Post for the sake of a post

Post. Stay tuned for when I'm not horrendously busy. I'm not dead and my cynical musings have not dissipated.

In the meantime, for your viewing pleasure: David Bowie in Labyrinth!

The Tragic Tale of the New Clock

After months of tardiness and frustration, I finally decided to spring for a new clock to hang in the bathroom. It was a day like any other day as I perused the isles at Smith's. Happening upon the clock section, I noticed a clock sale. My lucky, yet ever-fateful day.
This clock was too showy. That one too bland. This one said, “Greetings, I'll pay you to be my friend.” That one just screamed, “Listen, the time is now 7 o'clock and where are you? Here at home. In your pajamas. Why aren't you out painting the town? Why are you here? Why don't you have an exciting life like me? I'm fun and sassy, so what are you?” I don't need an arrogant clock asking insolent questions of me. After an icy glare, I moved on. And there. There he was. Sensible. Neutral between masculine and feminine. A smooth charcoal black. A celebration of time and beauty. And on sale for a reasonable $7.99. I lovingly embraced my new friend and took him home with love and understanding.
I fed him his first meal: two double-A Duracells. I taught him the correct time and then lovingly hung him prominently on the bathroom wall. That evening I caught myself glancing at his smiling face and grinning fondly as he informed me of the time.
It was a magically blissful evening. Me. Chris. And Clock. A new little family. But, little did I know, painfully jagged tragedy was soon to strike. My precious, sensible clock was never meant to make it past 5 a.m.
I awoke the next morning quite unaware of anything amiss. I headed to the bathroom to put my contacts in. I confidently looked to my new friend to tell me how quickly I needed to accomplish the task, but what's this? It couldn't possibly be 4:43. With a quick gasp, I inspected the situation more carefully. Oh, the agony. Oh, the despair. In the early mists of morning, my sweet, sensible clock's life had been cruelly snuffed out. I found his body that morning, hanging from my wall, his hands still twitching in his final death throes. Resuscitation was futile. Besides, clocks don't breathe. The timing, and irony of that timing, and the irony of time itself was unbearable. Out of respect, I covered his lifeless face with a towel.
After this fateful day of loss, sorrow, grief, and misery, I have never, nor will never, be the same again. The bitterness and cynicism you see me exhibit today are the remnants of tragic loss that will never heal.

Don't read this. Just another rant about academia..

Academia: evil, pointless, ill-run, mismanaged, abominable, abhorred, hoop-jumping nonsense.
A is for abomination.
C is for catastrophe.
A is for abhorred.
D is for damnation.
E is for evil.
M is for metastasizing cancer/murder.
I is for influenza.
A is for, again, abomination.

What's got me broiled enough to write this scathing acrostic? Here's a little anecdote about my particular institution of higher education. Except it's not a short, amusing story. It's a long, boring saga. So you probably shouldn't even read it. It will just make me feel better to word vomit. I'll try to spice it up with flowery adjectives to make it more palatable to any readers, the sad facts remaining solid and disgustingly true. (Also, some of my drawings, to add that pinch of oregano)

It was a blustering, flurry-filled day up here in the arctic tundra of Logan. I rolled out of bed like any other day--unsuspecting, naive, perhaps even optimistic. By the time I had reached my classroom on campus, the devil was beating his wife, supporting my suspicions that Mother Nature had a traumatic childhood that triggered her dormant schizophrenia gene passed down from her own unbalanced mother.

After a fun-filled morning of mutual funds, consumer legislation, and “moff-moff-moff-ing” with my professors, I made my way to the computer lab to continue my research on Utah House Bill 144. I handed my student ID to the armed computer guard (armed with a fake smile and a Snickers bar, of course) and politely said “thank you” before I was even granted access. Suddenly, the card scanner started beeping frantically. The guard stifled its screaming and looked up at me for an explanation. I rounded my eyes and said nothing.

“Do you have any fees you haven't paid?” she asked snidely.
“Not a chance” I chortled.
She stared at me like she'd heard this kind of denial before. “Alright, well go ahead, but you should go to the USU Card office to see what the problem is.”
What a kind computer guard.

So, I finished my business and walked briskly all the way across campus to the student center. I climbed the stairs, weaved through the throngs of people at the job fair, and made my way into the famed USU Card Office. A gangly boy, who looked to be about thirteen, asked how he could help me.

“Well, I tried to access a computer lab and my card exploded. They said I might have a fee.”
He took the card from me, ran it through his computer, and handed it back to me saying that there was indeed a fee. I asked him what it was for, as there was no way I could have any fees. He shrugged and said he didn't know, that I'd need to ask the registrars office.

Still in a mildly pleasant mood, I skipped off to the other side of the building. I waited briefly in line, got to the lady behind the desk who told me this was the wrong line, waited briefly in another line, and told my story again. This time, I received a shiny print out of my fees.

“Well,” the clerk said brightly, “it looks like your scholarship has been taken away.”
I smiled warmly and said, “What was that?”
“Right here, it looks like your scholarship that covered tuition has been removed. So, you owe us, let's see, yes, $2,192.97.” She smiled happily again, proud that she'd gotten to the bottom of this conundrum.
“I see. Thank you. I'll just scamper on down to the financial aid office then and see why they would do such a silly thing, mm-kay?”

So, I was off to the scholarship office downstairs, just a tad concerned by this news. I waited in line again. I told my story again, now with this new little morsel of information. The clerk pulled up her computer screen, doubting that “the computer” was the “stupid one.” She clicked and typed for a good while, finally mumbling, “Well...it looks like you still meet all the requirements...” I smiled sweetly. Now, who's the stupid one again?

She asked me to wait another minute, that she'd go get her supervisor. Wait, wait, wait. Tap, tap, tap my foot. Set my heavy bag down. Take off my coat. Ah. There she is. Ms. Supervisor walks up and starts click click clicking away on the same computer. Wait, wait, wait.

“Ok.” Finally. “It looks like you're being charged graduate tuition. That voids your scholarship.”

Ah. Ok, great. “I see. Well...I'm still an undergrad. I did just get accepted to graduate school, but that won't be until this Fall.”

“Ok, well I'm not really sure what to do about that.”

“Mmmm...K. Well...I'm still an undergrad...so...this is just a mistake right? I should still receive my scholarship?”

“You know, I don't know. You could try asking the admissions office...”

Alrighty, so I'm off to another office. I explain the story again, adding yet another little tidbit of good news. Clerk doesn't know what to do. She goes and gets her supervisor. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Supervisor comes over.
“Yeah...you should probably go ask the registrars office...”

Great. Ok, I climbed the stair again. Waited in line again. Explained my story to yet another person. She goes and asks her supervisor who also doesn't know. They think that maybe the graduate office might know. Ok, so which graduate office, there are like four. Um, she's not sure...and her internet is down, so, she's pretty sure it's the one in Old Main.

So I'm off again, walking across the quad. I make it to the creepy, old, haunted Old Main building and get stuck behind three people, entirely oblivious to someone behind them as they jam up the whole hallway. [At this point, I've changed the tense of my story, if you've noticed, for dramatic effect.] I make it to the graduate office and explain my story yet again. She's fumbles around on her computer screen for a good ten minutes before she admits that she'll have to go ask her superior.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. I take my coat off again. I take out the homework that I should have been working on hours ago before this fiasco. Wait. Wait. Wait.

After about a half an hour, she comes back.
“Well, it turns out that the registrars office is really the only one that can deal with this.”
I blink slowly and stare incredulously at her. I should mention, that through all of this, I have remained politely pleasant to all of the incompetents I've interacted with. I find that in situations like these, it's no use to be rude; it will only take longer.

Ah, I'm in luck. She says, “But, we called over there, and they don't know what to do.” Oh, good. “So, here's a list of two names to call who might know more. For now, I would just wait for a couple days to see if it gets worked out.” By itself...

I thanked her politely, called Christian to complain, and went to go catch the bus that I'd missed three times during all of this.

SO, what have we learned, besides that academia is an evil, pointless, ill-run, mismanaged, abominable, abhorred, hoop-jumping piece of nonsense? If we're going to get all of these budget cuts and lose over 600 jobs at USU, I might have a few suggestions as to who we could let go of first. OR, we could combine several offices and several jobs into one! A splendid idea. When students don't have to run around campus wasting hours of time explaining their stories 18 times all because of a computer error that had nothing to do with ANYTHING and was not their fault at all---when they don't have to do this, it makes for happier students. Happier students means tuition-paying students. Tuition-paying students means more money for academia to continue on its mission to provide beautiful campus fountains (that don't teach anything, mind you, but their aesthetic value is priceless) and new lampposts to the youth of America. It's a win-win-win.

Cacophony of Silence. This post is on doctors.

Medical personnel have no senses of humor. Is it smugness at the fact that you're the one sitting there getting pricked while they sport awe-inspiring, white lab coats? Or did those arduous years of medical training wring the funny from them? Because if they ask, “So what brought you in to donate blood today?” And you answer, “Peer pressure. I do drugs now too.” And then they blow things out of proportion—something traumatic must have happened to them, right? Right?? My opinion: those white coats have gone straight to their heads. I saw one wearing a name tag saying, “Hello, my name is Dr. Stacy Puffington, a doctor, I'm a doctor, and now that I've earned this coat, I'm on an elevated plane from you riffraff ruffians, and while I'm here, you all should probably be relocated to internment camps, where I may or may not grace you with my presence to administer flu vaccinations or any other number of antidotes you would know nothing about.” This may be too long for a name tag, but I'm sure with all the money they make, they can buy jumbo name tags.

Life is too short for fun-sized Snickers...This post is on PROCRASTINATION.

Let's reflect for a moment on procrastination. I always figured my abnormalities would come in the form of something more obvious--a second pinky toe, a strong aversion to...something generally loved, an obsession with country music--something interesting..but no, my major idiosyncrasy is that I don't procrastinate. This quirk of doing things when they need to be done, of turning papers in on time, of being to class on time, washing a dish when I'm done eating off of it, etc--these activities are generally viewed as strange behavior, nerdy habits even. I'M the crazy one for getting an assignment, doing that assignment, and then turning that assignment in for full credit. And when the masses of procrastinators all get together, "cute" little ironic quips about their "unfortunate condition" and smart little mottos like "Why do today what can be done tomorrow" evoke a "har har har" from the followers, and they all have a jolly time sharing amongst themselves in that moment of camaraderie and passing around of slogan buttons. "Procrastinators Unite!...Tomorrow..." Yes, I see the wise crack, and no, I'm not "in" on this. All the procrastinators, (probably 98-99% of any population) seem to think all others are like them.
Teachers will ask of a class in a sarcastic, all-knowing way, "Now who here never procrastinates?" She'll puff herself out and look around, eyeing each of us, basking in the nervous giggles and mild snickers; a confirmation of her suspicions. But no. I say no. No more of this passive approval. These people are telling us between the lines that "Hey, it's cool to procrastinate. Who does things when they should to avoid problems piling up shortly down the road, culminating, culminating, a sudden spark here, then an explosion there, and tasks and obligations implode on themselves leaving you under the rubble, smeared across the desk you needed to fix days ago, and with no procrastinator friends, because what? ah yes, they've all gone out for beer--who does that? Schmoes. So let's be cool and not do stuff until it ruins our lives when it finally does come due. Let's have our little "har har hars" and bathe in our unfinished papers, overdue bills, and lawsuit threats. Yeah, go for it. Don't be a schmoe like me who has even a sliver of foresight and an appreciation for consequences here in the real world.

Solution: I propose all procrastinators, lazy, shapeless people be required to wear paper bags over their heads . Don't worry, I'll draw the picture on the front that will be an accurate depiction of what I deem as their inner beauty. Also, a button, because they so adore buttons, that will say, "Procrastinators Unite!...Today at 4pm at the pillory."

On Death

I'm one stabbing, one biting, one drowning, one infection, one virus, one poisoning, one shove, one severe paper cut, one electrocution, one accidental Listerine gulp, one axe murder away from death. That's pretty close for comfort. Do I think about death all the time? No. Only some of the time. There are just too many ways for it to happen to put my focus on one in particular. Sure, if I ever came face to face with a shark, Larry would probably eat my face off, but do I dwell on this? Not at all. The fact of the matter is, there probably aren't any sharks in any place I would ever swim. Especially in the middle of Utah. Perhaps I might become possessed by a clown-cleaner fish and find myself with an uncontrollable urge to take a dip in the shark tank at the zoo. One can never overlook these possibilities, but statistically speaking, there are far more likely ways for me to come to an unfortunate demise. Tripping face first into the knife drawer for instance. Or something as simple and poetic as slipping in the shower. Yet another reason I take baths.
Other people raise the chances I'll meet an untimely death. It's kind of like an ice skating rink. I do just fine by myself in the middle of a big frozen pond, but add pre-teens and Kamikaze klutzes, and my mortality skyrockets.
Same goes for any public setting. Scenario: me walking down the hallway to grab a drink of water vs me threading through hoards of people to grab that drink; I'm much more likely to get bumped out a window or trampled to death in the latter.
Other people are also murderers. Probably not most of them, but who really knows, after all, when murder-vision camera work is coming up behind you. You wouldn't. Until you're dead. And if you're walking outside at night, by yourself and you hear a strange noise? Don't look around like a wounded doe and ask feebly, "Is anyone there?" If someone is there and he's going to kill you, he'll kill you anyway and revel in your stupidity for clearly giving away your position. If it's not a murderer, he probably would have already shown himself. So maybe run. Or accept your fate and face him/it like a man.
And if people say a house if haunted, it probably is. So being skeptical is just going to give you the first ticket for the gruesome death. And when a little girl beckons you towards the dark looming woods, it's probably a good idea just not to go. So just don't.
And you never know if you're actually schizophrenic and killed your own dog and later your ex-wife and her boyfriend, so it's probably a good idea to get yourself checked out on a regular basis.
Finally, if a guy says he'll eat you, don't just brush that off. Take most threats seriously. Things like, "You're so cute I could just squeeze you to death," are not to be taken lightly. Or "I'd kill for a donut." Just run and take your donut with you.