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Besides books, teachers, and bored students there’s another element to every college class in the country. Rarely discussed by those outside of college, the syllabus is the most fundamental important document in college. Its value ranks far above any textbook or term paper. The syllabus sets the rules of the classroom. It tells the students what to expect. It outlines the instructor’s plan for education. It’s a contract between student and teacher (at least that’s what my professors say at the beginning of every semester).
That being said, a professor can do pretty much whatever they want (thank goodness for tenure!). Quite often teachers unilaterally make changes to syllabus. Most of the time it occurs when a teacher falls behind and decides to 86 an assignment (which gets zero complaints from students). On the rare occasion a teacher decides to add something to a syllabus, it can be a sticky mess (after all it’s a contract).
My teacher decided he wanted to add something to our syllabus. Apparently his carefully created plan for the semester failed to have an assignment that assessed our learning for the first third of the semester (question: how does one assess something that doesn’t exist?). . . . . .
Overused Movie Quote #27
Just when I thought I was out they pull me back in!
What movie is that from? I wanna say “Godfather Part III” but A) I’ve only seen it once and B) I find it hard to believe such a horrible movie would create such memorable and often repeated quote. I’m telling you, if only I put some research into my writing I might actually be good at this thing.
Speaking of which…I’m surprise how many people have contacted me regarding my announcement of semi-retirement. I had no idea that many people visited my site (gonna hafta find a new host because its web tracking statistics are way off–I must be getting dozens of hits). As I’ve stated many times, I never wrote for an audience. Writing is/was something that I regularly do for entertainment purposes (my entertainment–not yours). I did it for me because I enjoyed doing it. I started posting stuff online because I had stuff to post (that and for some reason I thought it would get me chiks). Maybe I do need to consider my audience because there are folks out there who actually care what I have to write.
Either that . . . . .
I didn’t realize how much work it took to post things online. I mean, I probably should have since I was the one who did all of the maintenance on my site–but I never truly realized how painstakingly difficult it is. I recently posted something online after months–almost a lifetime (well, gerbil’s lifetime)–of not posting anything. The writing wasn’t really the difficult part. The time-consuming aspect of this is putting the text in the necessary format to post online. I thought it was easy in the past, but now it just felt like a lot of work for such a small audience (my mom, Steve, and–if she’s not too busy–The Wife). When I was doing it regularly it didn’t seem like a lot of work. But now that I’ve taken a break, I didn’t realize how much work was really involved (probably ten minutes–not including composition, editing, and revision…as if). I’m not sure I will ever be able to return to a once a week entry (remember when I tried to churn out two or three a week). It was fun while it lasted.
My appreciation for the Almighty Honda is well known. The obsession started in my teens simply . . . . .
There’s only one class that stands between me and student teaching: Technology in the Classroom. Its purpose is to make sure teachers know how to use MS Office, the internet, and (if somehow still available) overhead projectors. The state of California gives prospective teachers the option of testing out of the course, and I considered this option during the course of my academic career, but for a multitude of reasons I opted to take the class. Not that I couldn’t pass the test (I took a look at some study guides and have a fair idea of what’s on the test–heck, being a self-proclaimed computer geek, it’d be an embarrassment if I couldn’t pass the test). But because of whacky regulations, policies, and laws, it’s in my best interest to take the course instead.
Heading into the semester, I figured the class would be a piece of cake. My computer skills probably fall well short of anything Bill Gates can do–but I certainly can run circles around most English students. After all, I have my own website, run a home network that’s so complex it could double as a mainframe for a small country, and spend about 27 hours a . . . . .
Watching the market recap; drinking an import.
When life gets too busy or I have nothing to complain about, I just reach back and find something I wrote earlier but never posted (usually because it was uninteresting or poorly written…or maybe even both). This is one of those stories.
I watched “District 9” last night. I didn’t see it in the theater because I knew the movie was shot on handheld cameras and I figured there was a really good chance of me getting sick (at least at home, I can turn it off when I get queasy). I’ve been thinking about the movie since I saw it, so that must mean I thought it was pretty good. What I find most remarkable about the movie is that the movie was made for a meager $30 million (how jaded we’ve become where $30M is considered meager; in 1975, “Jaws” cost an outlandish $7M to make). “District 9” was a phenomenal-looking move. The special effects were outstanding–and a completely crucial part of the film. The majority of shots in the movie contained CGI effects–complicated ones at that. The alien creatures looked real and life like. In fact, I wasn’t even sure they were CG until I looked it . . . . .
When text messaging was first introduced to the world, I thought it was an absurd concept. I mean, why take the time to type someone a message when it’s much easier to verbally tell them? Cell phone companies tried to tell us how useful texting was. I remember a commercial that showed two people at a party who were unable to talk to each other because the music was too loud. Being hip and smart, they used their cell phones and communicated via text messaging. Seemed foolish to me. If a party is that loud, go outside. And who goes to a party with music that loud? Plus, it cost something like 10 cents a message. Nothing I ever had to say seemed worth 10 cents. I stayed away from text messaging like Tigers Woods stayed away from controversy. But that was then…
…this is now. Today, I’m a big texter. The Wife gets angry ’cause I spend way too much texting other people instead of talking to her. I’m glad I’m on an unlimited texting plan ’cause if I wasn’t, I’d probably spend a full month’s unemployment check on text messages. I send and receive more texts than you’re . . . . .
The most unrealistic thing about “2012” is that the producers expected us to believe a black man could be voted president in the United States.
Damn. That joke woulda been a lot funnier two years ago.
I think I might be a softball snob. I’ve been playing the game for so long, I have so many expectations and ideals that few people can live up to. I don’t want to go around thinking I’m better than anyone else. I don’t enjoy feeling like something is below me or inferior. But when I see a softball that doesn’t live up to my standards I’m horrified.
During the summer we brought a new guy out to our Thursday night softball team. He had an ad on Craigslist and I figured, why not? Dude said he had experience and could play an “ugly shortstop” if we desperately needed. He sounded like a great fit for our team because he seemed like a good guy and we have always valued character over talent on our team.
But when he came out to the game, it was painfully obvious he was not a good player. His mechanics were terrible, he made bad decisions on the . . . . .
Last week in soccer class, one of the girls kicked me in the shin. While that’s not an interesting story (actually, it’s a bit embarrassing), the aftermath that followed certainly worth telling. Besides the three-inch by one-inch scab, I also developed a large, yellowish-purple bruise on my leg that could be seen from outer space. My shin became incredibly sensitive to touch (I even hurt myself putting on socks) and on occasions it hurt to walk because I couldn’t put too much weight on it. Since the injury happened at school, I figured I ought to let the school’s health center check me out (that and I don’t have health insurance).
After being admitted, a youngish doctor entered the examining room carrying my chart and an iPhone. “How did you hurt yourself,” she asked me.
“Someone kicked me in the shin,” I told her as she looked at her iPhone. “Since it’s been a week and hasn’t shown any signs of healing, I figured I better get it checked out.”
There was a moment of silence as she typed something on her iPhone. “Uh-huh. What kind of pain do you feel?”
“Ungawdly, tremendous amounts of pain if I touch it . . . . .
There was a dark period of my life about five years ago when I was fresh out of college and couldn’t get a job–but that’s not really central to this story other than I had massive amounts of free time on my hands. One of the things I did to occupy my time was to drive down to San Diego and spend my days at the Indian casino. Now I know what you’re thinking (an unemployed fellow shouldn’t be spending his time at the Blackjack tables) but it sorta worked out for me. In retrospect, I might have been precariously close to having a gambling problem. Perhaps the only thing that prevented it from being a “problem” was that I always won.
Sometime around the height of my Blackjack days a dealer handed me a brochure that outlined the signs of a gambling problem. I’m not sure why he gave it to me (maybe it’s because I was still sitting at the same spot when he went home the night before). I never thought I had a gambling problem because I never showed any of the signs.
Inability to stop gambling. Why would I want to stop? I was winning.Betting bigger . . . . .
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