So this is the... 3,858th new blog I've created. No. 3,859th. Something like that.
Apparently I can't just sit still and stick to one.
But, well, I figure that some of you out there are gonna be wondering what the hell is going on in my life, especially with this whole "back to school" thing. And *I* myself could use a space to ramble about my daily misadventures as well, to process shit and, quite frankly, not wanna kill people. And given that I don't *dare* to blog about these things on my normal blog (work-folks read it... work-folks with inordinately huge and flappy lips who I'd rather know NOTHING about my daily adventures), I figure it may be necessary for me to splinter off into a tiny side-blog instead.
So here it is.
Yesterday was my first day of class. Physiology and anatomy. If this is what the rest of the school is gonna be like, I am fucked. And I suspect it may be. *sigh*
Here I'm expecting holistic, earthy, natural vibes emanating from the halls and classrooms, people who want to give back some sort of peace to other people, a healing, who want to offer this up to the well-being of those they come in contact with. This is what I'm there for--to sink my teeth into something more holistic, some more natural way to reorient a body that's off-kilter, to learn how to infuse myself and others with a reestablished state of zen-nosity (if you will) within the flesh-shells they trek around in daily.
I am a dumb hippie.
Instead of all this, I get our instructor.
Our instructor is a shorter man, muscular, with a whip of thinning whitish-blond hair cut into a crewcut on his head. He looks like pretty much any jock in my high school, dropped smack into the blustery waters of middle-age, his shirt sleeves bunched up tightly around his biceps, just to give the ladies a bit of a peek at his sumpin' sumpin'. He's originally from Brooklyn and thinks he's got a biting wit like no other. I like him initially--he barks at us and bosses at us and jokes around a bit. But then...
STRIKE ONE
A student opens the door to our room and then embarassedly asks, "Is this the American Lit class?" He cackles heartily at her and says, "Hell no." Once the door closes, he engages in a lengthy rant about what a waste of time English classes are, that he's a "Science Man" and always has been. He reminisces about an English class he once had where he had to read that... that... "J. Alfred Prufrock poem... What's it called?" he asks us. A tumbleweed rolls by. Some crickets chirp off in the distance. A greasy white shmear of a pall falls over the room. Were the sun to bleed red, a swarm of locusts to burst forth from the lockers, the four horsemen to knock on the door and ask, "Excuse me, but is this the American Lit class?" I would be little surprised at this point because--dare I inform you of this?--*no one* has a clue what he's talking about except for me. This is the first time I think I've ever been in a situation where no one's heard of poor J. Alfred and it feels like I've walked straight into the apocalypse. Especially since I love J. Alfred. But I keep my mouth shut.
He goes on to rant about how in Lit classes, there's never just a right answer. How he needs black and white, true or false, choice a) or choice b) and not all this wishy washy bullshit of gray areas where there's never a straight answer to things.
I want to stand up and shout, "But that's life, you dumb fuck." But I don't.
This is what has always bothered me about the over-all attitude amongst those in the sciences--they always always always seem to look down upon the arts as fluff, as unnecessary, as "frivolous." Not so much the other way around--what Lit person is gonna say, Yeah, you know, uh, learning about biology so you can save lives is just, uh, stupid. And yet, science folks never seem to mince words when it comes to the pointlessness of Lit folks. It's as though Science and Literature are stand-ins, symbols perhaps, for two different philosophical camps, two very different kinds of attitudes about life. Science folks seem to grasp desperately to the notion that there always is an answer--that it's either a) or b), true or false, and that things can be pinned down like that simply and easily. Perhaps they actually believe it is that simple. Or perhaps they are just trying desperately to convince themselves of such. Lit folks, not so much. I think we tend to realize that things *aren't* that simple, that things are fucked up and complicated and can't be pinned down with straight answers. That yeah, maybe the answer is false, but what does that mean? And again, isn't false sometimes also true? And what does this have to do with the bigger scheme of things?
That seems to me to be a major reason why most writers write--they're trying to make sense of this fucked up thing called life. And making sense of it doesn't entail picking choice a) or choice b) and leaving it at that.
Stupid scientists!
But I just roll my eyes and figure, oh well. To be expected. It'll be ok. At this point, I'm moreso just irritated by his lack of professionalism--by dissing on Lit classes, he's also basically undercutting and making fun of the other instructors at this institution, and to me, that's unprofessional. But then...
STRIKE TWO
Captain Science is running down the rules of the classroom and starts to shout about making up quizzes and tests. He looks us in the eye and says, "If your cell phone goes off in the middle of a quiz, that's it. You get a big fat zero. I will sit up here and grade your test with a big fat grin on my face, hoping that you in fact scored 100%, and then I will hand it back to you with that grade on top and smile as I tell you you got a zero. And I will go home and sleep like a baby. Trust me. I'm not gonna lose sleep over you guys and your grades. I could run over your dog and go home and sleep like a baby. I'd just get up, toss him on your lawn, and seconds later, not even remember or care." There are a couple uncomfortable titters from the class and a couple mildly-shocked and disgusted moans. He seems to enjoy this, continuing to prance around, waggling his dick some more for our amusement. I play it off with another roll of the eye.
But then, once the actual lecture on physiology and anatomy starts again, I find myself hard-pressed to continue playing things off. His examples, played up supposedly for our amusement though they receive no laughter, all have to do with torturing people's pets. While trying to explain to us what homeostasis is (when your body is up and running correctly and everything's in sync and at optimal condition), his example is "To see what I mean, go and feed that neighbor's cat some mercury. Then give them some water. Watch that thing react to what's in it's system, howling, lurching around, squirming. It ain't gonna be alive for long folks. That cat's system is *not* in a state of homeostasis."
My face is burning red. I wanna leap over this desk and snap his femur in half, just like he demonstrated to us on the anatomy skeleton just minutes before. In fact, I wanna snap it in half using that cheap plastic femur like nunchuks or something. And then I want to feed him and his children a nice big batch of mercury pancakes. But he lucks out because it's 8 o'clock and time for us to be dismissed. I drive home at 70+ mph, wondering how long it will be before I get on his bad-side and alienate myself from the rest of the students by opening up my big fat fucking mouth and ripping him a new one.
At home finally, I love the shit outta my mercury-free cats and sit down to read the new issue of Bitch magazine and think of fucking people up and think of starting this blog so I don't destroy myself dealing with these classes and everything else and think of making it nauseatingly pink like a nice bottle of Peptobismol because I am a chick and chicks dig pink and Massage Practical starts Wednesday and FUCK these classes better improve.
