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Today's blog is unavailable and you have been redirected to this page instead. I'm so sorry. I’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half trying to think of something meaningful to say today but the truth is, I’ve got nothing. Really. I know it’s hard to believe that I might not have an opinion on anything today, especially given the newsworthy week we’ve had, but it’s true. I can’t even think of any first world problems to complain about today. My biggest concern at the moment is what to get my dad for Father’s Day. Also, the agony of trying to think of what to actually say in a daily blog when I have nothing to say and lots of other things to do with my time.

~Musical interlude as time passes while I eat some eggs~

As I approach the two hour mark of trying unsuccessfully to write something meaningful (or anything even remotely interesting) it occurs to me that perhaps I should be using my time for something more constructive. I have a lot of other things to do today, not the least of which being the need to move some furniture around, pack some boxes, and hook up a trailer in anticipation of actually having to haul said furniture and said boxes in said trailer in the very near future. But I keep telling myself that I will get on that as soon as I finish writing my blog for today, which, as you can see, is a very dull and slow moving train without a clear destination. Also, I don’t know what the word for “not procrastinating but not accomplishing anything” is called. Failure? I think I’m failing at today.

What this failure-to-make-any-progress-today-despite-my-honest-effort-to-do-so is making me think about is how I don’t always use my time wisely. I have a list of things to do and yet I start with the task that is the most difficult and least likely to be completed quickly. I could have had the trailer hooked up by now and packed three boxes full of stuff if I hadn’t been sitting here writing about Red Lobster and bananas. That was the error 404 you got when you tried to find today’s blog. It was deleted and you were redirected here. Anyway, my hatred of yellow fruit and the chain seafood restaurant is well known.

So, instead of getting anything done that I need to get done, I am trying to get something done that doesn’t need to get done, making everything get done half-assed. I should really be using my whole ass. Also, I am now hungry again because of how much time has passed. I feel guilty for not doing what I need to do because I was trying to do what I also need to do. Shut up, that’s a perfectly clear sentence. Also, I am now out of eggs and need to go to the grocery store.

So, while I’ve gotten nothing constructive done, I have also made a pretty detailed list of everything I need to get done, which gets longer by the hour. I've started brainstorming how to combine tasks. For example, I’ve decided that I’m going to give my dad the book I read last week for my magazine review. I think he’ll like it more than I did and it'll be one less thing to pack. 

In summation, self-imposed deadlines are the ones that make me the most miserable. I’m going to go do something constructive. 

The World’s Most Average Number

Perhaps I shall secretly tattoo the number 64531 somewhere on my body. 64531 is a postal code for a rural part of coastal Sweden; a passenger train in Dehli, India; the numeric ID of a binding protein gene in the Norway rat; a statute in California governing something related to cattle agriculture (I didn’t read the whole thing because California legal mumbo jumbo); the player number of professional disk golfer Kyle Lancaster; a chemical compound found in certain fungi; and a part number for the stainless steel grill of Dodge trucks, among other things. That’s just on page one of my Google search.

Why am I telling you about this seemingly random number? Because Aldous Huxley’s famous science fiction novel of dystopian anxiety, Brave New World, is sixty four thousand five hundred thirty one words long. This factoid is important because sixty four thousand words is the average length of all novels ever written in the history of humans and Huxley got closer to than benchmark of mediocrity than any other writer. Huxley was unintentionally (and yet also epically) average. I also wish to be epically (though more intentionally) average, I have decided that the book I’m writing should aim for this middling word count goal. I think it’s doable. I’m at twenty one thousand right now—nearly a third of the way there already! I only need to be two-thirds more average to achieve mediocrity. My calculations may be a bit off. Math is hard.

So, I am continuing to write and develop ideas for my book, while keeping a close eye on the word count tally, while also continuously writing five new (and totally original, not stolen at all!) blogs each week. I haven’t counted, but it’s possible I have completely exceeded the magic number with my collective blogging. Of course, it would not be a coherent narrative so it doesn’t really matter. (My individual blogs sometimes struggle with coherent narratives within their measly 600 word ramblings.) What matters is that I keep working on the book until I get to where I want to be. Sometimes people even read the words that I’m writing. That’s always nice. I think I’m the only one counting words. Everyone else seems content to just read them.

So, as I endeavor to be average I think about the example of Aldous Huxley (and the mighty Dodge Ram) and try to remember that being the greatest does not mean I have to be as big as Texas or as long as the Nile. I can accept that my work can be middling and still be good. I mean, sure, Any Rand’s Atlas Shrugged weighted in at a hefty 565223 but that doesn’t make it a better book than Brave New World, does it. (No, no it doesn’t.) Also, Rand estimated her text at 645000 words, making one wonder if she was the single-handedly responsible for the deception about whether size matters. (Note to self: Never pass up an opportunity to take pot shots at Ayn Rand.)

In summation, it’s fine if some folks want to aspire to be the greatest of the greats: good for them if they want to become actors like Sir Lawrence Olivier; I’ll be satisfied putting a paper bag over my head and calling myself Shia LaBeouf. He’s still famous, right?

In case you were wondering, this blog is 575 words long, including this sentence. That's pretty average.

“I Can’t Pay the Rent” is Only Funny on Rocky and Bullwinkle

My cup of coffee is the rent I have paid to this local establishment for the use of this chair and their free Wi-Fi. I suspect the Wi-Fi is free to anyone who camps out here even if they don’t buy something. I’ve never actually done that because I like the coffee. Also, that’s sort of a douche move. Unless you legitimately can’t afford the coffee. Then you hope the baristas are friendly.

I am camped out at this locale, not for the ambiance (though that is quaint—Paul Simon is playing) but because I had to vacate my house for several hours while the inspector does his thing. I hope they don’t look in my underwear drawer. Just kidding. I don’t have any drawers. I am living out of plastic tubs. They better not look in my tubs.

So, I am writing a blog in a coffee shop while wearing clothes I got out of a tub, while my car (which is parked on the street) is full of junk. This is what temporary transience looks like. It is annoying but it beats more permanent transience. I tried that and I didn’t care for it. Fortunately, I am of sound body and mostly not too mentally deficient, so I was able to bootstrap myself out of that situation. Some folks aren’t as lucky; they don’t have bootstraps. Or boots. Or straps.

There is an essay called “On Dumpster Diving” by a man named Lars Eighner who went from homeownership to homelessness after a series of unfortunate economic difficulties. (I have not included a link out of respect for Eighner’s copyright.) In it, he documents his experiences living on the streets (with his dog because Eighner knows about pathos) but instead of being about how bad his life is, the essay is a how-to of making the most of transience and the goodies you find in the trash. Also, he explains what to do when your pup gets into fire ants. It’s not as bad as it sounds, apparently.

I made my students rhetorically analyze this essay last year and some of them even figured out that they were part of the target audience. The line between middle class comfort and first world poverty is closer than many of them realize. In my course, we also have a conversation about what “income-dependent socio-economic status” is. Many young people haven’t considered what happens to middle class folks when they can’t work for whatever reason.

So, while I am experiencing some temporary transience, I have been keenly aware of what actual transience might be like. I always wonder about the mysterious people behind the abandoned storage units on the TV show “Storage Wars.” What happened that they left all their stuff behind for human vultures to come along and bid on? Did they lose their jobs and thus their ability to pay for the storage? Did they go to prison? Did they die? I doubt they won the lottery and decided to move to Tahiti unencumbered by the possessions of their old lives, though I guess that’s a possibility. My money’s on death or taxes.

So, although my transience is self-inflicted and temporary, I can envision the sequence of decline, which might occur should I lose my job like Eighner did. It’s a sobering thought and I won’t spell it out here even though I’ve played it through in my head. Trust me, it isn’t pretty; my cats end up eating me.

In summation, transience is depressing and I want to go home. Stay out of my tubs.

What Do George W. Bush and Rainbow Dash Have in Common?

The punch line is Log Cabin Republicans. (Because they are a joke. Get it?) There is one group I really do not understand. I totally get why straight, rich, white old men would vote Republican. I just don’t get why anyone else would. The preservation of the status quo and the protection of stupid amounts of wealth makes sense for those dudes. I also kind of get why middle class white dudes would vote Republican too. It’s wishful thinking (and some ignorance), but I get it. They’re the ding-dongs that say down with Obama and his socialism and in the next breath want their social security check and Medicare benefits. (This is what happens when you listen to Rush Limbaugh on the radio, people.) Is fiscal conservatism even a thing anymore? Hasn’t the entire Republican party turned into a batsh!t crazy socially conservative machine? Also, Caitlyn Jenner is a Republican. The Log Cabiners put her Vanity Fair cover on a ten foot high sign at Los Angeles Pride this weekend in order to recruit for their political party because of course they did.  

But the Log Cabin Republicans aren’t batsh!t are they? Okay, admittedly, they’re rich and white, which is 2/3 of what the Republican party stands for, but that other third is kind of a big deal. I guess they’re really willing to ignore a lot of bigotry and overt hatred to protect their money and privilege. Seriously, dudes, your own party hates you. John McCain does not want to serve in the military with you. Jeb! (the Musical) isn’t interested in protecting your right to marry. Indiana does not want to bake you a cake. And don’t even get me started on the Westboro Baptist Loons. (Are they even Republicans? Maybe they don’t vote because God hates Flags.)

There is a remarkable resemblance between the Log Cabiners and the Human Rights Campaign. Two words: sausage fest. (Yeah, the HRC is in the news lately, for their demographically monotonous organizational structure.) I wonder what kind of crossover membership exists between the LCRs and the HRC. I hope we can just continue to use their yellow equals sign on a blue field as a symbol without actually supporting them as an organization. It’s such an easily identifiable way to recognize other gay cars on the interstate. Vehicular solidarity! Also, those stickers are way more plentiful than rainbow flags—I have like eight of them. I haven’t sent them any money since the 90s but they keep sending me their membership packets anyway.

So, my question to the LCRs is this: Why? Why are you a thing? Why do you value your money over all other considerations? You do realize that the Republican party isn’t actually that concerned with your fiscal well-being at this point in history, right? I mean, their focus has been all about “protecting” the “sanctity” of marriage and drilling oil in polar bears’ back yards. Are there a lot of gay Rockefeller heirs that I don’t know about? It makes sense why gay dudes would not care about reproductive rights since they’re not worried about accidental pregnancy and since they’re rich and white, they don’t need to worry about the prison system. Hey, if someone’s going to support a party that supports some of the worst systematic inequality in the country, I am calling them out on it.

Whenever a prominent Republican gets outed in a sex scandal, the Log Cabin Republicans all just stand around whistling nervously, staring at their shoes hoping no one remembers their party affiliation or their sexual orientation. God forbid someone notices them and asks them to support the cheating husband, or worse, *GASP* crack open their wallets and donate any cash. Prove me wrong, Silent Bob.

I heard someone in the media yesterday say that the LCRs are basically “Jews for Hitler.” Now I wouldn’t go that far but the Log Cabiners do seem to be consistently voting against their own best interest. Seriously, what is their platform? “We vote Republican because we hate ourselves”? This is my blog and I can say whatever I want.

In summation, I really do not understand gay Republicans. Frankly, I think they’re like leprechauns and unicorns: hoarding gold and pooping rainbows. I may have missed an opportunity here for a My Little Pony/DOMA mash-up.

I Don’t Know Why We Even Have an Internet

I am so freaking annoyed with businesses with websites that require you to give them your telephone number (forcing you to either receive or make unwanted calls) just to find out the most basic information about the services they offer. And I mean basic—information about the one thing that the company actually does isn’t clearly listed on their website.

Here are some examples:

Storage Facilities: They do not have rates listed for the various sizes of their storage units. Are these not fixed prices? Isn’t a 5x5 room the same price for everyone? If not, why not? Will I get a better deal if they like my voice? I don’t understand why the websites don’t have prices and they’re forcing me to call them on the phone to get information. What’s the point of having a website then? How much does your basic service cost!?!?!?

Vehicle Rental: Same problem. I can’t get a price from the website. I don’t want to have a salesperson call me with a “customized quote”. That is ridiculous. Suggesting their basic service is tailored to each individual does not make me feel special. It makes me think they’re up to something. Why aren’t there fixed rates based on type of vehicle, mileage, and length of rental contract? Why do they want to call me to follow up. I don’t like talking to people. That’s why I’m using the internet.

CenturyLink: First, you change your name from Qwest to CenturyLink like I’m going to forget your old name when it’s lit up in blue on my modem, then your website won’t even tell me whether your service is available in my new area. Seriously, I don’t need to log in to an account for this. I don't want to call you for information. You either have coverage in the area or you don’t. How about just showing me a map? It’s not that complicated. They do realize their service trucks still have the Qwest logo visible on them, don’t they? We haven’t forgotten your long name changing legacy, Compu-Global-Hyper-Mega-Net. Also, they’re putting the internet on computers now. 

US Cellular: Okay, these guys are a little better. They at least had a map of the coverage area. Great. I have service. But I can’t find any information on the website about whether or not I can keep my same phone number in that area. This would seem to be a common occurrence—you know, people moving to new states and wondering about keeping their phone numbers. How about an FAQ for that?

FAQs are almost always useless. All of the questions I had here seemed like good contenders for these companies' FAQ lists. But nope. The companies used their FAQs to tell me useless “facts” about how great they are. What a waste of your website. I went to the site to get actual service and pricing information, not to read your marketing materials. Also, there can’t possibly be enough internet savvy cell phone users with out-of-date Nokia brick phones asking about upgrades to justify such a question on an FAQ.

So, my question for these companies is this: Why do you even have a website if you’re going to force me to call you on the phone anyway? That is beyond annoying. And I know Qwest-I mean-CenturyLink is going to put me on hold for like three hours just to let me ask a simple question. US Cellular at least has a local brick and mortar store for me to go into.

Frequently, on this blog I complain about things that land squarely in the “first world problems” category. This is one of those blogs. In fairness, what more appropriate place is there to highlight a first world problem than in a blog? (Maybe Twitter, but I couldn’t get my irritation edited down to 140 characters. That’s another problem.) In the realm of problems, having to make phone calls to acquire the information I seek is really only a problem for introverts. I am an introvert. I need to rewatch some old X-Files episodes when reliable cell phone coverage would have averted the entire crisis du jour to remind myself that it could be worse.

In summation, remember telephone books and rotary phones? Those were the days.

Attack of the Fifty-Foot Insurance Agent

I’ve spent all morning putting out fires. Or to be more precise, I’ve been trying to get coverage to pay for any fires which may occur. If you’ve ever had to deal with insurance companies, you know that they don’t make things easy. What a racket. Just take my money and insure my home. Why do you care whether the air conditioner is on or not? It’s not that hot. The first company I was dealing with had terrible customer service. They kept asking when I was sending them documents that they had not actually requested. So far, I am not experiencing the peace of mind they’ve promised. Also, I don’t understand why they need to know how far away I am from the ocean to insure my home for fire damage. Will Aquaman come help put the fire out? Are manatees inclined to be fire-bugs? I have so many questions.

There are a lot of things that I don’t think about on a daily basis and insurance is one of them, so when I am forced to think about it, it turns my hair gray. Anyone who’s seen me recently knows I cut all my hair off—this was to hide all the new gray I’ve gotten as a result of moving. On the plus side, I’m saving money on shampoo. Also, combing isn’t a thing I do anymore. I don’t miss that. It’s good because if there’s a fire, I won’t have time to worry about personal grooming.

I want insurance, I just don’t like jumping through all the insurance company’s hoops to get it. Of course, I got a second opinion (after many hours and much money invested) and discovered that Company B’s hoops were much less on fire than those I’d been jumping through for Company A. Plus, they were like $500 a year less. A’s coverage was a little better, but not enough to justify the extra money and headaches of dealing with them. Did I mention that insurance seems like a racket? Unfortunately, if you don’t have it, things are much worse. I’m not sure my home and everything in it is worth what they say, but whatever. And the liability coverage . . . I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: You kids get off my lawn. Maybe I can just make a big sign.

I guess insurance is one of those grown-up things that grown-ups have for when grown-up stuff happens. I am apparently a grown-up. Who knew? Despite my complaining about it, I would not want to go without. That pretty much guarantees something bad will happen. I wonder if my policy covers incidental damage caused by superhero interventions. Superheroes destroy more than they save, in my experience. In the Aquaman comics issue The Invasion of the Fire Trolls, they actually started fires underwater. How does that even happen?

So, I decided to follow up with Company B despite all the time and money I had already invested in Company A. Part of me feels like I need to send the representative at the first company a Dear John letter. I spent so much time with her, it’s like I’m breaking up. I am working though my grief, but every time I remember the call where the child was screaming and banging in the background, I strengthen my resolve. I’m a supporter of working mothers, but moms might consider finding a way to keep junior quite during business calls. I think the kid might have been rehearsing for his garage rock band. I’m pretty sure he was the drummer. Also, screaming “shut up” with your hand over the phone receiver is still quite audible to the person on the other end. Craig from Company B seemed less distracted. Also, he didn’t ask me how far away from the ocean I am in order to insure me for fire damage.

In summation, I wonder if Aquaman has ever considered being a firefighter. I hope he deals with those arsonist manatees.

Guns & Ammo: Fox News Edition

Even the Fox News staff thinks Mike Huckabee is a nutjob. That’s impressive. Apparently, Huckabee unsurprisingly owns “multiple” AR-15s, which is of course excessive and unnecessary unless you are either planning to be in a war zone and/or are barbequing with Ted Nugent. (If you are going to barbeque in a war zone, Ted Nugent is the guy to bring along.) For the uninitiated, an AR-15 is a high-powered semi-automatic rifle—equivalent to an M-16, which is what US military personnel carry into battle. Huckabee’s Fox News friends thought he was a “psychopath” and hid under a table when he tried to show them his weapons. He’s probably a bad shot. Also, Huckabee has no regrets about his terrible transphobic shower joke because he is an awful human.

I am actually a little bit conservative when it comes to the second amendment. I believe in the right to bear arms, and frankly, think shooting is kind of fun. (I like cardboard targets.) I support hunting of animals that are abundant (like deer and rabbits) for food and sport as long as it’s done carefully and as humanely as possible given that the animal dies. Perhaps some will disagree with me, but I’d rather see a deer shot and eaten than hit by a car to rot on the side of the road.

That said, I am 100% against hunting for sport in other countries. Pheasants in your cornfield are one thing, elephants in Zimbabwe another. Seriously, you don’t need to hunt animals that are even remotely in danger of extinction, jerk. People who go on excursions to hunt these wild creatures are not in need of a food source. Using an automatic rifle to kill something the size of a barn takes no talent. Hitting a turkey with a .22—that takes a bit of skill. Also, turkey is delicious.

I am also in favor of stricter laws governing automatic and high caliber weapons. Hunters don’t typically use a 50 cal to take down a squirrel. (Can you imagine? There wouldn’t be anything left of the poor thing.) And, yes, they eat squirrels in Missouri. Poor folks do hunt for food in the U.S. I saw an episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations where folks in the Ozarks cooked up a squirrel pot pie. He said it was tasty. Also, he helped clean the squirrel. He’s an interesting celebrity. Anyway, we do need some limits on weapons to keep small animals from being obliterated by ammo that’s as big as they are. Also, crazy people shooting up crowded malls is kind of a problem.

So, Mike Huckabee apparently feels like he needs multiple AR-15 rifles in his possession to . . . what? Feel safe? Defend his mansion? Play soldier with Anne Coulter? Honestly, I don’t know why he needs a bunch of semi-autos. His Fox News staff doesn’t know either. Maybe they thought he was going to go on a spree? I admit, if I saw Huckabee swing a 7.62 caliber anything in my direction, I would dive under the table too. I might be on his list of valid targets. That’s a scary thought. Still, you know you’re a fringe ring-winger when even Fox News people think you’re extreme. No word yet on whether Ted Nugent will extend a dinner invitation. Nugent’s invites are usually BYO grenades. (In fairness, Ted usually eats what he kills.)

In summation, I don’t think the authors of the second amendment had whackadoodles like Mike Huckabee and his AR-15 collection in mind when they penned the guarantee about the US militia.  I don’t know about anyone else, but he’s the last person I want defending my freedom. 

Impostors Unite!

Writing an article is a ten-step process: 1. agonize over what to write 2.  start writing 3. agonize over writing 4. finish writing 5. agonize over editing 6. Fact check 7. edit 8. agonize over submitting 9. submit 10. agonize that what’s been submitted is garbage and hope not to be discovered as an impostor. Step 6 doesn’t have much agonizing because it’s the one that proves I don’t know what I’m talking about. There are some other steps in there too. I do some research at some point and there might be some good ideas occasionally but most of the process is agonizing, like Wonder Woman, that someone will find out that my real name is Diana. Except for the part where Diana was an Amazon Princess and I’m just a marginally interesting Ph.D. with delusions of grandeur and a coffee-stained mouse pad.

So my superhero persona is the middling writer “Wordsmith” which was a moniker made up by a friend of mine and not of my own invention. I mention this because it’s really pathetic if you have to make up your own secret identity. My best-known superpowers are reading the dictionary for fun and finding mistakes in my own manuscripts after publication. Note to self: Peter Tosh, not Bob Marley, sang “Legalize It.” This note will make sense when (if) my article comes out. I should have spent more time on step 6.

Grad students, and especially Ph.D. candidates, are familiar with this ten-step process. It even has a name: It’s called impostor syndrome. Well, I’ve been a “doctor” for two years now and I’m here to tell you the syndrome is chronic, and not in the good way celebrated by Jamaican reggae music. I thought my diploma would cure my syndrome but it persists. Symptoms include restlessness and loss of sleep; persistent low grade anxiety, which becomes more pronounced around due dates; sarcasm; procrastination; and, of course, outright fear. Also, excessive coffee consumption. I have to pee.

As a long time sufferer of impostor syndrome I have found some coping mechanisms for living with this debilitating illness. (I kid, but it can actually be a paralyzing condition for some.) First, I’ve accepted the fact that I may never recover so I can’t wait until I “feel better” to start writing. Anne Lamott’s advice about sh!tty first drafts is good to keep in mind. She’s been struggling with the disease longer than I have. Second, tell your brain to shut the hell up. This can be difficult since it’s your brain that needs to tell your brain to do something. But, if one brain can name itself brain, another brain can tell itself to shush. That’s a sh!tty sentence but it’s more than I had written a minute ago. I’m going with it. We’ll see if it survives step 7.

So, despite the assurances I received from my betters back in my grad school days, my impostor syndrome has not cleared up. I expect that I will be forever treating my illness with coffee and cynicism. I guess whenever I put words on a page without clicking delete and then let people read my composition that it is in minor remission. Even then, I’m in agony.

If you, like me, suffer from impostor syndrome, take heart: It may never go away but you can still live a full and productive life. Remember, when life hands you lemons, life is a d!ck so write something snarky about life and its crappy lemons. You could also make lemonade but that seems like an awful lot of work to me.

In summation, that brain sentence survived step 7. Don’t ask about the sentences that didn’t. I have to pee again.

The Twisted Game of Duck-Duck-Password

Stupid automated password reset programs don’t work right. I spent all morning trying to log into my account for something benign and couldn’t get my password to work. I clicked reset and got a message saying my temporary password had been sent to me. Well, sent where? I haven’t received that email. I could check this task off my to-do list if only I could log in to the stupid website. These things are never easy. I’m being pecked to death by the ducks of the internet.

All of this automated stuff that’s set up for our convenience is often more of a problem than the old way of doing things. I’d have been done already if I wasn’t relying on the new “streamlined” system. And by old way, I mean email. Email is the old way. I don’t remember what people did before email. Stone knives and bear skins, I recon. If you get that reference, you are a gigantic nerd. Also, you have good taste.

So, I could have finished this job hours ago with email but instead I’m supposed to use the website with my ID and password, which doesn’t work. I have to attach a document, either to an email or via the upload. I’ve determined that the upload system is actually much faster for people on the other end because they don’t waste their precious time reading my email. I understand their ten seconds of time are quite valuable. They have to read the document either way so those ten extra seconds really add up. Except I am going to waste a lot more than ten seconds of their time when they have to troubleshoot why the stupid upload doesn’t work. Also, when they spend half an hour on hold with tech support they’ll wonder why I didn’t just email it too.

I thought the hard part was done: preparing the document. But that was the easy part. The hard part is agonizing over how long to fart around with the upload before I give up and spend an hour composing a somewhat apologetic email about why I haven’t submitted the document and beg for assistance and directions. At least I don’t have to use a typewriter. I don’t remember my ID or password for that.

I find that the best solution for problems is dealing with real people (despite the fact that I generally dislike “people” on the whole). Although I eventually figure out how to solve most problems, those things are solved more quickly with help. My clicking the same button over and over with the same result is a waste of bandwidth. Also, it aggravates my carpal tunnel.

My question is this: how secure is this stupid automated thing anyway? I doubt that anyone is trying to steal my identity on this particular website given that no identifying data beyond my name is there. The site does not collect financial information or social security numbers. I understand that security is required sometimes, but other times it seems like websites just create cyber security protocols to be like the other cool kids. I was never one of the cool kids so I guess I resent it.

In summation, I sound like a grumpy old man, but really, who can blame me. Maybe I have no concept of how important internet security is, even for generic websites. Can’t I just send a carrier pigeon?

Slenderman Wants My House

I’m pretty sure my next-door neighbor is Slenderman. Her name is Betty and she’s pretty stealthy for a woman pushing ninety. I am trying to sell my house and was working outside this morning. When I looked up at my back door from the patio, she was in my house staring at me like a spook through the screen. Scared the sh!t out of me. Who does that? Crazy Betty is not the last of the lookee-loos interested in my house. I have four more showings today alone, which makes it difficult for me to get any other work done. Also, my cats are hiding in the basement ceiling.

Selling a house is a lot of work, especially if you’re like me and decide that having a garage sale at the same time is a good idea. Yes, you get rid of a lot of stuff and make a little extra cash, but the work involved is Herculean in nature. Or maybe there’s a better metaphor than that since Hercules is much stronger than I am. Even with a great deal of help (which I was fortunate to have—thanks to friends and family) it’s still exhausting and time consuming just to get ready.

One of the weirdest things is how clean it is. I am not a cleaner. Not because I’m lazy but because I just don’t care. My house has probably never been this clean the whole time I’ve lived in it. It also means I can’t find anything. Where did I put all those unpaid bills? I think some of them are due. Also, I hid all the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I’m clever like that. Guess where I hid the dirty laundry.

So Crazy Betty from next door thinks she wants to buy my house (which I find very strange) and she even tried to guilt trip me about not “checking with her first” before hiring a realtor. (Seriously, who does that?) Also, I call her Crazy Betty because she is a loon, not because she wants to buy my house; although, that is a symptom of the larger issue. She told my realtor the house was already sold. To whom, Betty? I haven’t gotten any offers yet.

Anyway, I hope that the work I’ve done so far pays off. I’m not looking forward to staying away from my house all day. I feel like I need a day off and I’m not even working right now. This isn’t even the first house I’ve ever sold but I honestly don’t remember working this hard before. I am suspicious that might be because I am older now. Meaning either I am more conscientious now, or in my old age I tire more easily. It’s probably both. Sigh. You kids get off my lawn and so forth.

In summation, I’m selling my house and everything in it. Make an offer before Slenderman gets me. The cats are too traumatized to defend me.

Higher Ed is in Crisis but Don’t Blame the Liberals (Or the Conservatives)

I love it when professors talk about troubles they have trying to be professors. The article I just read is meaty and full of very salient points about why teaching critical thinking has become a job deserving of hazardous pay. There’s just one teeny tiny thing I disagree with the author on: the meaning of “liberal” in this context. Specifically, the use of the term liberal as an appropriate label for the kind of phenomenon he describes. I blame George W. Bush. Or Bob Dole. Bob Dole doesn’t like liberals. Bob Dole doesn’t like higher education. Bob Dole likes Bob Dole. Bob Dole. (Does anyone else miss Norm MacDonald’s Bob Dole?)

I’m not going to go into a lengthy summary here of the content of his article since you can read it yourself but I will note for those of you that click the link and then grump “TL;DR” that his central point is about the increasing difficulty college level professors (and especially non-tenure track ones) have with engaging students in debates about cultural and social issues in the classroom free of accusations and consequences related to “identity sensitivity” or whatever we want to call the trend of concern for “my feelings” over serious socio-political moments. I encourage you to read the article since my one sentence summary is grossly inadequate. The point is, he has a lot to say about the dangers of challenging students’ ideas in the classroom.

My beef with the article is the misuse of the term liberal, or perhaps I should say “misappropriation” since that would be ironic. I say misuse because the author attributes much of academics’ inability to engage in serious discourse to liberals, and especially to “social justice” advocates who want to blame the white men for everything without a thoughtful critique of the specific situation. Here’s the problem with that: “liberal” is a loaded word—something George Lakoff might have referred to as a framing device. The term is a binary and implies that the only other option is conservative. If you’re not one, you’re the other. No other choices. Well, I don’t know about anyone else but when someone asks me what the best animal is, cats or dogs, my response is “What have you got against hedgehogs?” Also, I wonder what they’re “best” at.

So, the author’s binary definition of thinking is a trouble spot in the article, and in our conception of social and political understanding as a whole. His primary concern is how institutionalized students’ feelings have become. Don’t say anything bad because you might step on someone’s emotional toes. He is so right about that. But blaming that on liberalism is a serious slight to the historical work traditionally liberal groups have done, and ignores the very real impact traditionally conservative groups have had on public feelings. Lest we forget, it was almost always the religious right who “sinned” then wept on television, begging for public forgiveness. Remember Jim Bakker crying on The PTL Club? I secretly respected Bill Clinton’s unapologetic attitude about the whole Monica Lewinsky affair. He was an @$$hole for cheating on his wife, of course, but there was no shame in enjoying himself with the intern. Emotionalism isn’t a liberal characteristic. Also, Tammy Faye was an evangelical Christian and an LGBT activist so does that make her conservative or liberal? Trick question.

There are some very serious problems in higher education. There are major roadblocks for instructors like me and the author of the article in actually teaching what it is we’re supposed to be teaching, and the fear of reprisal the author describes is all too real. But, leveling the charges against “liberals” (or against “conservatives” for that matter) reduces a very complex issue to an overly simplified and misleading binary. I’m a queer, tree-hugging, socialist who likes shooting rifles and thinks the Federal government is too damn big. What does that make me? I don’t even know the answer.

In summation, I think we can all agree that the real problem is the commodification of higher ed. Students are not customers. If they were, they’d be tipping. Like today’s lesson? Twenty percent is customary.

Hermione Can Drive a Stick Better than Microsoft Can Spell

Microsoft Word does not recognize the spelling of transphobic or postfeminism. It does, however, seem to think that Gryffindor is a perfectly cromulent word. I know this because I have just written a book review (forthcoming this month) in which I compare a liberal politician to a Harry Potter character and award points to his house. (This allusion places Jesse Helms and Newt Gingrich in the roles of Slytherin buffoons Crabbe and Goyle. The metaphor starts to fall apart after that because Draco Malfoy is much smarter than George W. Bush.) Anyway, the point is, my software is operating at the young adult level of language rather than the graduate level at which I’m writing. Spell-check is not to be trusted.

Of course, if you’ve ever written extensively in Word and/or taught writing of any kind, you know this all too well. Sadly, that isn’t the case for most people. Will Smith recently tweeted a silly thing and conflated bored with board. He caught himself later and made a joke of it. (Good for him, I’m glad he caught it and confessed humorously. He’s kind of adorable.) The fact that Twitter actually has a spell-check feature would not have helped him since bored and board are both spelled correctly. The issue is in not checking your own work. My favorite (and frequently seen) mistake in student essays is the correction of the misspelled word customer to the incorrect word costumer. Happens every semester. Also, it’s contextually hilarious when business students note that the costumer is always right. Here, put on this banana outfit before the bored meeting. (See what I did there?)

It’s incredibly difficult to get students to do more than a cursory edit of their essays. A quick run-through with spell-check is usually the extent of their revision process, which, I should point out, will not fix incorrect words spelled correctly nor will it know what to do with words spelled so badly that it doesn’t recognize what’s being attempted. Also, it isn’t revision.

The difference between editing and revision is the difference between changing the oil on your car and rebuilding the transmission. On the one hand, you can ignore it and still keep on going down the road with minimal consequences, and on the other hand, your engine may seize up and cause a crash. Now, don’t get me wrong—you should regularly change your oil. That’s just good car maintenance. But a bad transmission is just not a viable component if you want your essay to get you somewhere. Also, my metaphors today are ridiculous. It’s because of my latest fan fiction: Harry Potter and the Dirty Carburetor. Hermione knows her way around a grease gun. Ten points to Gryffindor. I just had to spell-check that.

I’m not actually certain what the average writing skill level is for Microsoft Word users. It’s probably standard these days for both high schoolers writing crappy five paragraph essays (seriously, there is NO RULE that says an essay must be five paragraphs—stop doing that) and famous novelists writing hundreds of pages at a stretch. Pretty much every grad student writes a thesis or dissertation in Word. (Can you imagine the olden days when academics had to toil on typewriters like chumps? Makes my fingers bleed just thinking about it.) What was I saying? Oh right: Why doesn’t Microsoft Word have a more comprehensive dictionary given its broad user base?

In summation, I’m glad Word will autocorrect made-up words from the wizarding world of Harry Potter but I wish it could help my struggle with transgressive sexualities. I'm ignoring a lot of red squiggles today; transgressive is spelled correctly.

My Incessant Weeping: Finally Explained by Science

According to scientific research, I am a highly sensitive person (HSP). No really, it’s totally legit: it’s in the Wall Street Journal.  It’s good that science is working on this. I mean, I am a crier. I cry about all kinds of things. When I was in basic combat training for the Army, I cried like every day. One time I cried because my phone wasn’t charged. I’ve already cried like six times today. Crying is pretty much my go-to reaction for every emotion I have. I like to keep things simple.

The study reported in the article indicates the lengths scientists have gone to research HSPs (I have an acronym!) in order to determine how brain structure and chemistry (or other science-y stuff) works. These methods include scans and magnetic resonance gobbledygook. It also includes research on other species, from cats to fruit flies. No, seriously. I’m not making that up. Science has discovered that cats have emotional depth. Who knew? Also, effing fruit flies. I’m as much of a tree-hugging, granola-eating hippie as the next PETA nut job, but even I draw the line at concern for the emotions of flying insects that live in my garbage can.

According to researchers, “HSPs get worn out by too much stimuli. They can become easily hurt or offended. And they have been known to overreact to a situation.” I am SO glad science has finally diagnosed my tendencies to cry about everything. They even report that this condition (I have a condition!) is genetic. It feels good to know my childhood reactions to losing at Monopoly were actually a genetically predetermined and not just bad behavior. Everything is so much clearer now.

The consequences of learning about this aspect of my personality have long reaching possibilities. I can now justify pretty much any sudden emotional reaction by citing scientific research. My uncontrollable weeping in the Wal-Mart check-out aisle is now medically explainable. Maybe I can get a special license plate.

The article even includes some helpful tips for dealing with my emotions while in relationships:

• Recognize that you experience events differently than your partner, who may not feel as intensely as you do.
•  Prepare your partner ahead of time that you may need to call a ‘timeout’ during a disagreement if you feel overwhelmed.
• Get ample rest, eat healthily, and take downtime to decompress.
• Recognize that being highly sensitive is a double-edged sword. Feeling emotions of pain and joy more acutely can be a good thing.

This will make all the difference. No wonder I’ve struggled with romantic relationships all these years. I wasn’t giving my partners the rule book. It’s now clear why my previous strategy of simply quoting Pee Wee Herman was not as effective as I wanted it to be: “You don’t want to get mixed up with a guy like me. I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.” Science finally triumphs over 1980s cult films.

I joke, but aren’t these details also true for introverts and people who’ve been through therapy? I identify with all the characteristics they list, but I disagree with their scientific conclusions. I agree that there are people who are more emotionally sensitive, but is scientific intervention the answer? In all seriousness, I’m definitely one of these HSPs, but the article makes it sound like I have a disability. That’s going to make me cry.

In summation, this blog is starting to overwhelm me. I’m calling a time-out.  I need a nap and some broccoli.

Money and Whiteness: Transitioning with Privileges

Caitlyn Jenner has finally and very publicly come out. Her big debut is not only on the cover of Vanity Fair but pretty much every news outlet there is. Congratulations to her. She looks fabulous. But of course she does, she’s a wealthy celebrity. Like most famous women her age, she’s had a little work done. (Have you seen those cheekbones?) Now, before you jump down my throat and call me transphobic, I want to be very, very clear: my critique today is about celebrity and wealth, not about transgender people.  Also, this is probably the beginning of a much longer essay in which I make zero friends.

My trans friends have about as much in common with Caitlyn Jenner as most women of color in the United States have in common with Beyoncé. Seriously, have you seen her wardrobe? (Intentional vague pronoun is intentional.) Some of them would pay real money to dress as well as Queen B. And that’s the point. They can’t afford to. Also, they aren’t famous enough to be known by a single letter of the alphabet.

I think it’s awesome that Jenner has (unintentionally perhaps) become the celebrity face of transgender women, and although there have been and still are famous transgender people who’ve come out while under the media’s watchful eye (remember Chas Bono anyone?) Jenner has somehow been different. I believe there are two reasons for this. First, Jenner was a hugely famous and popular athlete in her younger days, making her more of a household name in mainstream circles. Second, Jenner’s family ties have placed her into a category of celebrities famous for being ridiculous—people whose most well known photos are of their naked ass cheeks.

I was watching an interview with an advocacy group recently called Against Equality whose basic goal is in making “queer challenges to the politics of inclusion.” They’re basically a collection of LGBTQA folks who want to complicate mainstream equality rhetoric. They’re so far to the left, they look like they’ve circled back around to the right. One of the points the spokesperson made in the interview was that mainstream equality politics often privileges white, middle-to-upper class LGBT people, while further erasing the poor and people of color. This gets to my central point about Caitlyn Jenner as the face of trans women: she’s wealthy and white. Good for her. 

This is hardly a new critique. It’s the same charge the Lavender Menace leveled against mainstream feminism in the 1970s. Creating mainstreamed versions of marginalized identities is what leads to essentialized stereotypes. Instead of a multiplicity of voices and identities, we’re left with a single placeholder for what a diverse group of people looks like. Feminists in the 1970s didn’t include lesbians and women of color. This isn’t about Jenner; it’s about the problems that come from mainstreaming marginalized identities.

Visibility and representation in media is critical. It is important that Jenner and others like her are seen. I haven’t forgotten how important it was to Martin Luther King Jr. for Nichelle Nichols to play Lieutenant Uhura on Star Trek. We need to see difference represented. But Caitlyn Jenner isn’t representative of most trans people I know. Most trans people face daily and ongoing discrimination and harassment without the buffer of celebrity and wealth to protect them from the physical threats of violence. And while I don’t mean to minimize the struggle that Jenner faced as she so very publicly transitioned, which was no doubt difficult and invasive, let’s face it: money helped her a lot. Also, Annie Leibovitz makes everyone look fabulous. Remember her pictures of Iggy Pop?

In summation, congratulations to Caityln Jenner for her coming out, but let’s not forget that the experiences of most trans people are not as triumphant as hers. 

My Brain is Playing Tetris

I’m finding that I have relatively little of any worth to say lately. Friday’s blog was a nonsensical musing about chipmunk noises. If you didn’t read it, don’t even bother. I don’t know if this is because I am simply too busy to think or if I have run out of things to say. I am in the process of moving to Florida from Iowa right now, which is taking up a considerable amount of my time as well as occupying a lot of space in my head. Perhaps when things settle down from the move, I will begin having coherent ideas again. In the meantime, most of my thoughts right now are dedicated to brainstorming techniques for packing as efficiently as possible. I have gotten rather creative. All those hours of playing Tetris instead of working are finally paying off.

I have a classic steel lunchbox collection and a large number of Legos. Naturally, I packed Legos inside of lunchboxes and labeled the boxes “Legos in lunchboxes.” To outsiders (and any moving day helpers) this will seem like a bizarre and ridiculous label, perhaps even a euphemism for something more sinister or seedy. Why do I have things like this? The bulk of my stuff is weird. I have ten boxes full of useless collections, and one box of dishes. I have twenty boxes of books and a single suitcase of clothes. There is a box containing classic Smurf glassware and another box of Xena: Warrior Princess trading cards. I have zero boxes of toiletries. I mean really, what’s more important: Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic books or shampoo and conditioner? I think we all know the correct answer to that question. Also, I cut off all my hair. My needs are simple. For example, I don’t own any Alvin and the Chipmunks memorabilia. (Serious question:  If Alvin is a chipmunk, why is his band called “Alvin and the Chipmunks”?)

Today’s dilemma is problem solving what to do with the entire original Star Wars radio drama on cassette. It takes up a surprising amount of room—there are three boxes with about ten tapes each. I considered selling them but according to eBay, they’re only worth about 25-30 bucks . . . if you can even find a buyer. So, I guess I’m keeping them. Unfortunately, I no longer own a device that plays cassettes. They are probably getting packed with my Inside Star Trek LP ($15), The Star Wars Storybook ($10), and a vintage 1950s cap gun in the original package, worth $65 but not sellable on eBay because it’s a gun. Also, Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy and Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on vinyl. I do not own a turntable. Ironically, I do own a VCR but am getting rid of all my VHS tapes. Do you need a gently used copy of the 1994 Rosie O’Donnell movie Exit to Eden? According to eBay, it’s “rare.”

I packed a large number of books into a large number of small boxes. Books are heavy, and although they’re treasures to me, their resale value is pretty much zilch. A great deal of my identity is tied to my literacy, which happens when you get advanced degrees in English Literature and Rhetoric (or perhaps it’s the other way around.) In any case, I can’t very well get rid of my identity. I’d no more leave my books behind than I would my cats. I am still trying to figure out how to pack the cats. So far, it involves pillows and sedatives. They’re suspicious.

All of this really begs the question: What can I live without? Honestly, I’ve been struggling with this question for the last few months now, ever since I made the decision to move out of state. I concluded I could live without my vintage Star Wars action figures and my Lord of the Rings Pez dispensers, but apparently, my tubs full of Legos are non-negotiable. Don’t even get me started on the artwork. That is a headache I have yet to tackle.

In summation, humans acquire a lot of crap we think we need. I don’t think chipmunk nests are full of shiny bits of trash, are they? Perhaps this is an inborn trait of our species. Either way, it’s terribly inconvenient.

Chipmunks are Nature's Klaxxons

This is a poorly-written blog. I blame the world’s loudest chipmunk, currently living under my front porch. He chirps so freaking loud and at such a high, repetitive pitch that it sounds like the Amber Alert on my phone is going off. The cats sit in the window meowing at him, and they occasionally glance over at me with a look that says “please, can I go out there and silence that delicious little morsel?” I have to tell them no, but I secretly want to know what would actually happen if they caught him. I suspect his chirp would take on an even higher pitched, more alarmed sound. He’s chirping because there are cats watching him. He knows he’s edible. His chipmunk red alert is driving me to distraction. Someone get him some peanuts.

I have a theory about noises that trigger natural alarm reactions, even non-human noises that trigger human alarm. If you’ve ever heard a rabbit scream and wished more than anything to end the poor bunny’s suffering, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Rabbit screams are a horror movie level sound, just below nails on a chalkboard as far as what humans can tolerate listening to. These sounds are why we have things like smoke detectors and alarm clocks make such unpleasant noises. Can you imagine the difference between a fire alarm bleating and one that sounds like ocean waves or gentle rainfall? This theory also extends to good versus bad smells and our strong negative reaction to things that have the scent of poop and death, but that’s a topic for another day.

The reason why I’m taking about this, in addition to the nerve-wracking decibels of the chipmunk on the porch making me unable to think of anything else, is that my phone’s Amber Alert went off yesterday while I was at home. Now, here’s the thing—it’s not an option. I can’t take it off my phone (at least not that I’m aware of—if I’m wrong about that, someone can tell me.) This means that everyone with a phone gets this warning. I have mixed feelings about this.

Fortunately, yesterday’s alert was cancelled quickly—it was for some (seemingly delinquent) teenagers who were located safely. However, when a child is actually abducted, these alerts function to notify everyone that the kid’s missing. Including the perpetrator of the abduction. I legitimately wonder if the alert (on cell phones) is assisting in finding the child. I’m actually really curious about this. Finding kids quickly is imperative, but warning the perp that they know what his car looks like and where he was last seen seems counterproductive to this goal. I genuinely don’t know whether the phone alert does any good. What I am certain of is that child abductors are vermin and if my cats were bigger, well….my cats are carnivores. Om nom nom.

In summation, I’m sitting here trying to ponder deep thoughts while Chippy McNutface is yelling at my cat from the front porch.

These Stress-Free Services Are Stressing Me Out

Whoever came up with the label “stress-free” can just go jump in a lake. I have yet to experience anything so named that actually delivers as advertised. Today’s stress inducing product: “stress-free” companion animal tracking microchips.

I took two of my cats to the vet yesterday. It’s very traumatic for everyone involved, including the third cat that stayed home. She hid in the basement ceiling all night, suspicious that she was next. She didn’t come out until this morning when, coincidentally, the food bowl was empty. The two cats that did go to the vet howled vehemently all the way there and then cowered in the corner of the crate all the way home. They’re very suspicious today. Every time I turn around, one of them is giving me the stink-eye.

The main purpose of the visit was to get them microchips, which are inserted under their skin as a means of tracking them should they stray. Microchipping is supposed to eliminate the stress of traveling with a pet, and makes the pet easier to locate should it get lost. If you’ve ever traveled with a pet, especially a cat, you know that it’s a stress filled endeavor. Any products or services that can make for a calmer experience are desirable. The vet recommended some pheromone spray for the car to make the cats think it was a safe environment. Also, she suggested getting them high on Xanax. Unfortunately, the registration system is not what it’s cracked up to be. I got quite emotional today trying to get the chips registered through the company’s “simple” online service. I’m pretty sure it’s designed to use your love for your pet to rip you off.

The microchip company seems to be playing on the fears of pet owners by forcing you to agree to a reoccurring subscription fee in order to proceed with the initial set-up, which is actually a fixed cost. Basically, you have to immediately cancel the approval for the reoccurring charges or you’re automatically billed for a subscription you don’t have to have. It’s really frustrating, especially since you can’t really change your mind once the animal has been chipped or you forced the poor little thing to undergo the animal equivalent of an alien probing for no good reason. Once the chip is in there, it’s worthless if you don’t register it. Did I mention that was supposed to be a one-time fee? That’s important because the registration company tries to trick you by not having a “register chip only” option on the website. I guess they’re hoping you won’t notice that they made you agree to pay reoccurring charges even though it’s not required. Jerks.

This whole process was so frustrating, I actually broke down crying trying to get it figured out. I’m not usually the kind of person who gets teary-eyed over online order forms, but I guess the look of betrayal on my cats’ faces drove me over the edge. Don’t mess with my love for my kitties or I may write a pissed-off blog about your crappy registration system, HomeAgain.com. Also, I don’t like your website’s color scheme and your pet ID tags are ugly.

In summation, cat pheromone spray is supposed to aid in lowering the cats’ stress level. I wonder if it comes in human scents. 

Dog v. Dogma: Pip and the Pope

Today’s topic is a toss-up: the Vatican’s nonsensical response to the marriage equality vote in Ireland or teeny tiny animals. Why not both, you say? Agreed. According to Pope Francis, the vote in Ireland to legalize same-sex marriage “threaten[s] to disfigure God’s plan for creation.” Meanwhile, not far away in the United Kingdom, Pip, the world’s smallest pug, was keeping a close eye on the vote, and gleefully responded “woof-woof.” The official stance from the Vatican concerning the shrinking number of humans on the planet was easily rebuffed by the erudite counterclaim of a one pound dog.

 The official stance from the Vatican on the Ireland vote (go green!) is that marriage equality is a “defeat for humanity” because reasons. And also something about “the family.” Pip, ever-vigilant in staying current with contemporary world politics, responded to the Catholic Church’s assertion by cocking his head to one side and scrunching his eyebrows in confusion. His mother, Ruby, herself a god-fearing pup who’s done her duty and given birth to a bunch of pups, rested her head on the edge of the couch and dozed off. Not everyone is as politically-minded as Pip.

In case you’re not keeping track, there are over seven billion people on the planet Earth right about now, give or take a million, so the argument against allowing same-sex couples to marry based on the notion of needing to produce more humans is really the most ridiculous one ever. We have plenty of people. We don’t even know how to feed and shelter the one’s we’ve already got, and that includes people in so-called “first-world” countries, never mind all the ones in developing countries without access to clean water. Perhaps God is making more gay babies to put a limit on our out-of-control population. I have no hard evidence of this, but if Jurassic Park taught me anything, it’s that life finds a way. Pip agrees.

That’s right folks. The greatest “defeat for humanity” is allowing gay people to marry each other in a country of less than five million. Pip would like to do some simple math for the Vatican. Using Kinsey’s ten percent ratio (of whose accuracy I am profoundly skeptical) there are approximately 500,000 homos in Eyre. Of that number, approximately 66 percent are in their child-bearing years, which is 330,000, and then divided by 2 (you know, because couples) equals 165,000. Now assuming each of these couples had a baby that means the world would end up with 165,000 new humans every couple of years. So, the question I put to the Vatican is this: Are you legitimately arguing that the non-existence of these 165,000 completely make-believe theoretical babies in an already over-populated world is the greatest defeat ever faced by humanity? (Even in just the last 6,000 years, which is how old some of you think the world is.) Seriously? Pip the Pug questions your logic. Also, I should probably point out to the pope and his cardinals that even if Irish eyes had not smiled on marriage equality, and prevented these 330,000 people from marrying each other, their response would not be one of “Oh darn. Well, I guess I better marry someone of another sex and start popping out babies.”

There are plenty of reasons out there to oppose marriage equality, and while they’re all based on religious and moral reasons and not actual logic, the notion that we need more humans is really the dumbest one of all. We don’t need any more humans. Much like dogs, they’re cute when they’re small, but seriously, we have plenty of them already.

In summation, in a profound display of thoughtful logic over dogmatic nonsense, Pip the Pug says woof.

How I Learned to Stopped Worrying and Love the Comments

I just read an article called “The Pedagogy of Trolls.”  You can read it too if you like. I’m not going to stop you.  It was a short, scholarly exploration of why having writing students read the comments can be a useful teaching tool.  Now, I know I’ve warned you in the past about not reading the comments, but the truth is, I’m a big ole hypocrite. I almost always read the comments left on my articles. I do this for three main reasons: one, I have an ego and I like to see what people are saying about me; two, I like to have fodder for future articles; and three, I am a bit of a troll myself and I want to up my troll game by learning from experts. Also, I am a professional commenter—it’s legitimately part of my job description.

The article recommends reading comments left on online articles written by students for other reasons as well, and although the author doesn’t say specifically that it will help young writers develop a thicker skin, it’s implicit in the meaning. Here lies the point of my blog today: reading the comments helps writers become less sensitive to criticism, whether it’s legitimate criticism or nut-job quackery. Of course, to begin this long and difficult journey to becoming an icy writer with nerves of Teflon, one begins by reading the comments from one’s instructor. For many students, this is a difficult but important first step.

Contrary to popular belief, instructors do not use a dart board and/or dice-based games of chance to determine student grades on essays. There are specific criteria, outlined and provided to the students ahead of time, which instructors use to make assessments. While both writing instructors and the internet trolls named DrStranglelove (sic) will criticize students' incorrect use of "your" versus "you’re," instructor feedback will differs from trollish comments in some important ways; first and foremost, instructors are interested actually helping writers improve. Trolls see a piece of work as a finished product; instructors view everything as a work in progress. Also, instructors will not suggest inappropriate behavior with writers' maternal relations. If you get comments from your instructor containing the words “your mom” I suggest you contact the dean.

The issue of course, is that students often view instructor comments as “optional reading.” This leads to the existence of conversations that would otherwise be unnecessary. Usually, those conversations go thusly:

Student: “Why did you give me X grade on this paper? I worked really hard on it.”

Instructor: “I can’t grade you on effort. Did you read my comments?”

(Brief pause while student thinks of a plausible lie.)

Student: “I glanced at them.”

Instructor: “Well, I think I explained my reasoning pretty well. Go back and re-read what I said. If you have additional questions after you look over the comments, then come talk to me.”

I can’t tell you how many times I have had this exact conversation. It’s a lot. By a lot, I mean like multiple times for multiple students for multiple assignments every freaking semester. It gets kind of exhausting. I start taking shortcuts. A good pedagogue will tell you that effective comments should be in a sandwich; that is, a top and bottom bun of positive feedback with the meat comprising the constructive criticism. I confess that having students consistently ignore my comments has resulted in my sandwiches becoming open-faced. I am sometimes tempted to have sandwiches that are meat-bun-meat configurations. I've made a concerted effort to limit my KFC Double-Down comments to the internet. Of course, the bottom line is that writing comments to students is a waste of my time if the students don’t read them. Which they should.

In summation, read the comments. You may hit some nut-jobbery, but some trolls are actually semi-articulate English professors.

On the Internet, No One Knows You’re a Crook

The internet does not take days off. That’s good because I have a lot of trivial information I need to look up on holidays. For example, I need to know what the head of the Greek goddess Athena looks like and how much can I reasonable ask someone to pay for a used motorcycle. Also, I need to know if the area code 714 is close enough to me to be a legitimate inquiry for buying said used motorcycle. (It’s not.) Yep, the internet continues to churn out its fingertip-accessible information 24/7-365 (366 in leap years,) allowing scammers of all stripes and spots to continue their scamming free of all those pesky bank holidays.

The Sunday scammer, as I call him, though he said his name was George Collins (because that’s a more believable name than John Smith, I guess) wished to find out about the used motorcycle I had listed for sale on the internet. I was immediately skeptical when I saw that the area code was out of state but people move and keep their old numbers for sentimental reasons, so I gave “George” the benefit of the doubt and replied to his first inquiry: “yes, the bike is still for sale…” He wanted me to send him additional information, the location and asking price, both of which were in the ad. At first I thought perhaps I was dealing with a simpleton, or a college student who didn’t read the syllabus before asking the due date for a paper. Then I got a third text.

He informed me that “the movers will come pick it up” and he was “a verified PayPal user” and would wire me the money. (Mr. Worf, go to red alert.) Seriously, does that kind of scam actually work? My immediate reaction was terror that someone in a truck was on the way to my house to steal my motorcycle, and I had to take a moment to remind myself that it was locked in my garage in a small town with lots of nosy neighbors in broad daylight. If you’re going to scam someone, inspiring a knee-jerk reaction of cop-calling is not the best strategy; scamming is about trickery, not terror. Clearly George did not get his diploma from the Nigerian Prince School of Internet Fraud, though admittedly, his spelling was a little better than the average Nigerian royal.

If his plan was to orchestrate a fake PayPal transfer for which funds did not exist, I am not clear why he skipped to the part about “movers picking it up” before he got me to agree to a phony payment. George was not taking his time with the nuances of his hoax. He was skipping the foreplay of the con game. You’ve got to put your mark in the mood, not skip to the bingo of the act. Don’t skip the pleasantries. Never mind that he asked me my name and location in his first message, which was a creeper move to begin with.

PayPal is actually a pretty safe way of transferring money. If you are dealing with a reputable third party intermediary like eBay or Amazon. Even with those relatively trustworthy sites, the money is held for up to 30 days before it’s confirmed as legit funds and paid to the seller. Basically, George’s transparent master plan was to send me the “money” via PayPal, send a truck (I guess) to haul off my motorcycle, and then reverse the payment before PayPal can confirm legitimacy of the account. Clearly, this guy is not a rocket scientist. He’s not even a very good criminal. Who buys a motorcycle sight-unseen? Who sells a used vehicle to a stranger for anything other than cold, hard cash? Has this scam ever actually worked? Seriously, George: Get a real job. My last message to George was “Cash only.” He never replied back. I guess he’s on a tight schedule. So many scams, so little time.

In summation, if you’re scamming someone on the internet, you can do so on weekends and holidays, but you can’t skip the nuances of your con game. A sucker may be born every minute, but as P.T. Barnum well knew, it takes some showmanship to get the job done.