The Search for the Perfect Major: Part 3

Major under discussion: Philosophy

The meeting had already started, so I quietly tiptoed through the back door of the classroom. It was the weekly Philosophy-Philes meeting. I think that means philosophy lovers, at least I hope so.

I'd never been to one of the meetings, but if I was going to see what a philosophy major really does, this was the place to be. I was surprised to see no one with taped glasses and pocket protectors. There was one student whose hairline was just beginning its process of recession, but generally they looked like normal people. This was encouraging! Maybe philosophy was the major for me.

A student stepped to the front of the room. She seemed like the leader. She had a look of wholesomeness, like a model for those pictures that come free with a new picture frame. In a very nasal voice, she went over the philosophy idea of the night. Then she announced a 10 minute silent "think-time." I hadn't been warned that I would need to think about philosophy.

Thinking about things… now that is not something I do for fun. I'd gotten through college so far without too much thinking, and I wasn't about to start by choice.

I spent the 10 minutes of thinking time trying to figure out how I could fake my way through the philosophy courses. It didn't look pretty. And neither did my face, which was now contorted in an expression somewhere between exasperation, confusion, and desperation.

At the end of the 10 minutes of misery, another student got up and said, "It is now time for the philosophy joke of the week. Descartes walks into a café and sits down ready to order. A waiter comes up to him and asks, 'Do you need a menu?' Descartes replies, 'I think not,' and he disappears!"

I had many questions about this so-called joke, which I tried to ignore as the room erupted in laughter. In fact, the most pressing question really made me proud of myself because it sounded philosophical. "Why am I here?" Actually, I wasn't referring to my existence; I was referring to my presence in the philosophy club.

My second "major" excursion was a wash. Philosophy just required too much thinking. I think I'll try something a little more… objective. Something concrete… like Biology.

My Professor is a Genius

Before the Christmas non-denominational winter break, my philosophy professor challenged me, as part of his "Intro to Worldviews" class, to be more aware of the subtle contradictions and inconsistencies of modern philosophies we discussed in class. I filed that challenge away long before finals, and let it sit undisturbed in my gray matter while I stuffed my face with fudge, pie and Christmas cookies.

Fast-forward 2 weeks to Boxing Day. You know, the day after Christmas. My grandma and Aunt Sue celebrate this joyous holiday by elbowing and/or stampeding the people in front of them in line for the super-amazing-day-after-Christmas sales.

I got into an argument with my cousin Devon, a 5th year senior, about who should get to play "Call of Duty 5: World at War" first. It occurred to me that Devon was a moral relativist. We'd had long conversations about the subject in the past, and although I'd tried to point out his misguided thoughts, we never got to an agreement.

At that moment, I had an epiphany. I remembered the charge my professor had given me. I grabbed the game controller out of my cousin's greedy hands and proceeded to start my own game. My cousin's jaw made an interesting thud as it hit the floor. "You… you can’t do that!"

With my best innocent voice, I replied, "Why not?"

"Because," he stammered, "you can’t!"

"Why not?" I was enjoying this too much.

"Because it's… it's…" He seemed to have a lump of confusion and defeat in his throat.

"Wrong?"

"No… because…." He walked away scratching his head. I'd caught him with his own "no right or wrong" trap. With a victorious smirk, I enjoyed the solitude my cousin had left in his wake.

Maybe I should pay more attention in class.

How to Play Traffic

REQUIRED TO PLAY: One serviceable automobile, one valid driver's license. Paranoid friends and relatives add to the fun.

OBJECT OF THE GAME: To obtain the highest possible number of points over a set period of time by completing certain objectives, usually involving tacky violations of road law and/or etiquette, written and unwritten.

HOW TO PLAY: This game is as much a pastime as a sport. You can play anywhere, any time: driving to work, dropping the kids off at soccer, going on a joy ride with friends, moving your father-in-law's jaguar around the block for him. Try to complete as many objectives as possible in the shortest possible time. Style points figure big in this game, as do making up your own objectives on the spur of the moment. Success requires quick thinking, situational awareness, and the sort of mind that brings you to FCN in the first place.

Scoring and objective verification is based on the honor system.

OBJECTIVES (An incomplete list):

Fake forward. While stopped at a red light, edge forward a few inches, then stop.

2 points: Make the car behind you edge forward as well.
4 points: Make the car next to you edge forward.
6 points: Make the car next to you run the light.
9 points: Make the car next to you drive into oncoming traffic.
13 points: Make the car behind you rear-end you. Sue the driver out of house and home.

Zone of Control. Throw a left turn signal indicating a merge into the fast lane, but stay in your current lane indefinitely.

1 point: Make a passing car fall back.
2 points: Make a passing hummer fall back.
4 points: Make a sports car follow behind you indefinitely.
13 points: Make a police car follow behind you indefinitely.

I'm from Europe. Drive a donut in the middle of an intersection.

2 points: Learn a new word from a fellow motorist.
7 points: Learn a new word from a nun.

Litter bug. While stopped at a red light, exit the car to collect a piece of trash lying on the side of the road, then return to the vehicle before the light turns green.

3 points: Get a Spock eyebrow from the driver behind you.
5 points: Collect the litter that the driver behind you just tossed out his window.
9 points: Sell the litter on eBay.
11 points: Catch the litter before it hits the ground.
14 points: Appear on the Village Roadshow with the litter.

Chicken Little. Roll down your window and gesture emphatically skyward.

1 point: Make someone look.
2 points: Catch them looking and laugh at them.
4 points: Make someone leap from their car and run for cover.
8 points: Make everyone in sight leap from their car and run for cover.
15 points: Reverse the flow of traffic.

My favorite song. Roll down your window and sing along with the radio of an adjacent motorist who also has his/her windows down.

2 points: Make the fellow motorist turn his music up.
3 points: Make the fellow motorist turn his music down.
5 points: The song is "Riding Dirty."

Actually, it can be done. Parallel park from across the street by sawing a hard left and closing the hand brake.

2 points: Complete this stunt without damaging anything.
3 points: Complete this stunt and damage a jaguar.
5 points: Complete this stunt and damage your father-in-law's jaguar.
8 points: Complete this stunt in your father-in-law's jaguar.
10 points: Complete this stunt in your prospective father-in-law's jaguar with your sweetheart in the passenger seat.
16 points: Complete this stunt in your prospective father-in-law's jaguar with your prospective mother-in-law in the passenger seat.

Gotcha Going. Rev your engine as a pedestrian passes in front of you on a crosswalk.

-1 point: Get a Spock eyebrow from said pedestrian.
3 points: Get a scream.
5 points: Make said pedestrian break and run.
7 points: Make said pedestrian break and run into oncoming traffic.
12 points: Make an adjacent motorist drive into oncoming traffic.
15 points: The pedestrian is wearing an orange vest and holding a KIDS XING sign.

Cut! Drive off a cliff just before something explodes.

40 points.

Prayer of Confession

Heads were bowed, eyes were closed and hands were folded as the pastor led his congregation in a Prayer of Confession and Declaration of Forgiveness. Everyone was still and silent and pastor’s soft words were heard plainly from the pulpit.

“We come to you Father mired in and cognizant of our transgressions...”

In the front row, between two fatigued parents, sat a young girl. She looked to be somewhere in years between five and seven, but was a tad stout and had the ornery air of a person who enjoys rebellion, which rendered an accurate age assessment impossible. To that point during the service she had made a number of mischievous dalliances toward inappropriate behavior, but she had never gone so far as to cause a disturbance. Only my eyes, peeled as they were to youthful societal infractions, picked up on her desire to sin.

With both parents distracted by the prayer, the young girl saw her opportunity. Posterity will never know exactly what she did that scratched her sin itch, but it must have been satisfying because it immediately drew a “SHHHH” from one of her parents.

Pastor continued his prayer:

”We acknowledge our shortcomings and humble ourselves in Your presence knowing that You and You alone...”

The girl in the front row succumbed again to temptation and this violation put her over the threshold. Mother grabbed daughter’s wrist and marched deliberately toward the back exit. Both women were wearing stylish sandals that made a distinctive flip-flop sound as they moved, such that even without lifting my head I could track their location.

“We disappoint You routinely – such shortcomings are in our nature – but You in Your benevolence see fit to correct us...”

The walls of the church building were thin and the sound of a sobbing girl was not restrained to the nursery room. Apparently her rebellious desire was extinguished quickly by a stern look from mom and in its place were shrieks of expectant agony. The girl knew she was going to get a spanking and everyone in the sanctuary knew it too.

“Save us heavenly Father from the punishment of eternal damnation and the flames of hell...”

The retort of a blunt impact reverberated around the room and was followed by a bellow of unrestrained agony punctuated at times by girly sobs. Another smack was recorded in the ledger or our ears and more screams reinforced pastor’s prayer.

”You know our hearts and minds, please see our penitence...”

“I’M SOO SORRY MAMA!” The temptation was firmly erased from the young girl’s mind and her only thoughts were for her own comfort. Although she was hidden from view, I am sure tears were streaming down her cheeks and that sitting down would be unpleasant for the next few minutes.

Another voice, much quieter than the young girl’s sobs and more feminine than the pastor’s prayer joined in saying “It’s OK, honey. Come on; all’s forgiven.”

“Thank you Father for sending Your son to give His sanctifying blood on our behalf...”

The flips-flops made their way back to the front of the sanctuary, accented by gentle sniffles from the young girl. Daughter looked embarrassed and mother appeared oblivious to the fact that the entire church had witnessed her meted punishment. Pastor made no comment, he only concluded his prayer:

”In Your blessed name we pray, Amen.”

Brisingr Preview

BOREDOM WARNING: The following post will hold minimal interest to those unfamiliar with Christopher Paulini's Inheritance series (including already-published Eragon and Eldest).

SPOILER WARNING: Plot and/or ending details follow.

One of the most anticipated novels of the year is Christopher Paulini's Brisinger, the 3rd installment in the Inheritance Trilogy Cycle. Folks are dying to know what happens next in the rather epic tale of Eragon and his Saphira.

We wrote Paulini a very nice letter, and he agreed to send us the unfinished Brisinger manuscript. We read it, and now offer you this plot summary for those of you who can't stand to wait for September 20th:

The story begins with Eragon abandoning his freshly-victorious army so he can help his brother Roran track down his girlfriend Katrina, who has been captured by the Ra'zac. Almost immediately after Eragon loses sight of the army, Galbatorix himself swoops down with his dragon and has a Surda sandwhich with Urgals for seasoning and the Carvahall townspeople for desert. There are only a handful of survivors, including all the major characters. Nasuada is believed dead but of course she isn't really - she just got lost in a bog.

Eragon knows that he is too weak to take on Galbatorix directly, so he flees into the Spine with Roran, where they bump into Angela and Solembum. They have a lengthy and mildly amusing conversation which has no bearing on the plot, at the end of which Solembum utters some impenetrably mysterious riddles and turns into a rutabaga.

They proceed along the Spine eating less than is humanly possible. Nights are bitterly cold, but Eragon uses the magic word Brisingr (hence the name) to surround their camps with a ring of fire every time they go to sleep. This has several effects: It keeps enemies away, keeps Eragon and Roran warm and makes it obvious to anyone a hundred miles around where exactly they are.

Eventually they randomly fall into a hole in the mountain and stumble on a city hidden by magic from the eyes of those far off. It is populated by a race more or less exactly like Hobbits. You could say that Paulini ripped this race off of Tolkein's Lord of the Rings, but you would be mistaken, because these people are called Bar'u'ab'dualötís, so obviously he made it up himself. The Bar'u'ab'dualötís are a peace-loving people (as you know if you're at all familiar with Lord of the Rings); they want no trouble, but Eragon's ring of fire has attracted an army of Ra'zac. The Bar'u'ab'dualötís are forced to fight for their homes and turn out to be pretty good fighters for no explicable reason. Eragon's magic does plenty of damage, but the Ra'zac do something sneaky to his mind during the battle and he has strange nightmares for the rest of the book.

The good guys win of course, but they take heavy losses in the form of warm Bar'u'ab'dualötí bodies the reader barely knew the name of anyway. Of course, the heavy losses aren't actually dead - they just got lost in a bog. Eragon captures the Ra'zac leader (who's name is Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver) and finds himself in a moral quandary. He can either torture Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver to find Katrina's location or risk not saving Katrina at all. True to form, Eragon deals with this decision by hanging out and waiting for something terrible to happen.

He only has to wait two days. Arya, who found Eragon using magic instead of the rings of fire, appears that night and confides several important pieces of information. First, she explains the origin of the Bar'u'ab'dualötís. Here's a shocker: they come from Over the Sea just like everything else. Roran wonders aloud what's so special about Over the Sea that gives it such auto-generating powers. Arya curses him in the ancient language so he can never speak again. She says that these things must not be spoken of until the author figures out "where the heck this world comes from anyway."

Arya uses her magic to pry open Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver's mind and find out where Katrina is.

They continue on their journey. They are escorted by four Bar'u'ab'dualötí. These four are led by a slightly handsomer chap named Imn-ot'fro-do. They march to Gil'ead with no idea how they'll save Katrina. On the way, a handful of survivors from the Surdan and Urgal armies join them. "Anything Saphira's master's brother's girlfriend," They reason.

Upon arrival at Gil'ead, a terrible battle breaks loose. Just when all seems lost, Murtagh shows up out of nowhere and agrees to help Eragon because he feels bad about all that mean stuff he said at the end of Eldest. Together, the brothers defeat Galbatorix's million thousand soldiers and burn the dungeon (but only after extracting the prisoners). Katrina isn't there, which means they just wasted two hundred pages of effort. Eragon, Roran, Arya, and Murtagh have a meeting to decide what to do next. During this meeting, a wounded imperial soldier sneaks up and tries to shoot Eragon in the back. Elva shows up out of nowhere and jumps in front of the arrow. She is lost in a bog soon after. The enemy is captured but Arya doesn't want to torture him because he's human and not a worthless Ra'zac.

So Trianna, leader of the Du Vrangr Gata, shows up and tortures him instead. The poor man reveals that he doesn't know where Katrina is, but he does know a secret tunnel into Galbatorix's palace. As if on cue, a bunch of Varden show up who say they can lead him to the entrance to the tunnel but go no further because a strange and convenient force has been placed on the entrance so only dragon riders can pass into it.

They reveal several other juicy tidbits:

1) There are actually three more dragon eggs at least.
2) No one has any clue where they are.
3) That thing back in the chuck wagon wasn't a watermelon.
4) It was a dragon egg, and it seems to be hatching for Imn-ot'fro-do into a strong green male.
5) Nasuada isn't dead, she's just lost in a bog.
6) Katrina has been spotted in Helgrind, which Eragon should probably have known she was in all along. That dirty rbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver was a liar!

On hearing this news, Arya dies of despair. Dies. Of despair.

The book ends with Eragon in a moral quandary.

This Is Our Canvas: The FCN Philosophy

Some folks are pathogenically artistic. Every move is a calculated expression; their thespian side knows no limit and articulation is their forté and their faiblesse (to use a little Français).

I know; the above paragraph looks like it was written by some off the deep end artso who is so intent on clipping his nose hair that he never stops to balance his budget. Let me assure you that, while I do meticulously maintain proper limits on my nasal follicles, I also take time to manage my finances. I am also very proud of my sniffer, thank you, and would appreciate if you stopped staring.

Ah, but my proboscis (my beak, snoot – snout if you’re from the north – nozzle, schnoz or schnozzle, if you prefer) is a great topic for another post. Let’s leave my olfactory organ alone and stop asking how we got here in the first place.

You can always tell the serious artistic cases (the ones that need to be put in the Intensive Care Unit so their “art” can’t reach the outside world and pollute all of us) by the way they use human form in their art.

An artist feels that the moment he scoots out of the womb he’s got to start improving the world. Sometimes they begin their improvements before the big send off (that’s called a breach pregnancy), but most of the time they grab the nearest artistic tool as soon as they're old enough fit it into their mouths.

The ultimate expression of an artistic being is a tattoo. Ask anyone who as undergone the highly painful and slightly humiliating process of tattooing and you may very well get a response like “My body is my canvas.” Any other response can be attributed to an over-endowed sense of manliness or complete idiocy.

This belief -- that the body is a tool for expression -- is a dead ringer for an artistic expressionist; someone's gone over the imagination waterfall and is still trying to find his floaties. In fact several studies have linked breach pregnancy babies to an increased tattoo risk. One even advised parents to tattoo their breach young with an acceptable mark to mitigate the chance of an inappropriate one later in life.

In general, the more tattoos a person has the more likely they would have led a successful artistic career had they not ruined their chances by getting the tattoo in the first place.

But how did we get from my nose to breach pregnancies and tattoos? This is like a conversation with that woman from Raley’s. Goodness sakes alive (her words, not mine)!

FCN is, in an odd sort of way, my tattoo. It’s my canvas; my place to express deceptively shallow material disguised with humor to look deep (hence the need for floaties). If you remove the needles and pain but keep the humiliation and mix in an odd sort of cyber permanence, you get FCN.

FCN even has some of the disadvantages of a tattoo. If my employer finds out who I am and what I write, I could lose my job. My female friends stop talking to me after reading FCN, not unlike the way they would if they discovered a nasty tat; even my mothers (biological and cyberphysical) have to take me aside sometimes after reading something here.

FCN reaches under the skin and make a lasting mark. Once you've been here, you're pretty much marked for life. Removal is expensive, painful and not 100% successful. We're sorry but it's something you are going to have to talk with your future spouse about.

That's the FCN philosophy in a nutshell. But showing off the tattoo is getting old and waxing philosophical is more painful than, well, nose hair clipping, so if you'll excuse me I am going to make a phone call to one of my jock friends (with real tattoos) who wouldn't know Mona Lisa if she slapped him in the face to have a conversation about "nothing."

Yipeeeeee!

I am out of breath and sweating like a ten-year old during recess. My heart is thundering like the pistons of a sports car and I have a few residual shakes from some caffeine induced late night studying. But I can still shout and sing and type and do everything to tell the world how happy I am that my last final of my last class of my last semester at community college is COMPLETE!

Nary a few minutes ago, I waltzed (1-2-3, 1-2-3) out of class, the warmth of my professor’s handshake still impressed on my palm. It isn’t that far behind me, but I’ve already scrubbed my memory clean of everything I learned this semester. Descartes, Hume and Guano (or was it Guanillo?) can go back to being their dead, aspirated selves. Nutrition class’ subtle condemnation of my eating habits is free to return to obscurity. My soils book will return to, well, the dirt from whence it came.

A half opened packaged of dehydrated Ramen noodles reminds me of my hunger – I read once that fasting can help retain facts, and was in the 15^th hour of self deprivation – but only briefly. My emotional state will not let me dwell on my empty stomach for long. My feelings can only be described as giddy; summer vacation is upon us; if you listen closely you can almost hear it hailing – or is that the ceiling fan?

I won’t know my grades for another few days, but right now I really don’t care. I’d go on a date with Phil Spector, that’s how reckless I am. I’d open my eyes in chlorinated water and wait for my contacts to float out. I’d snort Tabasco sauce and put ground pepper on the little thing that hangs down in the back of my mouth. And that’s just the first week of summer.

I promised a friend that I would run around the house three times in my underwear if I get an “A” in my difficult philosophy class. Well, it looks like that seemingly far fetched prediction may come to fruition and I’m a man of my word. If you plan on coming near my place in the next week, also plan on averting your eyes.

Whatever else happens this summer, school classes are not in the cards. I am taking a not-so-well deserved but heavily anticipated three month break from homework, study groups and tests. But that doesn’t mean FCN content will be stopped, or even siphoned. If anything, some time outside the classroom may provide even more fodder for humor and satire. I (and all of FCN, for that matter) will be taking a brief vacation within the next month – nothing too long, just some time away to recharge – but more about that later.

Right now I am going to enjoy the depth of life without responsibility. It’s great to know that I may get up tomorrow morning at a godly hour or I may – with the same consequences – sleep in. My pillow will become my new best friend, sorry Jeremy.

The emotional high is beginning to rub off and the old stressful concern about my grades is seeping in again. That means it's time to go eat and satisfy the hunger that is now threatening to make me look European. I’ll see you guys after the gorge.

Oh, I’m so happy!

FCN’s Wager

The following post was inspired by Ellen, an FCN reader with a penitent heart who sent us the following email:

I need to confess that I have been a unfaithful reader. When I was young [I] read FCN every day, now *sigh* I don't even glance. My mid-year resolution it to read FCN every day. -In unbearable pain

FCN either has new content or it doesn’t. In the morning when you check Funny Class Notes (indeed, whether you check or not), we have either posted something new or we haven’t; there is no third option.

Based on the testimony if this site and the regular post habits of its contributors, it is safe to assume that there will be new content on FCN, but that assumption cannot be guaranteed. Illness, a poor internet connection, an idea deficit or girl problems may have robbed us of creativity and left the site more barren than an Old Maid. Despite these barriers to new content, it is abundantly fair to conceive that there is at least a 50% chance that FCN does have new content.

If FCN does have new content, and the reader believes in that reality enough to actually load the page, he or she will be rewarded with infinite humor. There is no limit to how funny a blog post can be and the only way to enjoy that comedy is by loading FCN and checking.

If you don’t load the page you deprive yourself of these potentially infinite benefits.

By the same token, there is a certain amount of embarrassment that accompanies an unproductive page load. Maybe you have to leave a comfortable social situation to sit at your terminal; perhaps your friends will criticize you if you load an old page. Whatever the hazzards, they are finite. They are pre-defined and limited. Your friends can only criticize so much. There is a limit to how much you can suffer while surfing the internet.

The reader has four basic options:

• You live as though FCN has been updated
• If FCN has been updated, you get to laugh: your gain is infinite.
• If FCN has not been updated, your loss is nothing.
• You do not live as though FCN has been updated.
• If FCN has been updated, you lose the chance to laugh: your loss is infinite.
• If has not been updated, you gain nothing & lose nothing.

Or, for the more visual reader, here is the wager broken down in a diagram:

Therefore, since the reader stands to gain infinite humor, and thus longevity, laugh lines and all the other fun things that come from poorly conceived farce, the wise and safe choice is to live as though FCN has been updated and load the page.

If you are right, you gain everything, and lose nothing. If you are wrong, you lose nothing and gain nothing. Therefore, based on simple mathematics, only the fool would choose not to load FCN. That is FCN’s wager.

I expect all of you to come back tomorrow. Including you, Ellen.