The Tangential Titan

Bienvenue, dear readers.

Is anyone else mildly alarmed by the ever-growing hordes of prowling computer seekers?

Has anyone else noticed the crush of cars that fill the increasingly overflowing parking lots?

Tell me, has anyone else felt the rush of fear upon going into the escalators of McCarthy Hall and finding that one cannot move, because everyone else is pressed in a terrifying mass around oneself? A mass that prevents one from ascending or descending an escalator?

And has anyone else become aware of the enormous waves of Flier People on the crowded sidewalks?

Dear readers, I hope you have. (Or I hope you haven't, because it is rather depressing.)

For we have entered - take a deep, deep breath - entered a new era. And what is this era?

It is, dear readers, the Era of Too Many Students.

Take a deep breath and reread that sentence.

Yes, dear readers, the time has come.

It. Has. Started.

 
 I realize I have been gone for quite some time, but this was due to the fact that I was trapped in a well for sixteen days and the police had to come and get me out, and I'd run out of fried zucchini, and my poor kitty Hypnos was howling at the top of his lungs in my old, abandoned, mossy-carpeted apartment.

I arrived in the well only because my bike decided to throw me off while riding over a heap of broken cobblestones, and I flew gracefully into the air and then down with a splat. Thankfully the bottom of the well was made entirely of limb-sucking mud, so I was uninjured.

I lay in the mud and contemplated my escape. The stinking, glossy, wet stone walls of the well were twenty feet high and impossible to climb. My backpack of food (filled with things from the sundial, thank you, dear readers) lay besides me in the grime. My hair was greased with slimy weeds; my clothes were merely lumps of soggy dirt.

Perhaps it was not sixteen days. Maybe it was three.

But anyway I was there, and I was there for quite some time. A couple of crows circled overhead, pausing to shriek at me; a red dog passed by and stuck his head over the edge of the wall and barked. A few old ladies on their morning jog went past, but by then my throat was too dry and too hoarse for me to shout, and anyway I was half-asleep and quite delirious by that point in time.

When the policemen came I wasn't sure if they were real. I wasn't sure if I was real, or if I had lived in the well forever and my old life had never happened. I was lying there in the squishy, comfortable mud, watching shadows play along the stone rim of the well, a half-eaten fried zucchini piece besides me. The policemen looked in, saw me, yelled at me (I think to ascertain if I was alive), called the firemen, threw ropes and ladders and things down and finally got me out.

I vaguely recall saying something about missing school when they pulled me up. I don't remember much else. The big fireman laughed at me and muttered something about kids. I took offense, I am sorry to say. But I am most certainly not a child.

So that is why I haven't written for a little while. My apologies. I hope you haven't died of boredom. Perhaps you will after you've finished this post. But that would be sad. So don't. Die when you are old and yucky instead. (I apologize if you are old and yucky and have taken offense. Old is not congruent with yucky, if you are concerned by this elegant turn of phrase. By the way, you have lovely hair. And your nose is not too large, did you know?)


Today our new topic is:

POLITICS. 

Because I am kind, I am not going to mention that word throughout the remainder of my post. Instead I will refer to it as the Great Goo, because the Great Goo sounds much more interesting, less intimidating, and altogether satisfactory. It has a sort of ring to it, I think. Great Goo. Great Goo. The Great Goo. Your Great Goo. My Great Goo. Goo. Goo. Goo.

Ahem. Yes, well. The Great Goo. That thing that no one wants to hear anything about anymore. Except, of course, if you happen to be a certain type of professor.

You know who you are.

Yes, that kind of professor. You. There. I see you.

The thing about you is that I hear about the Great Goo from you all the time. And I really don't know why... (or do I? Well, I'll leave that for another time). Because, you see, you're not really supposed to be tackling the arduous topic of the Great Goo. You see, it's not actually allowed.

Gasp!!

Yes. Shocking. Absolutely shocking, I know. Brace yourselves for another shocker, dear readers. 

Even though talking about the Great Goo is not actually allowed, professors do it anyways.

It's really quite sad, you know, when you see how the Great Goo reduces intelligent people to screaming and howling monkeys in the grip of something similar to rabies. The Great Goo takes strong, wise professors and dangles them over a raging fire of stupidity.

 

You may ask me how I know. I will give you an example.

Let's pretend that you are a student in a classroom. I will call you Student A. In the classroom there is a professor and two other students: the Prof, Student B, and Student Y.

Student A asks a perfectly normal question about the topic at hand. Let's say the class is devoted to government, so Student A asks:

"Could you explain the definition of the electoral college again? I'm not certain I understand it."

And because no one really understands the electoral college entirely, the prof begins to do so. And maybe the discussion takes a turn like this, where the prof shares his or her opinion:

"I don't believe the electoral college is really useful in our day and age. I think we should adopt a new system."

Now, this point is harmless in itself. Many people have acknowledged the problems inherent in the electoral college system; others have pointed out it has worked for centuries without fail. But the problem is how the prof states his or her opinion. If the prof goes on to say:

"But I do understand the merits of the system, and there are good arguments for both sides."

then he or she has not overstepped their bounds. He or she has personally advocated for a side, but he or she did acknowledge the importance of dual opinions. However, if the prof did not say this, but said something that merely supported his or her personal opinion, then they would have crossed the line between teaching and forcing others the uselessness of only one point of view.

Of course this scenario would never work for an algebra course, for instance, or for physics. In these classes there is only one right answer. There are only facts and logic. But in many other classes this problem does occur. In another example, let us look at this scenario:

In an announcement to the class, Student Y says: "There is going to be a rehearsal rally for such-and-such Great Goo party next Tuesday during class. I think you should all come and support us."

Student Y is entitled to his or her opinion, and if this occurs before class has officially begun, this is alright. But if the prof encourages further discussion on the matter during class, and then says this:

"Yes, what a wonderful idea! We should all go. Next class we will spend half of it at the Great Goo rehearsal and the rest in the classroom."

then he or she has completely forgotten his or her place, and has forced the students to participate in a Great Goo discussion that they may wish to take no part in. The prof's role is to function as a professor, not as a Great Goo advocate. By taking Great Goo into the arena of the classroom (or by taking the class into the arena of Great Goo), the professor in this scenario is no longer doing his or her job properly. In fact, he or she is not doing their job at all. He or she is lobbying for Great Goo. He or she is not teaching anything, except demonstrating to students how to misuse one's authority.

 To conclude (I love saying that...), Great Goo should have no part in the classroom. To introduce Great Goo into the sacred realm of learning is tantamount to introducing parasites into a cow. Both things are wrong, disgusting, and both eventually kill the host by their (gooey) invasion.

Because it is late and I am tired (still recovering from the evil of the Well, dear readers, so sorry) I will continue this blog post later. Beware the Great Goo, dear readers. Bewareeee.....

I wish you all a good night!

P.S. And for your viewing benefit, here is a picture of the Great Goo. It has managed to escape the test tube, so I am warning you ----- it is commmminnnnnggggg for youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu....

RUN!!! RUN WHILE YOU STILL CANNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!

Tip of the Day:

Tip #107: Avoid wells.

Tip #108: Avoid broken cobblestones.

Tip #109: Avoid real goo.

Tip #110: Brush your teeth. (It is always good to do so, for goo may form in your gums otherwise.)

The Terse Titan

Dear readers, I learned a new and very important fact this past year.

Students are not professors.

Shockingly, this even applies when you invert the statement! But the line above is the one I am thinking of right now. Students, dear readers, are not professors. Not even a little bit. Not even when the student puts on a professor-like hat or wears professor-like shoes, or comes to school dressed entirely in a mauve pantsuit! They are still not professors!

I will illustrate this new fact in a bold and striking story:

Once upon a time, I was in an English class I will refer to as the Class that Defied All Other Classes Before It. Or maybe I will call it: The Class that Shocked Beyond All Shocking. Or perhaps I will simply call it The Almost-Class.

Because it was The Almost-Class, dear reader. It was The Almost-Class that was almost a class. I had thought it might have turned into a True Class, but it will languish forever in the dust bin of Almost-Classness, there to remain until a new Almost-Class spreads its wings and claims the title for its own.

The Almost-Class was taught, fittingly enough, by a professor I will now refer to as the Almost-Professor. I will not, however, reveal this professor’s identity. I will simply call them “A-P.”

A-P was not a bad person, per se. They (I will not refer to them as he or she, either, for fear or revealing their true identity) were only a little unsuited to their role as professor.

You may ask how I know this.

Well, dear reader, it was shown to me.

On the first day of class, we received syllabi. The syllabus was nothing important or different; it was the schedule inside that shocked and astounded my studently virtues.

For it appeared that we, the students, would be doing the professorly work. We, dear reader, would be teaching the class.

The schedule looked like this:

Monday: Syllabus

Wednesday: Student-Led Discussion

Monday: Student-Led Discussion

Wednesday: Student-Led Discussion

Monday: Student-Led Discussion…

And so on, and so on.

We were, dear reader, in short, taking the professor’s role upon ourselves. We were the professor. We were no longer students.

Unfortunately, as always, this disruption led to a whole string of incidents.

      

1.   The Incident of the Pie (Wednesday, 10/3)

The day on which the Incident of the Pie began was much like any other day. We filed into our classroom in Humanities, blinked as the fluorescent lighting sent brilliant streaks of white-hot light into our brains, sat down in our desks, pulled out notebooks, papers, pens, etc., and waited. We were waiting for the hapless student who would be teaching the class today to show up, and he did not disappoint us.

From this point on in the story, I will refer to this person as the Boy with the Hat. For he was wearing a large, silver baseball cap with the word LIOM inscribed across the brim. (My fingers tremble as I remember it… I can hardly bring myself to write the word… LIOM… for it is not even a word! It does not even form an intelligible acronym! I must tell you, dear reader, that I spent much too long trying to decipher its meaning, but I admit I failed. LIOM will forever remain a cypher of uncrackibility.)

But back to the Boy in the Hat – he was the victim chosen to teach the class that day, and though I don’t remember what we were supposed to be learning, let me tell you that we were not supposed to be learning about pie.

However, that was what the Boy in the Hat had chosen to teach about.

But at this time, no one knew this. The A-P came in, settled themselves into a desk at the back, and pulled out their binder and pen, for they always took notes on the student who taught the class each day.

The Boy in the Hat took his time: he pulled down the screen in the front of the class, turned the projector on, pushed a small table into the front of the room, and sat down behind it.

“Lights off, please,” he said.

The student nearest the light switch flipped them off.

The projector whirred into life, and we beheld a brilliantly shining, beautifully colored, astoundingly awesome picture of…

PIE.

I gaped at the screen for a moment, half-hoping words would appear and explain away the problem. We weren’t supposed to be learning about pie. We weren’t even learning about food.

Maybe he was giving a presentation on food in the books we had read?

But I couldn’t remember anything about pie. I glanced stealthily at the student next to me, but she appeared as bewildered as I was.

The Boy in the Hat was unperturbed. He sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and tapped his fingers against his chin.

“As you can see,” he said, “the picture on the screen is of a banana cream pie.”

We did see. The only problem was that we didn’t know why it was up there.

“Today,” the Boy in the Hat continued, “we will all be learning how to make banana cream pie. Please take out a sheet of paper and a pen. I will go through each step slowly, so as to give you the most time possible to incorporate these new ideas into your brain.”

He flipped to the next slide, and we all scrambled to begin writing things down. The A-P hadn’t stopped him – perhaps this was some sort of joke?

A boy in the corner began laughing hysterically.

The Boy in the Hat cleared his throat loudly, ignoring the sounds of madness echoing around the room. “The first step for preparing a superb banana cream pie is collecting the ingredients. Please write these down: one cup of whole milk, four egg yolks, one cup of granulated sugar, five tablespoons of all-purpose flour…”

His voice faded to a drone as I looked incredulously around me for the A-P. Perhaps they would step up now and demand that the class return to normality?

But the A-P was staring dreamily off into space, their chin propped on their hand. Their eyes were half-closed.

I gave up.

Clearly we weren’t going to learn anything about English today.

       

2. The Incident of the Test-Drive Dummy (Monday, 10/8)

Seeing as the Boy with the Hat had succeeded so well in his presentation of banana cream pie, a second student decided to shirk the assignment as well.

We entered class that day to find a test-drive dummy propped up against the whiteboard, a smile drawn clumsily over its plastic face and a red wig thrown over its bald head. Hanging around its neck was a sign that proclaimed: I am your Teacher for the Day. Ask me any Question and I will Answer You. Next to him stood a smiling student, his/her face very happy.

I sat down in my desk, let my backpack slide to the floor, and dropped my head into my hands.

“Today,” said the smiling student, “we will be learning about ventriloquism.  We will learn via live presentation. I have brought in this dummy in order to demonstrate what not to do when attempting ventriloquism.”

A student in the back of the classroom raised her hand.

“Yes?” said the Ventriloquist.

“How does this have anything to do with our book?” asked the Brave Soul.

“Well,” the Ventriloquist said, glancing at the A-P. The A-P blinked dreamily at the opposite wall.

The Ventriloquist shrugged. “I have no idea. But I’m teaching it, and we’re going to learn it.”

He/she turned to the dummy, draped an arm around its plastic shoulders, and said, “Well, Charlie, how are you feeling today?”

The dummy said nothing.

The Ventriloquist said, his/her voice pitched much lower, “I’m doing just fine, buddy. What about you?”

The dummy stared blankly at the class.

I closed my eyes and thought about dropping the class. If only it was the beginning of the semester again… if only… if only…

Schedule, cont.

Wednesday (10/10): The Incident of the Beehive

Monday (10/15): The Incident of the Bad Haircut

Wednesday (10/17): The Incident of the Horror Stories

Monday (10/22): The Incident of the Classical Music Aficionado

Wednesday (10/24): The Incident of the Werewolf

Monday (10/29): The Incident of the Fried Zucchini

Wednesday (10/31): The Incident of No Class

Wednesday (11/5): The Incident of the Lost Snake

Monday (11/7): The Incident of Dropping the Class Forever

Dear readers, there are some things I cannot take in this world. One of them is a dead cat. Another is a can of root beer.

But the one thing, dear readers, that truly bothers me are Those Who Shirk Their Responsibilities.

I hope everyone has learned a valuable moral lesson today.

 

Here it is in a concise fashion:

Do not take dead cats from strangers. Or cans of root beer.

Have a pleasant Monday, readers.

Tips of the Day:

Tip #103: Take classes you are interested in. If you are not interested in them, drop them. Let me add, dear readers, that the classes required for your major should not be dropped. You’ll have to take those, sadly, if you wish to graduate.

Tip #104: Floss regularly. Please.

Tip #105: Select your bow ties wisely. Purple-striped is always recommended.

Tip #106: Eat zucchini. I suggest fried.