Boredom is the Mother of Creativity

It was another typical, dreary day in my Organic Chem class. If Organic Chem was a type of weather, it would be one of those days in November when it's not quite winter or fall, but dark and blustery... and awful.

Fortunately for me, my best friend is in the same class. She alleviates the intense boredom caused by my professor's droning voice. Not only is she pretty and witty, she is also a closet poet.

And today she wrote a poem in class. I laughed out loud at the result of her creative energy. My professor now thinks his jokes are funny. My classmates now think I'm a lunatic. They may be right, but whatever. See for yourself.

I happened upon a man one day

(His palor markedly white)

An unabashed grin being all he wore

(It gave me quite a fright)
"Good God, dear sir, what happened to you?

Your skin's so markedly pale

You shouldn't leave such things for the world to see

Considering you're irrevocably male."

He responded "A long time ago much before your day

I was not but a wee lad of two

Minding my own in a bath when the nurse

Had an aneurysm and out with the water she threw

My humble self to the street."

"For shame!" I cried, "And let a curse hang upon her head,

But dear sir, you have failed to mention yet

Why you are still so... naked."

"My color I shan't account for

'Twas given me at birth

And I will always bless whom gave it me,

My only mother, Earth.

As for my persistent state

My theory is simple, you see:

It was naked my mother saw me last,

And I have remained so, lest she shouldn't recognize me."

-Lorelai

21st Do It Yourself Post

My favorite class to doodle in is __________.

Note to Self #9

Next time, look in your backpack before tearing apart the house in search of the book you "lost."

School Colors

My school's colors are orange and black. My female friends tell me that those colors look good together and I think they were chosen because they call to mind our school's mascot, a vicious tiger.

Our school colors are pasted everywhere. Announcements at the registrar's office are posted in gaudy orange, napkins in the student union are dull orange with black paw prints and students regularly make signs out of orange construction paper. With all the orange, I'm sure our campus looks like a sunset or a sunspot from space.

Our bookstore is similarly a sitting advertisement for all things orange. It sells everything in orange (stamped, of course, with our school's logo): shirts, hats, pins, sweats, hoodies and undergarments. There is even a tattoo parlor a mile from campus that sells tiger tats at a discount to students.

I don't mind black - it's a color that any tough male can wear without a second thought - but the orange is not working for me. Actually, it's not working for the blonde girls on campus. They can't wear orange and look good - not really. It's been tried. Several times. It doesn't work.

Blonde girls who are considering my school after high school are put off by the colors. They know they can't wear the colors and give the edge to other colleges because of it. This leaves our campus with a dearth of cute blonde girls. It's terrible.

If you are blonde and are thinking about coming to my school, please note that the bookstore sells a lot of black and grey paraphernalia. You can have school pride and keep your aesthetic pride. You may have to be a little more picky, but you'll be fine.

And if you want me to show you around...email me here.

I wrote this when I should have been doing something else

This post was written entirely in class. It 's 100%, guaranteed, genuine, certified contraband. I did this when I should have been doing something else. You see, in my easiest class (an economics course for general education students I somehow sneaked into), I "take notes" on my computer. When my professor is engrossed in one of his many tangents, I press my favorite shortcut key combination (alt + tab) and work on something else. Last week I wrote a term paper. Tomorrow I plan on Facebooking. Today, I am writing this tome of abject educational rebellion.

Someone, somewhere, estimated that students pay $50-75/lecture for the expensive private education I will pay for when my student loans come due. But like a headstone and life insurance, education is one of the goods we pay for when we don't want to consume it. In fact, if I paid only for the moments in class that I actually pay attention, my education would be so cheap, it could be sent to foreign countries as aid.

I used to doodle and write my funny notes on paper. That was my signature, my trademark. If I were Sitting Bull, that would be my "X." Students who sat next to me would sometimes lean in to get a preview of next week's posts. When the professor turned her back to the class to put something on the board, faces would crowd around my mead pad like surgeons over an operating table. On rare occasions, the surgeons would chuckle or issue forth that "smurphy" noise that generally accompanies partially restrained mirth.

Now I'm much more obvious. Students who take notes on their computers are highly suspect. Teachers are inherently suspicious of generation y-ers, especially those who get their technology on in class. When my bright computer screen attracts neighbors like an outdoor barbecue, my professor gets especially suspicious.

Three times already today, he's looked at me with a suspicious air. I think he suspects something. He looked at me again. I'll just save for publication and get back to class...

Juggling Act

Who says that routine is boring? Walking to school is often the most exciting part of my day. (By "day," I mean non-weekend, non-holiday, and non-LAN party day.) You see, I manage to spice up my commute by juggling on the way. Figuratively speaking. It goes something like this:

9:15 I wake up and grimace at the clock. Class starts at ten.

9:20 I guiltily wake up again and repeat the grimace.

9:25 I wake up again and get out of bed. Then I wait for other people (whose gender, ahem, will remain unspecified) to finish using the shower.

9:35 I shower, shave, and shine.

9:40 I check Facebook and pack my books.

9:45 I check my feed reader.

9:48 I head to school. This ordinarily takes six and a half minutes, but today a stoplight is red that is usually green, which takes another fifteen seconds.

9:54:45 I find a parking space six rows from school instead of eight. That gives me twenty more seconds. I walk toward the entrance.

9:55:45 I say Hi to a passing friend, which doesn't take any time, but we decide to stop walking for a second and ask each other about the test yesterday.

"How'd it go yesterday?"

"I dunno, I think I bombed it."

"Hmm.. too bad. Yeah, it was hard. I feel good about it though."

"Cool. Good luck.

"See you tomorrow."

That takes fifteen seconds. I've got time.

9:56:30 I enter the building.

9:57 I go to the bathroom. I check my watch and realize that I have enough time to go there the long way, stopping by the water fountain on the way out. It takes 30 or 45 more seconds, but things are going smoothly today.

9:58:30 I run up the stairs a little faster than usual.

9:59 I head down the hall toward class. The drink machine looks good, but getting a Mountain Dew would take a whole minute. Oh well, maybe I'll get one during the break.

9:59:30 I pause in front of the classroom door to roll up my iPod earphones. Pocketing them, I enter class.

10:00 I have a seat.

10:00:30 The professor comes in. Drat, he's late. I could have got the Mountain Dew after all.

Jerry

Jerry is a strange fellow. We just finished a conversation and I couldn't help thinking that he really is quite a strange fellow. Not that he's a weirdo or anything; he just doesn't act like other people. Think Napoleon Dynamite, not Michael Jackson.

I met Jerry last year when I was on AIM. AIM is where I go when I'm too bored to do homework but not bored enough to play Halo. (Halo fans, do not kill me -- release your angst against the Flood.) In other words, it's where I go when I'm in a humanities class. AIM is a cool place where lots of happy friends hang out, and it only needs Ronald McDonald to make it perfect. And little plastic tunnels.

I logged into AIM and noticed something a little unusual. It wasn't my friends. sk8trfrk had his regular "chugging Mountain Dew" status, and fcnLvr was "busy," probably working on another post. ImaEmo's sad emoticon peered through the screen at my half-empty bottle of soda just as usual. No, the change I noticed had nothing to do with the friends I already had—it consisted rather of a new group of friends that had unexpectedly joined me.

Everyone in the group had the same name: AIM Bot. Their status messages were what set them apart. "Want to know the secret of the universe? Type '24' to find out!" "Want to get rich quick? Type 'Vegas' to learn how!" "Want to know who will win the elections? Type 'Obama' for our latest forecasts." Apparently, the AIM Bots were a tribe of superheroes who hung out on the web just to help people expand their mental horizons and strengthen their intellectual prowess.

I was attracted by the glamor, the mystery, and the utter uselessness of it all, so I initiated a chat with one of the bots at random. I figured this was one of the more intelligent ones because his status message had to do with books: "What happens in the unwritten Twilight novel? Type 'lolz' to find out." Besides, I hadn't known about an unwritten Twilight novel and hoped this bot could enlighten me. I dutifully typed in "lolz" and waited for a response.

For a minute, I felt like I had asked the Godfather for a favor he didn't want to give me. The bot stared icily into my eyes. Then it suddenly started replying. "I'm sorry, just a minute, just one minute. I know I have the file in here somewhere. I just didn't expect anyone would be stupid enough to type in 'lolz.' No, no! I didn't mean that! Stay there, I'll give your answer in a second—why does this stupid little search dog keep running but never get anywhere? I'd almost rather deal with the paper clip! Sir, please be patient, this is my first day. Please."

The poor bot seemed on the verge of tears, so I felt compelled to offer some encouragement. Our dialog went something like this.

Chip: Hey bot, no problem.
[Awkward pause.]

Chip: Say bot, while you're looking, have you read the Twilight novels? Pretty good stuff, huh?
[Another awkward pause.]

Chip: Well, why don't you try selecting a certain folder so the dog doesn't get lost in your entire hard drive?

Bot: Haha, sorry, I'll try that right now. I don't mean to be rude, I'm just a bit overwhelmed. Do you have any idea how hard this job is?

Chip: Um, no. I just assumed it was easy for you because you seem like a superhero. How hard is it?

Bot: Very hard. I'm Jerry, by the way. What's your name?
[I had changed his alias to Jerry.]

Chip: I'm Chip.

Jerry: Do you have a friend named—

Chip: Dale? No. That's not funny. I think I'll go try the Janet Jackson bot.

Jerry: No, no! Please don't go! I need the company! I'm so, so sorry I said that.

Chip: Lol, no sweat. I was, uh, kidding. So how did you land this awesome job, Jerry?

Jerry: Really, you think it's awesome? omg, that's such a relief! I'm seriously starting to think it's not as cool as it's made out to be. They only pay me fifty cents an hour, and none of my friends even know who I am.

Chip: Who pays you? I thought you were here of your own free will, motivated solely by the beneficent satisfaction resultant from the fulfillment of your fellow-humans' erudite cyber desires.

Jerry: Very funny. Do they even have online prostitutes?

Chip: That's not what I—

Jerry: Hold on a sec, I think I got the file.

I stretched and looked around. Pretty much everyone in class was sleeping on the inside, even as their faces radiated counterfeit rapt attention. I glanced up at the teacher and nodded thoughtfully at a point he was making, hoping he thought I was still taking notes on my laptop. Then I stole a glance at some of the other laptop screens in the room. There was the predictable Facebook, and the equally predictable goth girl looking at "fashion" pictures. One of my colleagues in baggy clothes and a loose-fitting cap was playing an online flash game. He had to kill all the little soldiers before they reached his fort. Pity there was no sound. And then of course there were the studious individuals who were frantically filling out a dozen pages of single-spaced bullet points in Word, evidently intending to print them out later and memorize them. I yawned and opened my notes again to see if I had missed anything. But Jerry was back.

Jerry: Hey Chip, you're out of luck. There is no unwritten Twilight novel.

Chip: Dude! How can you say that? I started this whole chat just because I wanted to know about that book.

Jerry: Um,

Chip: I sacrificed valuable study time to talk with you, and you've betrayed me.

Jerry: actually,

Chip: Jerry, huh? How about Benedict Arnold?

Jerry: you didn't lose any time

Chip: Who are you to tell me I didn't lose any time? I have a pile of papers to write and instead of typing them I'm typing to you!

Chip: Besides, you're getting paid fifty cents an hour, which is pretty good in this economy, and all you give me for it is lame excuses about the Microsoft search dog.

Jerry: because I'm sitting here

Chip: You know what I ought to do to you? I ought to report you to your employer.

Chip: Who's your employer, Bozo? Come on.

Jerry: and you're in the same class as me.

I jerked up my head and scanned the class. The professor was trying to squeeze in a last sentence but no one could hear him over all the zipping and packing and paper-rustling sounds, as students scrambled to get out of the room the instant class was scheduled to end. A laptop slammed closed behind me, and I whirled around to see its owner. Jerry flashed me a smug grin and a fleeting snicker, and headed toward the door. And I had to smile at myself.

That's One Way to Do It

Dear St Mary's Really Expensive Private High School Family:

All of us have been hit hard by the current economic crisis. Unfortunately, many of last semester's students are no longer able to afford our tuition. Enrollment is down by 20% this semester.

In order to keep this school afloat and ensure we maintain the high standards of educational quality you've come to expect from St Mary's, we are raising your tuition by 20%. Thank you for understanding and have a great semester.

Robert Seems
Headmaster
St Mary's Really Expensive Private High School

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.

That reminds me...

The following is a transcript of the first seven minutes of my upper-division economic theory and research course taught by Professor Dennis O. Doherty (above), a faculty member who has been at the university 35 years. His knowledge about the topic and acumen to discuss economics are unquestioned. His brevity and succinctness are not.

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: I love teaching in this room. The first time I taught a course in this room was in the fall semester of '84. They had just built this building five or so years before after a substantial struggle with the administration to secure funds. The former Department Chair -- actually the chair before him; the one two chairs ago -- felt we should direct our money toward sports -- football specifically. He was a big fan. He thought it would help recruiting. Ironically, after this classroom building was constructed the school did away with the football program, making this the only Division 1A NCAA institution to get rid of a football program in the last century. A real shame, if you ask me.

[DOHERTY PAUSES AND LOOKS AT THE WALL FOR A SECOND, COLLECTING HIS THOUGHTS.]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Actually, it would have been the spring of 1984. I remember because they were putting in the East lawn. Looking out this window, it used to be a mess of shrubbery that the science students would burn back with freshly mixed experimental weed killer. It was all very impromptu. The brass opted for aesthetics over academics and installed the sod. Their work was a major interruption. Every class period, it seemed, we'd be bothered by the sound of their travails. I like that word, travails, did you know it's borrowed from the French? Sometimes I think we ought to return it.

[PAUSE]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: I had cold cereal for breakfast this morning. For years I had a regular breakfast of two eggs and toast. It was the perfect combination, I thought, of carbs and protein and it stuck with me pretty well. I never had any pre-lunch collapse. But my doctor is worried about my dietary cholesterol. Any biology students here? No? Well, the cholesterol you consume in your diet isn't nearly as bad for you as the saturated fat you put in your system. In fact, you can eat a lot of cholesterol and not have a problem as long as the saturated fat is kept to a minimum. But for some reason my doctor is worried about the cholesterol. He wants to put me on a statin drug -- some kind of HMG-CoA reductase inhibitor -- to reduce my risk of heart disease. But I'm concerned about the liver damage. My dad was an alcoholic and died of liver poisoning. Or whatever it's called.

[ANOTHER PAUSE]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Take care of your diet. Take care of your health. Life advice...
[ANOTHER PAUSE]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Oddly enough, they would use a drywall knife to cut the sod and they had to be careful how they placed it because the irrigation system was pre-installed. This was in the early days of low-evaporation sprinklers, when environmental consciousness was just starting to emerge as a dominant consideration. Nowadays it isn't nearly as much of an operation, but back then it was perceived as very innovative. A drywall knife. How many of you guys have seen a drywall knife? It looks like an oversized putty knife with blades that are almost too dull to justify the name "knife." I wonder why they never developed a tool explicitely for cutting sod. I have a buddy who works in the landscaping business -- he actually does design for upscale and bids out installation projects to subcontractors -- I ought to give him a call and ask about that. He's got a couple of kids, wonder how they're doing...

[PAUSE AS A STUDENT ENTERS AND SHEEPISHLY TAKES A SEAT BY THE DOOR]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Miss, you are late. You are fortunate I am so lenient on tardy students. When I was a graduate student at the University of Utah -- that's where all the backslidden Mormons go -- I was tardy for the first day of my statistics methods class. I didn't miss a day all semester and was never again late, but he really drilled me for it in his seminar review. Eugene Billington. That was his name. He specialized in regression analysis of demographics -- a field which is really quite large now, but was just emerging in the 70s. He gave me an A- in his class. I don't think I've ever worked so hard for an A-. I mean, I had classes at the undergraduate level that I just surfed through -- never did the readings, missed class, glossed over the homework -- but not in Billington's statistics methods course. He would grill you for that.

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: So, here's the syllabus...

The Search for the Perfect Major: Part 2

Major in the spotlight: Theatre

I was excited. Eager. Euphoric. Elated. Ecstatic. Enraptured. Exhilarated. I was seriously considering a future as a theatre major, and I had found my “big break”.

It was the day of auditions for my college’s winter play, and I was waiting in line for my chance to shine. This year’s special was Romeo and Juliet. I’d never read the play, but I’d listened to “Love Song” by Taylor Swift, so I was confident. The bright minds of the drama department had decided to run auditions in a style closely resembling “American Idol." Except in my school, there are three acerbic and abrasive drama buffs ready to cut me down instead of one American Idol Simon. I strode into the room and an assistant handed me a sheet of paper filled with lines from the play. It looked like all the auditions were being run the same way, with everyone reading lines for Romeo AND Juliet. I stepped in front of the judges and scanned the page one last time.

Simon 1: We haven’t got all day, please begin reading at the top of the page, the section of Juliet’s lines.
Me: Uh..okay. Do you need to know my name?
Simon 2: That’s not necessary unless you get a part. Which is doubtful, I must say… judging by the looks of you.
Simon 3: Ugh.
Me: Here goes… “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name…”
Simon 1: Don’t say it as you, use your imagination, don’t just read it! Start again with the same line.
Me: Yo, yo… Romeo, where are you, boo? Tell your daddy off…
Simon 3: Ugh.
Simon 2: That’s not funny.
Me: I know, sorry. I can’t do gangsta. But you said to use my imagination…
Simon 1: Well, never mind. Read the part of Romeo now, this time with true feeling.
Me: “Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books, but love from love, toward school with heavy looks.”
Simon 2: How true that is… that was much better. Thank you for your time. Leave your name with my assistant and we’ll be in touch.
Simon 3: Ugh.

They didn’t ask twice for me to leave, I was more than ready to get out of Dodge. Callback announcements were today, and I went to check the callback list on the drama department’s bulletin board. I ran my finger down the list of names, and my heart stopped. I had a callback! The list said I was being considered for the part of Rosaline. This was wonderful! Maybe being a theatre major would be the perfect fit for me! I’m getting on Wikipedia right now. I want to find out more about this Rosaline chick. Here it is, “Rosaline is an unseen character with whom Romeo briefly falls in love before meeting Juliet.” I would have no lines, and never appear on stage. This must be a mistake! Ugh.

I don’t think I’ll go to the callbacks. Instead, I’ll use that time to plan the next stop on my search for a major.

The Search for the Perfect Major: Part 1

Hesitantly, I stood outside my advisor’s door with my hand poised in the pre-knock position. Almost as if on cue, she opened the door and seemed startled to see me there. She was heavily laden with stacks of books and paper in a jumbled mess in her arms. The cluttered mass much resembled her hair, which seemed like a female version of Einstein’s infamous exploding hairdo. Was it my imagination, or was there a paper clip hanging from one of her stray locks?

“Oh my, I forgot all about our appointment. I’m so sorry, let me go back in my office and put this down and we can talk all about your little problems.”

Little problems? I had a major problem. And that’s exactly what it was.

I followed her as she made her way back through the door. I noticed the stacks of paper on her desk. They looked like essays and research papers. She was an English teacher. I made a mental note to avoid her classes.

Sighing, she folded her hands under her chin and propped her elbows up on the desk. “Now where were we?”
“You asked me to stop by your office today to talk about my major.”
“That’s right. What major had you chosen? I can’t remember.”
“Well, that’s the problem. Honestly, I actually haven’t picked one yet.”
“You’re certainly running out of time. Have you seen any majors that have piqued your interest?”
“No. I think I’m destined to be a professional hobo.”
“Now, don’t be hasty. I’m sure you’ll find a major soon. Why don’t you take the rest of the semester and look at your options. Let me know what you decide.”

After giving me some insight and direction on the proper way to explore the majors, she shooed me out the door so she could get to a meeting.

I strolled back to my dorm room, deep in thought. The wind wove its fingers in my hair, whipping it around the edges of my pensive face. My cheeks started to tingle with the effects of the chilly breeze. My advisor was right, my time was running out. For goodness sake, here I was halfway into the fall semester of my sophomore year, and I had no direction in my life. I didn’t need to plan out my life. I simply needed a general route for my academic pursuits.

That brings me to the present. I’ve decided to do a little research on the first major on my list… Theatre.

When Censorship is the Best Option

Dear Mom and Dad,

School is really hard this year. My teachers hate me. I have a 300 page book to read by tomorrow, and my 30 page research paper is due on Tuesday. I’d really like to work on them, but my roommate is asking me to watch Ironman again, so I just think the homework will have to wait. I failed my Chem test on Monday, and I skipped class on Thursday to avoid my Humanities exam. I feel like I'm learning a lot, so grades don't really matter, right?

My roommate never bathes. It’s like a third world country in here. But with a lot more clothes and food. In fact, the piles of food and clothing are everywhere. I don’t think my roommate knows where the laundry room is. I’ve started to find flies congregating around the dirty heaps of fabric. If this doesn’t stop soon, I don’t know if I can take it much longer. I think I'll dump a whole bottle of Tide on him tonight in his sleep... maybe he'll get my point. If he doesn't, I'm moving out.

I'm engaged! I don’t think I could have found a nicer person. Her personality is her strongest asset. We’re going out for fast food and a movie tomorrow after her anger management class. I didn't think she'd agree to be my girlfriend after I dumped lasagna in her lap on the first date. I didn't know anyone could yell that loud. I plan on bringing her home for Christmas with me. I thought about surprising you, but...

I wanted to get my nose pierced, but I’ve been having these strange dreams about being stalked by an evil giant magnet, so I don’t think that’s such a great idea.

I'm doing great. I need money. I’ll be home for Christmas.

Love,
Me

I'm sure it'll be fine (part two)

Continued from part one.

The Math Department was housed in the armpit of campus. Green, unkempt ivy covered the walls and almost obscured the main door. Posters, some dating as far back as ten years, coated the walls and decomposed in unruly piles of scrap paper on the cement sidewalk. I could vaguely make out arcane math symbols, formulas (or is it "formulae?" Wait, formulae is what you give to an infant, right? No, that's a pacifier. Isn't a "pacifier" an ocean? No, wait, it's a dove...) and pictures of nerdy looking students. This was where I was to spend the next semester.

My math class wasn't as sophisticated as its setting makes it sound. While it had calculus in the name, the course was designed for underachievers who need the C word (not the letter, but the word. And not that word, you perv. C-a-l-c-u-l-u-s) on their transcript, but don't ever want to take a derivative. The class is, I was told, very difficult if offered by most professors, but would be a breeze with Dr. Zoloft, a veteran of the department who, his past students advertised, lectures with an almost medicated calm.

Dr. Zoloft's office was on the left and I pounded on the door with a vigorous confidence. I wanted this Zoloft person to know I wasn't going to back down. It took a minute, but the door finally creaked open revealing a bearded gentleman in a threadbare cardigan and faded blue slacks. The professor adjusted his spectacles in a manner that could only be described as condescending and looked at me, sizing me up.

Then he spoke. "Haoeryoo." The words ran together, even though it took Dr. Zoloft almost ten seconds to say his greeting. At least I think it was a greeting. I wanted to ask the man to repeat himself or apologize for my hearing, which I busted a few years ago along with my "give a dang," but I did not want to surrender my veneer of confidence. I would not back down simply because my professor had a strong accent or was chewing a croissant or whatever reason he had for speaking like an outpatient in the recovery room after a pre-frontal lobotomy.

"No thank you, I quit," I said, enunciating every syllable as if speaking to a child. I think Zoloft understood because he looked at me oddly for several seconds, before stepping out of the way and inviting me into his office. Inside, mathematical formulas (or is it...oh, never mind!) coated the entire wall across from his desk. Symbols and numbers that are rarely seen outside of Sergey Brin and Larry Paige's cranial cavities. I took a seat next to a pencil drawing of Euclid of Alexandria and waited for Zoloft to proceed.

"Sooyoo takeh maths forteer-fortee five, eh?" Zoloft was starting the conversation with a question. Voice inflection gives that away almost universally. I nodded an affirmative response. Zoloft looked at me again, his eyes revealing a reassessment of his original evaluation. I sat still, feeling like a peeled orange as the mathematics professor drew away to his computer and entered a few practiced commands. A laser printer started humming and two sheets of warm paper spilled out onto the tray.

Zoloft motioned and I picked up the pages. It was an assessment test. My give a dang fixed itself pretty quickly as I muttered under my breath. I hated assessment tests. The first page was an explanation of the rules, so I skipped to the second, where an ominous looking math problem stared at me like a sushi dish:

I had no idea where to begin, but I knew that the toughest math problems do not have a single defined solution. So I doodled excessively, filling up an entire page with senseless reiterations of the above and at the bottom of the page wrote in neat English:

"NO SOLUTION"

With all the confidence of a cocky FCN contributor, I handed the paper to Dr. Zoloft who examined it closely, grunting with the effort. Zoloft smiled and nodded, circling a part of my doodle in red ink. Then he paused, paralyzed by something new. He turned abruptly to his TI-86 and began punching numbers frantically. His eyes wide, he looked at a drawing on his office wall and consulted a heavily marked chalk board for a few doodles of his own. He paused once during this exercise and looked at me with an air of pure surprise, shaking his head ever so slightly in the process. Then he motioned for me to leave and shut the door after me. Our interview was over.

I'm sure it'll be fine (part one)

When course registration opens at a large campus, students scramble from their dorm rooms like beetles away from the light and approach the registrar's office with all haste. Not getting into the right classes means not graduating on time, which threatens scholarship money and prospects with the females. As much as nobody wants to be a Van Wilder, nobody wants to date a Van Wilder.

My father tells of a time when he trudged wearily through miles of packed snow to get to the registrar's office in time to have a prayer of possibly making it into his class. He had to fight away crazed radical feminists and environmentalists and the occasional Volvo-driving professors who want to audit the class on lower mammalian art because it sounds "interesting."

Maybe that was the model a few decades ago. Today, the iPod generation has vastly improved on the nonsensical student stampede by automating the entire process and putting it online. Instead of careening down to the registrar's office like crazed soccer fans, we students have "appointment times" with the computer. We sit down at an authorized terminal and tell the silicon which classes we want to take. It's all very sophisticated.

Equipped with a series of five digit codes given me by a human being, I marched into the library at the appointed time and took a seat at my authorized terminal. The computer keys were sticky and it looked like there was a hair stuck between the "D" and the "F," so I made a mental note to wash my hands after entering my information. I checked and double checked the numbers (a plastic sign above the computer advised a "re-double check," but I thought that was overkill) and then clicked submit.

In a semester system and in order to graduate in four years, many full-time students take four 4-unit classes. This sixteen unit load is exactly one-eighth of the requirement for a four-year degree and, if completed expeditiously, will get the student through the revolving academic door in the time frame promised in the school's glossy promotional material. Ever since I'd read the school pamphlet, this had been my plan.

The screen went white for several seconds and then a faded image of our school's logo appeared in the center along with a twirling hourglass. It was working!

The hourglass twirled and twirled tirelessly, daring me to look away. My eyes were mesmerized by the movement and I thought that I could stay there forever in a sort of computer generated nirvana. I didn't feel anything anywhere, but knew that sensations were possible because I saw the movement on-screen. Then, more abruptly than it had begun, the logo disappeared and a happy looking emoticon appeared above text telling me that I was successfully registered.

That's when I did something uncharacteristically intelligent: I read through the rest of the notification. You see, I hadn't actually signed up for all the classes, as the friendly logo led me to believe. Rather, I had registered for three of my four classes. In very fine print at the bottom of the page, I was instructed to "consult [my] professor" about the last class. It said something else about a prerequisite, too, but I was already on my way out the door.

Entitlement Diva

The first day of fall semester had seventy-five students crowded into a room with only fifty chairs. Apparently the class was more popular than available and students lined the walls and even stood next to the white board facing the class, as if physical presence would get them a place on the roster. I'd arrived at the room a tad early and managed to secure a resting place for my tush while more students tried to squeeze in through the door like sardines pining after the tin. I was happy with my seat in that it wasn't so close to the front that the professor could see my notes (he might not understand the humor), but it was not so far back that I had swap spitballs with the drug dealers.

I was happy with my seat, until I discovered the place immediately in front of me. Whereas all the other desks in the classroom had hard soviet-issue metallic seats that seemed, like rabbit, to get tougher over time, this chair was nicely upholstered and actually looked plush. It wasn't elegant, but it wasn't my Kremlin model either. I looked around the room and, when the coast appeared clear, I picked up my books and backpack and jumped to the seat ahead.

No sooner had I settled in and allowed my body's weight to rest against the plush seat did I see the Entitlement Diva. She entered the room as if she owned it, elbowing aside a couple of thinner males who were plastered to the wall like a decorative molding. Her target destination was unmistakable: she was headed straight for my seat.

Entitlement Diva's walk managed to be confident, yet totally unattractive. She moved with the plodding determination of a musk ox and dressed stylishly enough, but it was her eyes that made her eerie. The Diva's eyes looked frightened. They glanced furtively around the room as if the other students were a threat. When we made eye contact, she held my gaze for a second before looking at the floor. Then, gaining resolve, she looked at me with a demand on written on her face.

"You are sitting in my chair."

I looked closely at the desk for the first time. It appeared to be a standard construction, college-issue desk. Nowhere was a name or "reserved" sticker stamped to the top and there were no books or personal belongings of the Diva under the seat. Maybe I hadn't heard her right.

"Excuse me?" I used my John Edwards smile.

"Look behind the seat, genius." I appreciated her compliment and turned to look at the back of my plush chair - or her plush chair, the pronouns get dicey. There, in bold block lettering, read: ADA Priority.

I may be a social nincompoop, but I am familiar with the 1990 Americans with Disabilities Act, which required a number of access changes to public buildings, offices and schools around the country. Apparently this desk was designed for the invalid, those who would not be able to operate in the Soviet desks. I understood and was willing to give up my desk, if indeed the recipient of my charity was disabled.

"What is your disability?" My question sounded innocent, but I was pulling a little bit of a fast one on Entitlement Diva. You see, the ADA failed to what a "disability" is, leaving interpretation to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, other regulatory agencies and the courts. There were a couple of conditions that were specifically banned as "disabilities" such as transvestitism, kleptomania and pyromania but, for the most part, there was no clear guidance. While she didn't look like a transvestite, I thought she might be overpronouncing her handicap. In my experience, most of the occupants of the ADA chairs were either very obese or very pregnant. Diva was neither of these. My trap laid, I waited for the Diva's answer.

"I don't have to tell you." I hadn't read that far. Maybe, I thought, she was referencing the HIPAA privacy provisions. Oh, she was tough. If only I were better informed on health legal issues!

I nodded my assent, an expression of defeat, and wondered what manner of vile disability had struck this woman to make her look so normal but to leave her her so wanting. Fortunately, the chair behind me was still available and I returned to my previous metallic home.

The Diva was silent as she settled into her pre-warmed seat and dug through her backpack for a pen. Apparently, she had forgotten to bring a notebook, because she turned to me and said authoritatively: "I need some paper."

I had paper, but those precious few sheets were supposed to be used to record timeless notes, like this one. Maybe she figured I owed her a sheaf or two as "rent" for my use of her seat. I didn't ponder for too long, but tore a couple of pages from the back and extended them her way.

"The edges are frayed," the Entitlement Diva said pointing to where the spiral binding had torn away the paper. I creased the pages over the factory-serrated separation line and tore off a quarter inch of defaced paper. Maybe, I figured, her disability rendered this simple motor task impossible. I felt sympathy for her condition.

"Good," the Diva said by way of thanks, taking the pages from my hand and turning around to face the professor who had just entered the room. After a roster check, which took over a half hour and left me sprawled distractedly in my seat thinking about girls, the professor asked us to open our books to the first lesson. Diva didn't have her book, a fact she announced to the entire class. The professor ignored her news bulletin, but the Diva's neighbor generously offered to share her copy of the text.

Apparently the two feet of space between Entitlement Diva and her neighbor was too far to crane over. Without warning or a glance for possible obstruction, she lifted her chair several inches off the ground and helicoptered to the left, smashing the ADA priority leg into the nail of my big toe. I inhaled sharply and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yelp. I could feel the nail slide off the top of my toe and felt warm moisture collect on my sock. The pain was intense and hard to ignore.

"I'm sorry," the Diva apologized! "You shouldn't have your leg in my space," she added by way of pedagogy. As much as I appreciated her advice, I was in no mood for a lesson in spheres of sovereignty.

"I'm fine," I lied to the gentleman sitting behind me, a lie I knew I would have to repeat for several days.

During a break in lecture, I set up a study group with an old friend and a platinum blond from the back row. As soon as we had agreed on a meeting time, Diva, who had snuck up behind me during the calendar negotiations, announced that she was available during that time block and that she would be part of our study group. As if to will her away, we ignored her. Diva took our silence as assent and marched away. When I thought she was out of earshot, I set about changing the meeting time.

We were all consulting our electronic day planners, trying to find another day that would work when I felt the Diva behind me. I'd been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Diva place her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows. Her accusatory posture stood in contrast to her scared, rapidly darting eyes. She said nothing.

That's when I apologized. The words started slowly and hesitantly at first, but then became a steady stream of self-depreciation. Soon a torrent of humble begging flowed from my mouth as I did everything but cry for mercy. Then I did start crying. Tears filled by eyes and overflowed down my cheeks, making a beeline for the floor. I buckled, falling to my knees and grasping the Diva by the legs. Would she ever find it in herself to forgive me? Please?

With the entire class' attention secured, Diva looked smug. She nodded to me - the first sign of approval she had ever extended my way - and said "that's better." Then she turned around and walked out the door.

It's going to be a long semester. And I'm already dreading tomorrow's study group.

Paper Mâché

You have probably all been there: A major paper is due in a difficult class in a few hours and you have yet to touch fingers to keyboard. The midnight deadline looms over your evening like a bad haircut, darkening your brow and generally making you feel stressed out.

The path to this common discomfort was an easy one. Whole libraries could be filled with accounts of all the things that didn’t happen on the way to the blank spot on your computer’s hardrive where your paper should be. You attended to the assignment the way Britney attends to Sean Preston and Jayden James.

You committed to one topic in front of your Professor but you will respect that promise about as much as the Obamination did his federal campaign funding pledge. Who could have known how little research there is on the Ramen noodle diet. It was a rotten topic anyway. You also told your Professor you would get him the paper early for comments, but that deadline passed with the Forth of July Fireworks.

All you want out of this is a decent grade; something that won’t disqualify you from your scholarship or embarrass your parents too badly when they see the grade. If they see the grade. What you don’t like is having to write a paper.

Most students would rather have someone jam a screwdriver through their knee than grind out an assignment. After graduation, the additional income earned because of the bachelor’s degree could be put toward knee replacement surgery.

Unfortunately for you, the sadist hotline is down and none of your friends are handy or willing with a screwdriver, leaving you with nothing but a QWERTY keyboard and your own noodle. Technology has failed you again.

The library greets you with a musky small that shouts “old books.” Actually it whispers. You look around the room at the masses of students, scrambling like ants who forgot to prepare for winter. They’re procrastinators, but you can’t really scold them since you will soon be joining in.

Your cell phone buzzes. It’s a friend from high school who wants to talk. You shouldn’t, but you do. What’s another hour when you’ve already dawdled three weeks?

Ode to my notebook

I am an awful student. In class, I make disgusting noises, fidget, doodle, pick at things that shouldn’t be picked at, wink randomly, make inappropriate comments to my classmates and sweat uncontrollably. My mind wanders so much that I can’t keep on one line of reasoning for more than a few seconds and my cognitive ability makes Jessica Simpson look smart. I get bad grades, can never answer a question in class and am so cantankerous that some of my classmates refuse to study with me.

I have other issues too – I can’t get dates, have a nervous twitch in my left eye and sometimes think I’m Elvis – but let’s focus on my educational problems for now.

My notebook knows more than I do. Before every lecture, I obediently remove my spiral bound sheets from their special place in my backpack and flip through to where the last class let off. When the professor starts speaking my pen starts writing and words go from my ears to my fingers without ever crossing the cognitive part of my brain.

Some evenings I will flip through my notes and wonder how so much content was introduced without my noticing. Graphs, equations, people and dates limp off the page looking like a foreign language. Sometimes I vaguely remember the moment of their introduction, but most of the time I look at these random facts the way I look at six month-old yogurt in the back of the fridge: How did that get there?

My doodles, forgotten over the course of the day despite the hours I spend preparing them, look like artful masterpieces in a second examination. In fact, I think some of today’s “masterpieces” may even be doodles in wooden frames.

I wish my notebook could go to class for me. It would sit quietly in some corner and record things. Instead of relying on neurons for memory, it would use the indelible markings of pen and ink as a permanent ledger of the professor’s thoughts.

My notebook wouldn’t get distracted. Although sometimes I think notebooks can be romantically involved, the drama of life rarely penetrates the simple mind of an inanimate object and even the most suave pad of college rule doesn’t have romantic entanglements. Class content alone would dominate my notebook’s mind.

My notebook wouldn’t ask dumb questions or be at all disruptive. It might shuffle a bit now and again to turn a page, but its noises would always be appropriate for a class environment. My notebook would be in everyone’s study group and give notes to all the students who missed class.

If my notebook could take tests, write papers and do homework, I would really be in business. I would have to be careful that none of my impromptu artwork made it onto an exam, but my notebook is pretty smart about these things. Most professors test from lecture material anyway and a clean regurgitation of class content without human emotion would get a top grade every time.

I am trying to figure out a way to make this work; when I do, watch out. My notebook will rule the day.

FCN Classic: Todd's Paper

Todd has a five hundred word assignment due in his online History class at 11:00 on Wednesday morning. He rises at 8:00 and completes his shower, shave and shine routine in just under 15 minutes (Todd is very much a guy in this regard). He swallows a quick five minute breakfast and presses the power button on his computer to begin work on the paper.

8:22: The computer takes several minutes to load the Vista operating system because of the stock ticker, weather information and quote of the day docked on the desktop. Todd never uses these, but he thinks they're cool.

8:26: The computer has loaded, but the Internet connection is a little choppy because Todd's file sharing application is competing with his browser for access. Todd sighs and disables Limewire; that new Kelly Clarkson song will have to wait.

8:30: Todd's hompage, ESPN news loads quickly on Mozilla Firefox and Todd inhales sharply when he reads the bold headline. Alex Rodriguez, the Yankee's superstar slugger and Todd's favorite player, is considering negotiating a contract extension mid-season. The Yankees never do that; they didn't even talk with Babe Ruth until after the playoffs. Todd reads the Sports Guy's analysis and then navigates to the basketball tab.

8:48: Todd checks the clock on his computer and is satisfied he has plenty of time to finish his paper. He loads his Facebook and smiles when he sees the list of people who have poked him. Todd pokes back.

8:51: Todd adjusts his profile picture to the goofy one he took last weekend at the carnival, removes Rascal Flatts from his list of favorite musicians, accepts four friend invitations, writes a note about how pathetic and clichéd Rascal Flatts have become, writes on three friends' walls, gives a cyber gift, comments on a friend's photo, asks a public question and adjusts his status.

8:58: Todd is "smothered in work."

8:59: Todd glances again at the computer clock and decides to get to work on his paper. He opens his email to retrieve his earlier draft.

9:00: Todd is shocked when he sees a message in his inbox from an old friend. He and LaTasha haven't talked since, well it's been at least four weeks. The message is long, detailing a summer of fun, relaxation and little work. It includes a couple of current photos and a vague invitation to come visit.

9:12: Todd writes his reply.

9:31: His curiosity about LaTasha aroused, Todd navigates to her Xanga and reads the latest entries. She has some real wit and Todd finds himself poring through several pages of old archives.

9:45: A Firefox email notification informs Todd that he has new mail. LaTasha has responded already and her sharp conversational repartee demands an immediate answer. Todd begins crafting a reply when his buddy Craig instant messages.

9:49: Craig wants to know about Todd's plans for next weekend and has a bucketload of teasing for him about Donna, the girl Todd took with his family to the carnival last week. The new Facebook picture has aroused Craig's suspicion and he is convinced that Todd and Donna are more than just friends. Todd tries hard to defend himself, but even he doubts the real nature of his feelings.

10:05: Todd puts the email to LaTasha aside and tells Craig he needs to run. He downloads the draft and opens it in Microsoft Word, letting the three paragraphs of already written text poor over his monitor.

10:06: The phone rings. The ring tone is Rascal Flatts' Me and My Gang and Todd makes a mental note to change that ASAP. The caller is a chatty Donna who is making plans for next weekend and wants to include Todd.

10:10: Donna tells Todd about a new YouTube video and Todd loads the hilarious clip and watches while Donna provides running commentary.

10:14: Todd follows the YouTube related links to watch several more videos.

10:33: Todd hangs up with Donna but feels bad that he had to end the conversation so abruptly. He turns his attention to his computer screen, only to discover that his terminal has gone into standby. Todd pushes the power key.

10:34: A Fox News urgent news alert pops up on Todd's Firefox browser. Todd reads the headline carefully. Barack Obama has fallen to number two in several key states and the Hillary Clinton campaign is celebrating the advance. Todd reads the article.

10:38: Todd turns his attention to his word processor and rereads the content of the earlier draft.

10:40: Todd opens his browser again and conducts a Google search for articles on the British slave trade, the topic of his assignment. A couple of early hits catch Todd's attention and he opens those pages in new tabs. One of the articles is hosted on a blog.

10:43: Todd is intrigued by blog author's writing style and, after browsing a few other articles, decides to send the author an email praising him for his work.

10:57: Todd glances at his computer's clock and closes his eyes in disappointment. He was just too busy to finish the project. He sighs and remembers something his teacher said about late work being downgraded by 10%. Todd feels he is doing well in the class; he doesn't have to get an A on this paper.

11:00: Overwhelmed by the morning's workload, Todd exits his word processor and goes into the kitchen to find something to eat.

FCN Classic: The ... thumb ... knows.

My old laptop crashed a few weeks ago, taking with it a lot of precious files. School was in full swing, so I hastily went shopping for a new computer. My choice: IBM's new Thinkpad T42, which has a load of cool features, including a little red ball between the G and the H that moves the mouse, and the latest in biometric security: a fingerprint reader. That's right, there was no longer any need for me to be memorizing and changing passwords, because all I had to do was push my thumb on a little pad next to the keyboard to verify that the user was me. Without that thumbprint, no imposter could log on and steal my files. This was the major selling point for me. I paid a little extra, but I figured the peace of mind was worth it.

The new computer worked great. I always got a grim satisfaction from pushing my thumb onto the reader every morning. "Take that, hackers!" I thought.

Then, four days before my midterm paper was due, calamity struck. I was working in the kitchen putting away dishes, my mind distracted by visions of a frustrated criminal trying to discover my non-existent password. Then I looked down and saw blood all over the towel. I had absently swiped my thumb across a paring knife, causing a minor flesh wound which was more irritating than painful. I dutifully bandaged up the cut and finished putting away the dishes, then sat down to finish writing my term paper. It was only then that the true magnitude of the situation hit me. I pressed my thumb on the reader, and it gave an error beep. I removed the bandage and tried again. Error beep. I tried the other thumb. Error beep. I tried all my other fingers and toes, and those of nearby friends and family members. The infernal reader wouldn't let me in. I had weeks of research on that hard drive. I frantically raced to the nearest computer lab and started my research anew, pushing the space bar with my left thumb. It was too late. My paper got a D.

When I saw that grade come back, I vowed never to let that happen to me again. So I did the only thing any reasonable person would do: I went down to the nearby arts and crafts store and bought myself a fake thumb. You know, the kinds magicians use for stupid parlor tricks. I went home and reprogrammed my Thinkpad to accept the fake thumb as mine. I then kept the thumb in a jewelry case in my laptop bag under lock and key (the key was in my wallet). Satisfied, I went back to daily life.



A week later, I went into Starbucks and ordered a Frap. Then I sat down in the corner. I removed the laptop from the bag, removed the key from my wallet, removed the thumb from the case, and booted up. I then promptly got engrossed in my work, and the next thing I knew, I was a half hour late for class. I frantically packed up and dashed out.

While sitting in class drawing pictures of burning houses, I suddenly realized with a start that I had forgotten to pack my fake thumb. It might be sitting on a table in Starbucks right now, waiting for some dastardly coffee-drinking hacker to find it! I nearly jumped up and ran out of class right then. But I am not that bad a student. I waited for it to finish, feverishly counting each passing second (as always). The moment class was dismissed, I grabbed my bag, hurled myself out the door, slipped and slid down the stairs, vaulted over a little old lady with a walker, and fired up my car. Minutes later, I was back at Starbucks. I burst open the door and cried:

"Has anyone seen my thumb?"