A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 21, 2003 || 10:49 pm

School days, school days, yay!

My algebra class met for the first time today. Here, I’ve stabbed kerosene-soaked pencils through my eyeballs. Could you please set them ablaze? I cannot see to find my lighter.

Proof positive that math is for the birds:

And that’s straight from the mouth of the beast…the math club, baby.

Why is it that the twitchiest girl with the loudest body cream or cheap cologne always zeroes in on me as a seat neighbor? Maybe I should stop bathing and/or brushing my teeth so as to insure an Island of Empty Seats surrounding me. I’m not being paranoid; this occurred during the summer mini and has happened in every class thus far this semester.

Here, a diagram of my usual seating in every class I take:

No, smartass, the seats aren't depicted in straight rows. How many classrooms you ever see with perfectly straight rows?? Shut up. It's late. It's late and I am a technotard.

The exception is computer lab, of course, where I fix myself in the back row in hopes of scoring some moments to entertain the masses with this here weblog. I found myself sandwiched between two obvious geeks (verrrry cute, long fuzzy hair, questionable hygeine –they don’t smell, but look as if they should– t-shirts with obscure tech references or band names) that I’m sure at some point will invite me along between classes: “Hey man, you wanna go blaze one?”

Speaking of which, there is a girl in one of my classes , wheelchaired, who would be otherwise unremarkable save for a few facts: She looks and (per the dankbud snifftest) smells as if she sparks up every other class period, she fixes her feet to her chair with a bungee cord (which I find quite raucous and utterly fascinating), she has unruly chickenfluff hair and wears t-shirts that say things like ‘FIGHT THE POWER.” on them. Maaaan, I think that even I would be a tad frightened to get into her head.

Something that never escapes my notice (and ohhh, how I try to turn a blind eye) is that there is an overabundance of the greek-shirted co-ed, most especially of the sorority variety. These things come in the most stupid color combinations ever thunk up by a biped and boast no shortage of simpy, rah-rah sayings and dancing palm trees or small children in dress-up regalia having saccharine-tender handholding moments. In my humble opinion, PETA is far too concerned with fur and not worried near enough that people are killing innocent cotton in order to clothe themselves in such a fashion. There are even flip-flops, for the love of fuck, emblazoned with one’s favorite House O’ Gang Rape And General Snobbery.

In keeping with the general spirit of things, I feel I should identify myself, as well. I plan on sporting my ‘DICKWEED’ shirt sometime soon. I will smile a whole lot on that day, I’m sure of it.

My chem professor is incredibly cute. I’m going to adopt her as my surrogate mama on principle, because she didn’t bait-and-switch me like some unnamed disguised-as-nicelady lit instructor did: “Your final will be comprehensive.” I love you, Madame Chemistry. I look forward to making crazy concoctions with you. I can show you how to make corn likker; can you teach me how to make my own nail polish remover? I have fingernails now, you know.

It is very, very difficult, kind reader, to not think of classes as huge, unfettered blocks of time to write. The first time I went to college, I saw them as huge, unfettered blocks of time to enjoy the aftereffects of the smoke-out had with my pals Casey and Murph out in the parking lot between various and sundry classes. I would make Murph sit across the classroom from me and Case because he had this maddening habit of wanting to express the wonderful stoned thoughts he had about music and life in general to me while I was trying like all-fuck to a) not fall right the fuck on out of my chair and b) do things like recall the difference between mixolydian and locrian modes. If I put a few desks and two or three bodies between him and me, he generally forgot I was there until class wrapped. Most of the time I would sit behind Case, because Casey were a big ole fella; although he didn’t weigh up like a sack of rocks he was some six-foot-four and broad-shouldered. He had the very real plus of being as pretty to look at from the posterior view as from the anterior. I’d scribble away on sheets of staff paper, floating along on kind bud and the delicious waft of Casey’s cologne, setting down bits and snatches of songs to be fleshed out by Murphy and Casey and me when we gathered at my home later. Woe was me when our professor decided to skewer me with a question. Half diminished seventh, what ma’am?

But, ohhhh, the times that we’d play with contrapuntal melody, delving deeper into complexity and fancy musicianship as time wore on, piling line upon line up there on the greensogreen chalk board, covered up to the elbows in yella chalk dust when something more than the sum of its parts was emerging. Excited. Exhilerated. Gleaming. I’m shit at math, but strangely enough, I can throw off some gorgeous, well-crafted counterpoint when I fix my attentions on it. The pot seemed to help in this regard.

Imagine that.

She of Musical Doctorate could spot one miniscule needle of error buried amongst a haystack-full of notes: “That’s not allowed,” she’d tell me, and (hearing it all the while in my head) I’d say, “…but ohhhh, listen to how beautiful…’” and run to the piano to play it. Always I would hear “You have to know the rules, Elizabeth, before you may break them.” and I was undaunted e’en though. The way I saw it, the men who wrote the rules, they didn’t know jack shit but a love of craft when they started cranking out the notes, and I’m convinced to this day that the rules merely emerged from their own particular style(s) of playing and nothing more.

At any rate, I passed my theory classes, survived my end-of-semester juries and rocked it like a trooper for my final recital — the one that was pass/fail and determined whether or not all my other efforts toward learning were in vain– and got my music degree.

Now I’m back in the classroom in full-on Florence Nightingale mode. Maybe I’ll make up songs for people as I poke them with sharp, shiny things. That is, if Algebra doesn’t whip my ass first.

8 worked it out »

  1. the olive 8.22.2003

    just wondering…why are you back in school?

  2. Johnny T 8.22.2003

    Hey, I’m in school too. Do you find it weird being the old person in the class? I still am having problems realizing the fact that I’m the old guy. I’m probly the guy that other people think, “Hey, why is that old guy here?” just like I used to think when I was 19 in college. When you are 19, 27 seems old.

    I trust you will not be offended by me calling you the old person in the class. Be assured, no insult was intended. If any was infliced upon you, please accept this appology, madame.

  3. redclay 8.22.2003

    what the hell?

  4. melly 8.22.2003

    This age thing, I’m telling you Mr. Johnny T, is really not an issue. I started college at 17 and I noticed there were a lot of people who weren’t so young. And you converse and learn alongside them just the same.

  5. James 8.22.2003

    Hmm, first-time visitor to your site (I had to visit after I saw you said we both needed a drink over on Waistdog’s site LOL).

    Love your writing and I look forward to reading alot more from you. ;)

  6. Patti 8.23.2003

    *raises hand to offer al-Jer-BRA help*

    In one of my other, many mood/lives I tutored intro and first level for extra $$ (drinking money). Keep in mind that does not include trig – which has never been implanted in my cerebral hard drive for some reason. Lower levels of al-Jer-BRA seems to float in my RAM until I need to pluck them down for whatever reason.

  7. Jett 8.23.2003

    Dear Patti: I hate you and all other ‘math naturals’ with a seething passion.

    Now that you’ve offered, you CANNOT yell at me for calling you up at midnight for tutoring. Hey, I just thought of something….I have a tutor with an eight-hunnert number, ROCCCCKKKK!

    James, welcome to Muffinassery. We’re always looking to fold in more nuts around here.

    redclay: whaa?

    JohnnaaaaY: I’ve never been a ‘conventional’ student, so I don’t have the ‘young college student’ experience to contrast it with. Quite frankly, though, I’m never the oldest in my classes and that coupled with the fact that I still look card-able makes me not really stand out. That, and the fact that I don’t really care about such things.

    The thing that DOES make me stand out, however, is my propensity to call bullshit on instructors/profs who use their classrooms as a platform for their personal beliefs yet cannot or will not foster an open discussion of the other side of the coin. That, and my tendency to fell my opponents with vast, multisyllabic wordy warrens (MISTER LINKWORTHY SAID THAT AND I LOVE HIM FOR IT).

    And you know what else, Johnny T? I have big boobies. Most of the boys (and, because of today’s progressive society, most of the girls too) don’t really care what’s etched on the birth certificate as long as the girls are riding high and proud.

    And no offense was taken, you age-ist bastard. >:o)

    olve, my lovely (so glad you’re back!), I’m sick to fuckin’ death of nickel and diming. That, and I’m a born nurturer, baby.

  8. April Love 8.23.2003

    I too am back in school…this little post just about made me shit the ole’ pants! I’m just 24 and find myself being the old lady in class. It’s funny…I have English Lit. with a boy who was in 6th grade when I graduated. Good stuff! Oh how I love being a sixth year Freshman.

    By the way….MATH BITES!!


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