PSA: Italics - Use Them Right

Italics are not to be used for any old thing. They are not like cologne that you can splash all over yourself. You don't want to overuse them and take away what little power they have. They are for emphasis or book titles, right? Maybe foreign phrases...maybe the words of Christ.

Please don't use them as the standard font formatting on documents or emails. Unless you are Jesus. Also, if you use italics for everything, you aren't allowed to use the abbreviation IMHO (Jesus...please feel free to do whatever you like).

Thanks for understanding

Disappointing Technology: Weather Maps

Grrrrr

I’m sick. Mr. Lawrence’s newly replaced ignition broke. I’m working the late shift. I can’t get a hold of Doc. My phone is nearly dead. The pop machine wouldn’t take my dollar.

So, this is what I’m going to say if anyone asks me how I’m doing:

Be advised. I'm mean, nasty and tired. I eat concertina wire and piss napalm and I can put a round in a flea's ass at 200 meters. So why don't you go hump somebody else's leg, mutt face, before I push yours in.

I won’t say that to any of you, of course. I probably won’t say it to anyone. But it feels better to have Clint Eastwood’s voice in my head when I’m feeling puny. At least then I feel a little tougher.

Update: I'm feeling much better after some medication and the pop machine took my dollar the first time this afternoon. I'm sure I'll go home and fall apart, but at least I won't be cranky. For Doc's sake, cross your fingers.

I Can't Take It Anymore

I'm reading Michael Palin's diary and I just can't take it anymore. Here is a quote from the last passage I read:

At last an, as yet, uninterrupted day's writing ahead of me, a luxury which hasn't happened for a long time. Thomas leaves for his playgroup at 9:55. Helen takes William out to the shops. All is quiet for a bit--the sun shines in onto my desk, and I feel all's well with the world.

I'm going to finish writing this novel, goddammit. By November 6, 2008, two years to the day after I started it. I must find a way to spend my time at home writing.

Oh, Tasty Schadenfreude!

Guess who's joined the ranks of celebrity apology-makers! It is Ty Pennington! He was arrested on drunken driving charges. Finally, this clean-cut, hunky do-gooder with quip package has tarnished his halo.

Not that I am against do-gooders. I just can't stomach all the "look at these unfortunate people and watch us change their lives for the better by spending millions of dollars on ridiculous construction projects when giving that kind of money to Habitat for Humanity would help so many more people but if we did that you couldn't see how wonderful we are being so we opt for the showy, yet much less effective, ta-dah! instead," bullshit he represents.

Extreme Home Makeover reminds me of the show "Bye Bye Birdie," where a rock star is drafted and his PR people decide that he'll symbolically kiss all the girls goodbye by picking one girl and kissing her on TV. It's a stunt that purposefully pushes certain buttons in people to coax out a specific emotion, i.e. an emotional lapdance. It also seems to exempt them from doing any real good in the world. ABC could learn a thing or two from Fox and Idol Gives Back.

Ahem...

Sorry I lost my cool you guys. Poverty is a hot button issue with me. I think about it every day and my work involves trying to alleviate its effects on learning. I could go on an on about how the poor start out in school at least three years behind their middle and upper class counterparts (at age five, they are already more than half their lifetime behind!) how hunger and toothaches prevent children from learning, how cultural differences can cause some children to be labeled "learning disabled" because the way they act and learn is different from their middle class teacher's way of doing things, how their parents are afraid to into the school because of negative experiences they had as students so these kids have no one to advocate for them. You tell me how will they ever escape poverty without academic success. They won't in a knowledge/information based economy, that's for sure and they won't get the education they need without an even playing field.

In W's defense, I am totally behind his sweeping legislation called the No Child Left Behind Act. I believe it is a civil rights act even more so than an educational one. It forces schools to be accountable for "subgroups" they were never held accountable for before, i.e. special ed kids, minorities, free and reduced lunch kids. NCLB is imperfect, it is shamefully underfunded, and its implemementation has been problematic. However, it is up for renewal and many educators and education organizations have made very specific recommendations for its improvement.

If not for the war in Iraq, Katrina, and all the closed-door dealing that has gone on, his legacy could have been one of a president who shined a light on inequity in education and made steps to correct it. So, perhaps I was a bit unfair in my attack the other day. However, I do believe that sometimes his left hand doesn't know what his right hand is doing, and not in a good way. With one hand, he is trying to level the playing field for everyone to have success in America. With the other, he is spending every penny he can find to fund the war in Iraq and it breaks my heart. Just think of what the US Education system could do with $24 BILLION.

But we do what we can with what we've got. NCLB is a grand, if problematic, idea. When a democrat takes office in January 2009 and NCLB is renewed with improvements recommended by education professionals, and we withdraw our troops from Iraq, we may see things start to change for the better. Until then we must continue to move forward the best we can.

Everybody! On Your Feet! Monday's! Can't Be Beat!

Give me an M!

Give me an O!

Give me an N!

Give me an D!

Give me an A!

Give me an Y!

What's that spell?!?! MONDAY!!! YAY MONDAY!

We've got PAPERWORK to do so lets...

B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E

BE AGGRESSIVE! BE, BE, AGGRESSIVE, WOO!

E-I-E-I-E-I-O!

E-I-E-I-E-I-O!

Come on, Workforce, Let's GO!

Come on, Workforce, Let's GO!

O-o-O-o

O-o-O-o

E-I-E-I-E-I-O!
E-I-E-I-E-I-O!
File that paperwork, Let's GO!
File that paperwork, Let's GO!

Hey, Hey

You get out of our way!

Today is the day

We will file you away!

Who Rocks the House?!

They Say that Flannery Rocks the House!!

And when Flannery Rocks the House,

She Rocks it All the Way Down!

Alligator, crocodile let's get crunk for a while!

Ooh get crunk!

Ooh get crunk!

Lemon lime tootie fruity,

Come'on girls let's kick some booty!

Nope. Nothing. Still don't want to do work.

Can't Talk Now...

I'm too busy exploiting my core competencies...

Harrumph!

The APA Style Guide can kiss my grits!

I'm Not In The Mood

It took me nearly four hours to get to work today and I have nothing whimsical to report. Maybe after some tasty treats or tender vittles, I'll be back on form. Until then: Bite me.

xoxox

A Musical Mystery: John Mayer

All indicators point to the fact that John Mayer is someone I should totally love. He's a guitar player, which increases a fellah's hottness factor by at least 78%, in my opinion. He's got the lugubrious good looks of Lancelot du Lac (at least how I would picture LdL). He's got a beautiful voice and heaps of charisma.

I like the sound of his music, though I'm not familiar with his entire discography. Some of his album titles appeal to me: Inside Wants Out, Room for Squares, Any Given Thursday, Continuum. His voice appeals to me very much. I like the tone and its expressiveness.

So why don't I own all of his albums?



Exhibit A: Daughters

The first time I heard this song, I was wandering around Best Buy with my daughters. We were looking at DVD's or something and it was momentarily quiet enough that I could hear the music playing through the store's sound system. I turned my head slightly to listen carefully to the appealing lilts of the guitar and the soulful and sincere sound of his voice.

Having been an instrumental musician for most of my life, I've developed the habit of hearing the voice as another instrument and, usually, I don't take in the words. Not that lyrics have not gotten through to me before, but on first hearing of any song, I am overwhelmed by the notes and really have to concentrate if I want to hear what the singer is trying to say. Usually, pop singers don't have much to say, in my opinion, so I don't waste a lot of time trying to suss meaning out of songs such as "Oops, I Did It Again." For example, I watched the entirity of last season's American Idol, where they did a sending off video for each contestent who left the show each week and that video, without fail featured the song, "So you've had a bad day". That means I heard that song at least once a week for two months and, when it came on the radio this morning, I could only sing along to "So you've had a bad day..."; the rest was all "la la la la". This is the case, even with songs I genuinely like and with lyrics that speak to me.

So, for a few moments, in Best Buy, I really enjoyed listening to John Mayer's music and I was about to start my search for this gifted artist's album, until the song made its way to the chorus and the words were made manifest in my mind. This is what I heard:

Fathers be good to your daughters;

Daughters will love like you do, yeah.

Girls become lovers who turn into mothers,

So mothers be good to your daughters, too.

Boys you can break,

You find out how much they can take.

Boys will be strong, and boys soldier on,

But boys would be gone without warmth

From a woman's good, good heart

On behalf of every man, looking out for every girl,

You are the god, and the weight of her world.

On behalf of every man whose looking out for every girl,

You are the god, and the weight of her world.

Fathers be good to your daughters,

Daughters will love like you do, yeah.

Girls become lovers who turn into mothers,

So mothers be good to your daughters, too.

So mothers be good to your daughters, too.

It's not that I don't agree with the sentiment here, but come on! Who died and made you Captain Wisdom? I was immediately turned off and disgusted. Musically, this song was so up my alley. Then he had to shit all over it with his Circle of Life fucking philosophy of child-rearing. I mean, couldn't he have used the music for this song and put in lyrics that weren't so holier than thou? Why not sing about flowers or something abstract. Jesus.

Perhaps it is ageism on my part. If Willie Nelson were singing this song, I don't think I would have had such a visceral reaction to it. Willie would give it a perspective of wisdom earned over a long life of observing human nature and hard living. But from such a youngster as JM, it feels like a sermon given by a college freshman who just finished his first psych class.

However, no matter who said it, it still begs the question: Aren't people supposed to be good to their daughters? I mean, that was my plan. But I wasn't going to be good to them so that they could "become lovers who turn into mothers". I mean, I'd like them to be mothers some day, after they finish school, college, and see the world. I'm not training them so that sleepy-eyed junior philosphers can take them as lovers and turn them into mothers. Keep your hands of my, daughters, Jack!

Ahem.

It never fails, though, when this song comes on the air, I am lulled into its trance. And then, as if I'd stepped on a rake, I'm slammed in the head with the unwarrented advice of Junior here and I feel betrayed anew. Stop making such nice music with such preachy lyrics, John Mayer. Either that or stop preaching and start scatting.

Ennui Having Fun Yet?

Recently, my posts have lacked depth. I realize I'm not in the depth business, but still. I've skimmed so much surface, that I feel that I have left no waters unrippled. Now, ennui has settled in and the surface holds no glamor for me any longer. I am a dragonfly who wants to do the triple lindy.

Frankly, I don't have anything to really dive into. I'm not pissed off about the war; I'm beyond it. I can't get into wrestling or NASCAR. I'm over NCLB. Even American Idol and Survivor have lost their luster. Perhaps my anti-depressants are working too well. I can't seem to tap into the rage. My hot buttons are suddenly luke-warm. Maybe, if the elections were in full swing, I'd have a point of view worth chewing on. Sadly, I just can't think of one damn thing to be passionate about.

As a result, I've been posting a bunch of flotsam from the stream of consciousness. I've got a general malaise about this writing business. Maybe you could help. I realize I'm being needy here, but perhaps you could suggest some rant topics to me in the comments. I'll be glad to try them out for size and practice passion diatribes. Maybe that will give me the boost I need to go forward. Otherwise, my future posts may be nothing but things like this or this.

I'm Special

Last Thursday, I went to my doctor to get the results of routine tests. He declared that I had the healthy body of a 12 year old girl. I wanted to reply, but didn't, "Are you sure that was my blood?" Instead, I just grinned and thanked him for giving me a clean bill of health. It had been a long time since I've had a check-up and I hadn't realized how much I was worrying about my health. I felt like a load had been lifted.

He told me the only reason he'd need to see me is if I needed to see him. Then he announced I was to receive a pneumonia shot and whisked himself out of the room dashingly. A nurse came in and to give me the shot right in my upper arm muscle. We chatted about mundane things and then I was free to go. I practically skipped to my car with the lift the good news had given me.

I was also giddy because, I had decided to take a vacation day on Friday. I was looking forward to three and a half days of carefree leisure time. I spent the morning with the kids and around noon, I prepared to go to the Salvation Army and to see my therapist; it was a day to unload baggage of the real and metaphorical type. I took ten bags of clothes and dropped them off. Then I went inside and got Doc five pairs of pants and two vests for 30 bucks. The pants were all very nice and barely worn and labeled by the likes of the Gap, Levis, Eddie Bauer, Calvin Klein, and DKNY.

After I went to my therapist, I made my way home and spent a pleasureable afternoon hanging out with my family. Then, around five o'clock, I started to feel like all of my energy was sliding out of me through the bottoms of my feet. I went to lie down for an hour and woke up feeling a bit better. At around 9:00 p.m., we put the kids to bed and Doc went to the neighbor's house while I settled in with a book. I was laying on the couch reading for a couple of hours when I heard Riley get up and make her way to my room. I worried that she would get there and be upset that no one was in there, so I got up and joined her.

I needn't have worried, as she walked to our bedroom, climbed into Doc's side of the bed and cuddled up without ever waking up, it seemed. By the time I got to the bedroom, a definate chill had set into my bones. I popped in a DVD of All Creatures Great and Small and snuggled under our many blankets (one down comforter, one regular comforter, a wool army blanket, a quilt and flannel sheets) and tried to get warm. It wasn't happening. I waited to warm up for about an hour and called the neighbor's house to summon Doc home. My hands were shivering so dramatically, I could barely dial the number.

When Doc got home, I was in a near panic. I probably should have gone to the emergency room. But once I was warmed up with the extra body heat in the bed, I felt much better and was able to sleep. However, the next morning I woke up with the same problem, plus now my upper arm that took the shot hurt like it had been slammed in a steel door. I called my doctor and told him what was going on and that it had to be from the shot. He got defensive and said that they've given the shot to over 200 people and no one ever had this reaction. He avered that it couldn't be from the shot and told me to take two ibuprofen and leave him the fuck alone on the weekend. Well, he didn't say that last part, but it was implied. He told me if it got worse, I should go to the ER.

When I told my parents about this exchange, my Dad commented that a half percent of the people who have taken the shot have suffered, meaning me. After a scant two minutes searching on the internet, I found this out about the nefarious pneumonia shot:

A few people (less than 1 percent) had fever and muscle pain as well as more serious swelling and pain on the arm.

My Dad, he's a smart one. Each day, the swelling has grown and the fevers persist. The area where the shot was givin is now about three inches sqare and is hot enough to fry an egg on. I can't lift my left arm at the shoulder because of the pain that radiates out from my upper arm to the middle of my back. I'm still periodically getting fevers, but a little Tylenol at the right moment has helped me to avoid the chills.

So, the thrill is gone from my clean bill of health and the honeymoon is over with my new and once beloved doctor. I'm going to try to plow through this on my own, but I'd love to march into his office and reveal the blazing after effects of his alleged harmless shot. If today passes with more fevers and continued pain, I might just do that. In the meantime, I'll try to find a way to blame this all on Mel Gibson. Any suggestions?

I Have The Un-Midas Touch

Everything I've touched today has turned to shit. And it's only 9:00 a.m. Maybe this picture of the luckiest man in the world will help steer my fate in the right direction.

Poor Man's Red Bull

2 for $3.00 at the Circle K

It tastes like piss and Spree, but at least I'm awake.

The Universe Is Back In Balance

The Academy Award Nominees have been announced and Mel Gibson's movie Apocalypto has been appropriately overlooked in the major catagories. It was, however given a nod for Sound Mixing, Sound Editing and Make-up.

So, Mel, now it's your turn to grab a Heini, sob into your pillow and ask "Why? Why? Why?" My teeth gnashing, fist-waving, shouting to God days are over as far as your concerned...that is until Atlantisthmus, the true story of what happened to Atlantis, done in the ancient Greek dialect of that era and region, is launched.

Oooh I can't wait for the true-to-life underwater scenes unfold.

Dear Warren Beatty, I Bet You Think This Post Is About You

Congratulations on the recognition you received at the Golden Globe Awards last evening. Sadly, I was unable to view the coverage in its entirity; I lack the staff to properly organize every aspect of my life and, therefore, failed to view the show as it happened and lost the opportunity to set the DVR to record it. I missed all the red carpet kerfluffle and a majority of the award presentations. Fortunately, my poverty in both material goods and posse membership did not prevent me from viewing the results this morning on the internet. Two things pleased me much: J-Hud's award for Dream Girls and Mel Gibson's loss for his overblown, overrated and, obviously, flash-in-the-pan grab for artistic credibility, a.k.a. Apacolypto.

I suddenly remembered at around 10:00 p.m. that the award show was on and, being a rabid fan of award shows, I figured I ought to tune in; so I did. And I was just in time to view three quarters of the tongue bath given to you by Tom Hanks, who believes saying that someone has balls is somehow both risque and hilarious enough to repeat at least eight times during is pre-eulogy to you, the Promising New Star of 1962. And then I watched as you received the Cecille B. DeMille award for Over-The-Top Assholery (I hazzarded a guess as to what that award recognizes, as I missed the explanation of its significance. I'm pretty sure I'm dead on.). And your speech moved me to tell you this, Warren Beatty:

Oh. My. God. Please shut up!

I was humiliated for you by your obvious vanity and shallowness. Sure you may be a great actor/director/producer/screenwriter. But you seem to revel in your power like a pig lolling in mud. Frankly, it turned my stomach. The only respite during this 20 minute hubris-fest I felt was, when you were jabbing at my boy, Clint Eastwood, for being an overachiever, the cameras focused on the lovely visage of that old cowboy and TRUE TALENT and lost focus on you and your swaggering, swaying peacockery! Jesus, your speech made me long for a holier-than-thou address on Tibetan public school funding from Richard Gere! At least he has a cause other than himself and his own smarminess.

Your speech went on and on and all you talked about was how lucky you were to have access to just about everyone and everything on the planet. Fuck you, Warren Beatty. Fuck you. And, by the way, where was the orchestra that usually coaxes blowhards like you right off the stage?!? Alas, they were nowhere to be found. Perhaps they were washing your Bentley.

So, instead of enjoying the rest of the award show, I was forced to turn you off and watch some Scrubs. Hopefully, you'll enjoy what remains of you life by revelling in your good fortune and rubbing it in the faces of everyone you meet. I suppose that's what I would do, once I'm famous.

Thanks again for being a role model to us all.

Sincerely,

Flannery Alden
Celebrity Watch Dog

Introducing...

My New Mentor

Good Morning, Class!

Ever since I was a kid, I always wanted to be a teacher. I used to play endless hours of school with my friends and by myself. There are several teachers in my family. It kind of seemed like a no-duh that I would become one one day. When I told my band director in high school, who was a mentor to me, that I wanted to be a teacher, he said, "Don't do it; you'll never make any money at it."

So I didn't do it. Now, I find myself with a BA in Classical and Medieval Studies and working in education on the sidelines, as it were, as a level four bureaucrat. I just took the Myers-Briggs personality assessment on Johnny Yen's blog, and what did I discover? I'm an eNFj, AKA the Teacher Idealist. According to the website, there are only 2 to 3 percent of the population with this personality and they are uniquely suited to the teaching profession. Way to go, BAND DIRECTOR. Thanks for your stellar advice.

And way to go ME, for letting one guy direct my future.

This little case study will stand as a lesson for all of you out there: NEVER MAKE LIFE-CHANGING DECISIONS WITHOUT CONSULTING AT LEAST TWO PEOPLE, ONE OF WHOM SHOULD BE A MEMBER OF YOUR FAMILY WHO KNOWS YOU WELL.

Class dismissed.

Some Free Advice

Hi, Rich Person!

I'm so glad to share the space with you at this moment. I'm practically dazzled by your diamond cufflinks and/or ruby brooches. Your manicured fingers flit for emphasis as you regale me with tales of your exotic adventures. I am left reeling by simply estimating in my head the possible costs incurred for hiring a personal rail car that hauls your well-toned ass across the country while insulating you from the hoi polloi. Really. I'm impressed.

I'm also thankful that you deem to share your stories with me. My eyes have been opened to a world that I will probably never get to visit. Your trips to the Carribean make my trips to the Mexican border pale in comparison. I've seen the Canadian Parliment building and sat in on a session. You've hung out with MP's. Real British MP's, not the British Lite (Canadian) ones. You've met mayors and sheiks. I've met Maynard's with the shakes.

Still, I've always felt that I could hold my head high around you. I never felt inflamed that you get a tax break for every hummer you buy. I've never begrudged you the opportunity to buy me lunch. I've laughed at your tales of hobnobbing with the goobershmoosers. I respect you for who you are.

But, here is where I draw the line: Please don't complain to me about your hired help. Don't try to get my sympathy when your butler scuffs the woodwork because he forgot to take off his shoes in your home. Don't try to make me laugh at the way your maid decides to clean your plush wool carpeting with dishwashing detergeant. I cannot commiserate with you here. I cannot find joy in these stories. So stop it.

Thank you,
Flannery Alden
Card Carrying Member of the Lower Middle Class