The Best Blog Post Since Lord of the Rings

The title of this entry is a bit of a misnomer for two reasons.

1) This is more of a piss-poor blog entry, than the “best” blog entry.  In any case this will probably turn into rant.  Which automatically docks it an additional 10 blog points.

2) Lord of the Rings is a book, not a blog.

So here’s what bothering me enough to merit a blog entry.  GoodReads was saying this of one of the books of A Song of Ice and Fire, “Continuing the most imaginative and ambitious epic fantasy since The Lord of the Rings” 

Why do we pay such homage to the Lord of the Rings?  Yeah its the book that brought forth modern fantasy.  Sure its imaginative.  But at 1,200 pages the book is hardly ambitious held against A Song of Ice and Fire, a series where each book is 1200 pages.  I don’t mean to turn this into a my book is bigger than your book contest, but it seems like reviewers will not let any book break past the Lord of the Rings threshold.  (its sort of like Ms Roe saying you can never get a 9).  No matter how excellent a fantasy series, it can never be better than the Lord of the Rings.

Except it can.  Both the Kingkiller Chronicles and A Song of Ice and Fire blow the Lord of the Rings out of the water.  The Lord of the Rings has a detailed history and world (understatement), but the plot is a little soft and the writing style is archaic.  Its stifling.  Rothfuss and Martin are much smoother writers, with equally if not more compelling stories.  And the characters don’t all talk like they’re writing an essay for their english class at Oxford.

What this comes down to is that we are taking modern works of art and comparing them to something written 60 years ago.  They shouldnt be compared.  What was great then isn’t always what is great now.

So please for the love of literature, stop holding each new fantasy novel to the lord of the rings standard.

Poor Sir Humphrey

The following is a product of my boredom:

Sir Humphrey the Lumpy – our man of lore,

He lived a life of blood and gore,

Sir Humphrey the Lumpy ran out the door,

And strutting about, a muscle he tore,

So Sir Humphrey the Lumpy’s legs were sore,

And his knightly skills grew meek and poor,

So when our bold Sir Humphrey went our to war,

It was no great surprise he became no more.

Fantasy is dead.

Here’s looking at you, Nietzsche.

But when I say, “Fantasy is dead,” I mean I can’t say, with comfort, that I read fantasy.  There’s always a little twinge of embarrassment.  Because after I say, “Oh, its a fantasy book,” I immediately feel as though I look like this.

And no one wants to be that guy.

But why do I feel this way?

Well I guess it would be because I hate most fantasy.  I like the concept, the idea, to a certain extent.  But the way in which it is executed brings me to tears.  The genre is flooded by hackneyed books, each ripping off each in such grand ways.  Each fruitlessly endeavoring to top the other.  I look at half the fantasy on the bookshelf and think that even Frumpy (one of my dogs) could have written better than that.

They all follow the same good vs. evil plot.  Some brave floor scrubber discovers his destiny to become the great and powerful wizard, Xuru (or some other silliness like that), and go and saves the world with the help of some girl he has a pseudo romantic relationship with because the author was an awkward teenager in high school, still is, and can’t write a female character for his life.  So the valiant wold saver, Xuru, is stuck in an awkward high school relationship with Lexi, whose supposed to be brave but (deliberately) pales in comparison to Xuru - just so you remember how badass he is.

But then, he doesn’t even get laid.

I’m not saying that good fantasy has sex.  I’m just saying that it needs to deal with these subjects maturely - not squeamishly.

Nor should the aforementioned plot even exist.

And yet this is what people think of fantasy.  It saddens me because I hate those books.  I don’t want people to think I read that shit.

The best fantasy is (grounded in) reality.  That’s what those chuckleheads, GRRM and Patrick Rothfuss, write.

Or maybe fantasy has just been ruined forever by George R R Martin and Patrick Rothfuss - who understand the tricks of the trade so well that no other author can possibly hope to compete.

So fantasy authors, do me a favor.  Unless you have a real original idea, stop spewing out more books.  Because you’re making people think I’m this guy:

/endrant

Please excuse poor writing or typos or anything like that.  I’m tired.

A Sleep Deprived Poem

I wrote this when I couldn’t sleep.  Gimme a break.

Oh sleep, sleep! When you are late, you make me weep!

Or is it fate, that you are late? Oh how I hate that none can relate.

Oh reap, reap, those fuzzy dreams! I cannot keep my eyes shut, or so it seems.

Oh shut, shut! “anything but,” says the eye, tut, tut!

Oh lie, lie! I should be at peace but I’m still spry!

Might I try some sleep for lease? Cry, cry!

Without sleep, I must weep

A couple of Math Limericks

*Warning, written while under the influence of school*

There one was a man Isaac Newton,

Who fancied mathematical lootin’,

Calculus he claimed,

Dissenters he maimed,

To the rest he was highfalutin.

_________________________

A man once asked me explicitly,

To derive a function implicitly,

He ne’er forgot to check,

My d y d x,

And called my answer “Atrocity!”

Just One Reward

We had to write a stupid short story for english.  Since I’ve been a little light on posts lately, what with all the homework and stuff, I guess I’ll toss this one on.

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Just One Reward

When you’re in with the lord, there’s just one reward. And they’d just as soon make it come true. ~ Robert Earl Keen

      Caw, caw, caw! A lonely crow cawed happily from its throne atop the peak of the Old Church. Caw! Its black beady eyes glinted in the falling sunlight, and mirrored the world around it. Thrum! The Old Church reverberated from its shaky foundation to its rotten roof, startling the lonely crow. The crow abandoned its decrepit throne fled into the sunset, its beating wings black as pitch. This suited the local townsfolk of Puritown quite nicely. After all, crows were an ill omen, blackening this most righteous day.

     Thrum! Dust floated down as the Old Church sounded again, beseeching all the fair and pure denizens to attend the town meeting. A teeming throng of townsfolk congealed at the door, tongues flapping and mouths frothing as their anticipation grew. A pair of young girls gestured at a willow tree beside the church. The Weeping Willow stood there, proud yet sad, watching the proceedings. It cried its amber tears that day. Thrum!

      With one last booming call, the Old Church’s heavy doors swung open and the formless mass of people, the young and old, the thick and thin, and the wise and foolish; they all slithered in like hungry snakes.

     The high ceiling of the church strained under its own weight, caving in at some points. It could have snapped and fallen at any moment. But it hadn’t. Maybe God is watching, thought one of the priests standing, crestfallen, near the altar. Maybe it’s just dumb luck, thought another.

     The silence in the Old Church was deafening as the pious people of Puritown took to their seats. The church-goers sat in quiet reverence for their Lord until the night fell.

     The sun had departed, and with it went all its radiance, warmth, chirping music, and hope. Night’s embrace was a harsher one and colder, the screeching melody of the crickets chilled the room.

     Three stolid steps broke the quiet. The Reverend, Brewer, had stepped forward dressed in crimson robes.

     “Good evening, my flock. I trust we are all aware of how the hand of the Devil or some fell demon has possessed one of our own.” Brewer’s curt voice penetrated to the very depths of the hall.

     “Amen,” echoed the mass.

     “Good people of Puritown, the devil’s reach is long, and his fingers are capable of turning even the most iron of hearts. He grows stronger by the day. Tonight, we will prove that this is more true than ever before! A fell demon or some other depraved servant of Satan has gripped the heart of Mary Sue, and turned her into a foul succubus!” Brewer extended an accusatory finger toward Mary, clad in iron shackles next to one of the many braziers that lit the hall, lighting her sharp features and laughing eyes. “While her valiant husband was attending to private manly matters in the Motherland, this snake of a woman has been cavorting with the devil!” The room echoed with Brewer’s cries and there was a sudden gasp amongst some of the crowd and a low murmur spread throughout hall. The benches creaked as townsfolk shifted in their seats, as though they were sitting on a bed of nails.

     “How do we know this to be true?” asked John, the local tailor.

     “Because she has produced a child born from foul mischief and adultery! Two years has her husband been in England, and now we see that she bore an heir. Clearly not that of her lawfully wedded husband, whom she committed herself to under the all-seeing eye of God. She victimized one of Puritown’s innocent men, tearing him down into adultery with her.” Brewer gestured to his left saying, “Look to your right,” and then he gestured to his right, “Look to your left. Any one of those people could be the corrupted father of this devil-child.”

     The crowd swayed to his arms, mesmerized. Brewer was like a grand orchestrator, controlling every movement of the audience from the quirks of their heads to their astonished gasps.

     “Ah,” Brewer continued, “But we are children of God, are we not?”

     “Yea!” shouted one in the crowed.

     Brewer seemed to ignore the marked enthusiasm. “And as children of God, we must ask ourselves: ‘What would Jesus do?’ Well, my flock, as Christians we must grant Mary Sue a fair trial. We must understand the motivations of her crimes so as to best understand the nature of the Devil.” Brewer beckoned toward the two constables who flanked Mary Sue. “Bring her forward for questioning before the eyes of men and God.”

    “Amen, Reverend,” Constable Geoffrey chirped giddily. Geoffrey noticed that his fellow constable, the young Quentin, was shaking. He whispered to him, “C’mon lad, this’ll put some hair on your chest.”

     Quentin strained under the effort to control his facial gymnastics, as he gruffly yanked Mary toward the altar. The two constables, with Mary in the middle, led her to the grinning reverend. “Thank you, Quentin.” Quentin didn’t like Brewer’s smile. The smile was so thin that Quentin could see the vitriol behind it.

     “’Elcome, Reverend.”

     “Goody Sue, is it not true that your husband has been in England for two years?”

     Mary smirked, “I can’t count so good, but I trust you’re telling it true.”

     “Very well then. When, in that two year span, did the Devil first contact you?”

     “Why, I don’t suppose he e’er rightly did.” Mary flashed a wicked smile, revealing her shining white teeth.

     “Is that so? Or is it simply that you do not wish to tell us? Speak freely, for you are in the company of God.”

     “I said I don’t think he e’er did.”

     “Deceitful woman—”

     Brewer was cut off by the Quentin’s quavering voice, “—Re-reverend, I—I think she be tellin’ you true.”

     “Quiet! You dare challenge a reverend in the house of God?”

     “I—I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. F—Forgive me.”

      “Yes…” Brewer said with an insidious smile. “Perhaps I was too harsh.” His tongue flickered over his jagged teeth. “It is time to, perhaps, proceed to a new line of questioning.” He turned to address Mary, her slim body casting a narrow shadow in the light of the braziers, “Who is the father of your…spawn?”

     “I can’t answer that, either, as I don’t know. I wish I could be more of a help.”

     Brewer’s face grew red and hot as the very hell he preached about. “How could you not possibly know? Don’t you answer that.” Brewer turned to face the room, his shadow grew huge and imposing in the light, his voice was thunderous, “Who here was victimized by this lying, conniving succubus? Speak now or God may smite thee where you sit.”

     The hall grew so silent that not even the shallow, frightful breathing of the crowd could be heard. Quentin drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. “It was me.” The room was stunned. There a few painful gasps amongst the mass of people. Geoffrey’s eyes widened in shock and he doubled as though he’d been struck.

     “You, Quentin?” Reverend Brewer sounded as though he could hardly believe it himself.

     Constable Geoffrey spoke up, “Reverend, the boy is clearly confused, because it was me.” Mary sue began to chuckle softly to herself, then louder, but nobody seemed to notice.

     “I’ll be goddamned if it was you!” shouted Farmer Jakobson, as he stood up from his bench. “You may think you’re the law around here, but I won’t let you take credit for my son!”

     “Your son, Jakobson? I wasn’t aware that you were competent enough to even have a son.” Geoffrey stared Jakobson into submission.

     Reverend Brewer cut in, “Silence! This is a house of God, not some sinning tavern!” Appalled, Brewer spoke to Mary, “My God, woman, is there anyone in here you could even rule out as the father?”

     Mary smiled and with a glint in her eye replied, “You.”

     Brewer’s eyes went wild. He turned to face the audience. Brewer now glowed with the full power of his position, his shoulders appeared broader, his height seemed taller. Drawing on the full weight of his authority, “It has been deemed that God, in his infinite mercy, has found fit to punish Mary Sue by public hanging for the crime of adultery. This punishment shall be wrought down upon her tomorrow morning at the old willow tree.” Brewer grinned like a maniac, then turned around to Geoffrey, “But we cannot, of course, only punish Mary. Geoffrey, for his crimes, shall be flogged. Two lashes!”

     This was met with a round of applause from the audience, celebrating the justice of their God.

     Mary’s smile died.

     The clouds were grey and humorless, fat and heavy with grief. Such is the way of clouds on a rainy day like that morning. It was a cold, violent rain that sought to sting its victims into submission. Quentin pulled his black, soggy cowl farther out in front of his face to shield him from the rain’s malice as he stood amongst the eager spectators that had circled around the old willow tree. Many of them still smelled of that morning’s breakfast of stale bread and thrice old cheese. Their eyes all seemed to be crying out for death.

     Caw, caw! Quentin’s gaze instinctively shot toward where the cackling crow sat on the willow’s sinking branch. Caw! Whether the crow was protesting the hanging of Mary Sue, or adding its cries to the throngs of supporters, Quentin couldn’t tell.

     The Old Weeping Willow of Puritown looked a little less green today. Quentin speculated that its green hues were washed away by the iron rain. Or by the new spirit of the town, thought Quentin.

      Quentin recognized many of the people in attendance. Constable Geoffrey, rubbing his back as though to soothe it, stood a polite distance behind Reverend Brewer. Farmer Jakobson was near the front of the pack, scraping out the dust underneath his fingernails as he stared at Geoffrey with venomous eyes. Quentin also noticed a number of other notable people in attendance: Carson the Carver, Nevin the Nitwit, and Barry the Brash. They formed a group to express their excitement over the upcoming event. One man held his toddling child on his shoulders so the little one could get a better view.

     Mary Sue’s soaked hair clung to her face. She was poised, back straight and chin up, as if daring the citizens to hang her. She glanced toward the noose, swallowed, and then stared harder into the mob that surrounded her.

     A noose was tied on tight to a branch at least a head taller than Reverend Brewer. Brewer stood beneath the study branch. He walked over to the trunk of the willow tree and gave it a sturdy thunk, thunk, thunk, then nodded to himself, as though satisfied.

      “People of Puritown, today is a day to be remembered, to be honored! Today, at last, justice shall be served for two years’ worth of debauchery, adultery, and lewd and licentious behavior. Today is the day we show that God’s plan is not to be forsaken and tossed aside like a soiled cloth. Today is the day we show what happens to those who exhibit wickedness in a pure Puritan town like that of our own Puritown.” Brewer motioned to something in the crowd, “Carson, bring forward the stool.” Carson the Carver emerged from the crowd with a ochre stool and placed it under the noose. “Thank you.” Carson nodded in reply. “And Nevin, would you be so kind as to guide Mary to the stool? We need her to stand on it.”

      Nevin the Nitwit took lengthy, luxurious strides toward Mary. Tongue flopping out, Nevin said to Mary, “Come here, Miss.” He gurgled happily to himself. “Come on, don’t be shy. There’s a good girl.” Mary had looped her arm inside his. “Just right on up this stool now. There you go. Heh-heh.” Nevin’s spittle struck Mary in the face, but luckily the rain washed it away. Her mouth twisted up in disgust as she stepped onto slippery chair

      “You have my thanks, Nevin,” said Brewer. He walked next to Mary, who stood on the stool, and gingerly looped the noose about her neck. It was made of coarse horse hair and many years old, it scraped along her neck as Mary tested out the limits of her new confines.

     Quentin looked toward Constable Geoffrey. Are those tears I see, or is it just the rain?

     “Now in the—” Brewer began before being cut off by a fit of laughter.

     Mary Sue stood there cackling. It was an unsettling laughter. It could have broken mirrors or hearts. Or minds. It was a laugh of desperation. It was a laugh that had to be laughed, lest the tears well up and reveal the weakness behind that fragile façade. It sounded like breaking glass. Mary’s smile extended from ear to ear, as though Carson the Carver had carved it there himself. Her eyes were staring off into the distance, almost lifeless.

     Caw! Caw! Caw! The crow descended from its branch and then glided over the mass of people. The reverend inhaled sharply to speak again when he was interrupted once more. Caw!

“What’s the matter, Reverend?” started Mary Sue, “Crow caught your tongue? Get on with it!” Brewer narrowed up his gaze and shot her daggers with his eyes.

     The rain changed. It was no longer filled with its previous malice and hate. It became softer and gentle. Almost soothing. When it hit Quentin’s face it no longer stung, but rolled down lazily like a melancholy bead.

     Quentin knew what was coming. He shut his eyes tightly and pulled his cowl tight over his face, hoping that if he couldn’t see anything bad happen, perhaps nothing bad would happen. But that was all in vain.

     Reverend Brewer spat. “Now behold in the eyes of God, true justice!” And with that, Reverend Brewer kicked the stool out from underneath Mary and it went crashing against the tree.

      She dangled and squirmed until the end.

     The sun was setting on the peace town of Puritown, casting the town in mournful shades of red and yellow and orange. Most folks had gotten on with their lives. They were back to milking their cows and churning their butter. Some harvested their crops. When they’d pass by each other in the street, one might tip their hat to another and exchange pleasantries. Indeed, it seemed as though nothing had ever transpired that grim morning. It weighed heavily in no one’s heart. Except for Quentin.

      It’s my fault, he thought, I killed her. I never should enjoyed her company – then she might not be dead. Quentin was passing by the shoddy houses as the Sun’s light once again failed. Inexorably, Quentin found himself drawn toward the old willow. It seemed to be the only other rational being in Puritown.

     Caw! Caw! Caw! The lonely crow returned, seating itself on the very branch Mary Sue was hanged from. An old childhood rhyme weaseled its way back into Quentin’s memory. Three crows crowed their song in dark and light and all day long. Quentin paced around the Weeping Willow, thinking of how many other men had been with Mary Sue, and if they felt guilty. Or were even punished. Six fine fellows fled their woes, and in the process cut their toes. Quentin noticed the noose still hung from the branch and that the stool was still on its side under the tree. Nine servile snakes shed their skins, and so it happened forgot their sins. He positioned the stool back under the noose as he thought of all the vile accusations. Twelve harsh harpies screeched a tune, and so coaxed the rising of the moon. Quentin stood up on the stool. The Church and the Reverend were filled with hypocrisy, he thought. Fifteen nuns made lovely fun, before the swelling of the sun. He positioned the noose around his neck.

     Quentin gazed out into the sunset. A few children were happily playing a game off in the distance. Eighteen children played near and far, until the dying of the stars.

      Then he kicked out the stool.

The old Weeping Willow cried amber tears.

Caw!

Brake Pads

Should be used wisely

A Rough Draft of the Students’ Declaration of Independence

As you might recall, in the Homework Revolution, I discussed a revolution in APUSH.  Here are the seeds of that.  Let’s bear in mind it’s a rough draft with typos and stuff that I need to iron out.  I basically just fiddled with the words of the original declaration of independence, and maintained consistence with their funny capitalization.

No Notation Without Representation

The Student Declaration of Independence

“Drive the business, or it will drive thee.” ~ Benjamin Franklin

When in the Course of high school events it becomes necessary for a student body to dissolve the mandated bands which have connected them with a teacher and to assume among the powers of the homework, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Childhood and of Society entitles them, a decent respect to the opinions of the school collective requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all students are created equal, that they are endowed by their Parents with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Good Grades and Noteless Nights. – That to secure these rights, Teachers are instituted among Students, deriving their just powers from the consent of the students, — That whenever any Form of Teacher becomes destructive to these ends, it is the Right of the Students to alter or to abolish it, and to institute a new Teacher, laying his/her foundation on such principles and organizing his/her powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.  Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Teachers long established should not be traded for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that students are more disposed to suffer, while evils (i.e. notes) are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.  But when a long train of notes and lectures, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such a Teacher, and to provide new “Teaching Assistants” for their future secure education.  – Such has been the patient sufferance of this AP US History Class; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems for Further Learning.  The history of the present Teacher of United States History is a history of repeated injuries (notes) and lectures, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over this Advanced Placement United States History class.  To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

She has refused her Assent to Rationality, the most wholesome and necessary for the Good of the Students

She has refused to pass other class Rules for the accommodation of large cliques of the student body, unless those students would relinquish their right of a Voice in the Administration, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

She has called together study parties at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the locations of Students, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into poor quiz performance.

She has dissolved student protests repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness her invasions on the rights of the students.

She has endeavored to prevent the population of the Class; for that purpose obstructing the Rules for the Welcoming of Friendly Students; refusing to pass other to encourage migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new A grades

She has made Students dependent on her Will alone for the tenure of their seats, and the amount and quality of their grades

She has erected a multitude of New Notes, and sent hither Swarms of School Loop messages to harass our parents and eat out their substance.

She has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing over our Shoulders during tests without the Consent of our student body.

She has combined with other teachers to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our student honor, and unacknowledged by our creed; giving her Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For quartering large bodies of armed homework among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial from blame for any Murders which they should commit on the inhabitants of Aptos High School:

For cutting off our Communication with students over all parts of the class:

For Notation without Representation:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefit of a good night’s sleep:

For Transporting us to the office to be in detention for pretended offences:

For taking away our Cell Phones, abolishing our most valuable items and altering fundamentally the forms of our Student Body:

For suspending our own Students, and declaring herself invested with power to legislate for students in all cases whatsoever.

She has abdicating her Teaching here, by declaring us out of her Protection and waging War against our grades.

She has plundered our points, ravaged our homework, burnt our tests, and destroyed the lives of our students.

She is at this time copying large Quantities of Foreign Tests to complete the works of death, desolation, and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty and Perfidy acarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages (elementary school, and totally unworthy the Head of Civilized Class.

She has constrained our fellow Students taken Captive on the Halls to bear Arms against their Class, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by the Teacher’s hands.

She has excited homecoming squabbles amongst us, and has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless College Professors whose known rule of lecturing, is undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated Notes.  A Princess, whose character is thus marked by every act which ma define a Teacher Tyrant is unfit to be the ruler of a Free Student Body.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Teaching brethren.  We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us.  We have reminded them of the circumstances of our schedule changes and settlement here.  We have appealed to their own native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common idealistic goals to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence.  They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of common idealism.  We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of the Administration, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the Advanced Placement of Unites States of America History Class, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world (Casey O’Brien) for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good Students of this Classroom, solemnly publish and declare, That these united Classes and Students are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent Students, that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the Teaching Authority, and that all political connection between them and the Teacher, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent Students, they have full Power to levy Assignments, conclude Lectures, contract Substitutes, establish (helpful) Homework, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent Students may of right do.  – And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Grades, and our sacred AP Exams.

The Homework Revolution

So here I am writing another blog.  What a loser, eh?  But before I decided to write this entry, I was supposed to be satisfying myself.  Get your mind out of the gutter.  I was doing APUSH notes, which we all know is work.  And we all know that Ann Frank who said “Work gives satisfaction.”  Well doing APUSH certainly doesn’t bring satisfaction, I can guarantee you that.

But this got me thinking.  If homework is “work” then it should be satisfying, at least to a certain extent.  So how could we make homework more satisfying?  It certainly isn’t printing off a gazillion pages of notes (curiously enough, my browser is not flagging gazillion as a misspelled word — it thinks its real instead of a made up hyperbolic colloquialism), nor is it even scribbling out some math problems on binder paper.  And for all my love of physics, even that homework can be a little lackluster when it is nothing more than graphite and paper.

But for some reason or another, I like writing essays.  There’s a hidden truth in that, too.  See, an essay is something you construct, build, all that good stuff.  It is personalized and an expression of your own psyche, if I want to get excessively melodramatic about it (which I don’t, really.)

So what if a similar concept could apply to other classic paper-and-pen classes?  It would have to be something real and tangible.  In calculus we could use integrals to ascertain speeds and velocities or weights and mass and all that good stuff by taking measurements sliding down a slide at a local park.  Make it mean something.  Physics could be spent less on text book and more on building stuff.  Or launching stuff.  Or exploding stuff.

So how could we make something as lackluster as APUSH notes exciting?  How could we make that class exciting?  How can we construct something (other than angst and ire) out of American history?

I’m not sure, but we might mull over the thought of constructing our own revolution.  A revolution against notation without representation.  A revolution against lectures based on conjectures.  A revolution for student autonomy.

Who’s with me?

Fairy Tales

Like I said, I hate poetry.  That said, I wrote this ‘cause I was bored and drunk on lack of sleep.  I tend to write stuff like this when I haven’t slept.

Right and wrong’s a fairy tale,

And best and worst is but a myth,

Quantified success will inevitably fail,

Long-held misconceptions along with,

In a world filled with nickels and dimes,

Success traces the shadows,

‘Tis but a sign of the times,

When the steepest plateaus,

And the fleet of foot are brought to their knees,

and even monkeys fall from trees.