and forced to take their habit outside, inclement weather be damned, it’s just not worth it anymore. It’s an expensive hassle that marks you as one of THOSE people in the eyes of the non-smoking majority. Maybe double fare on the train will spur you into action, or maybe an artificial increase in the price of fast food would do the trick.
Whatever happens, I’m not going to sit back and take it anymore. When I spy someone waddling toward me on the subway, I will invoke the principle of manifest destiny, and annex all surrounding seats. The pressure from your weight, the heat from your body, and the pig snorts from your nose give me that right. If I’m in a generous mood, you may sit next to me at the very reasonable price of $1.25, half the cost of my seat; if it’s been a rough day, you’re shit out of luck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)