Inspiration

A Writer's Journey

A Writer's Journey is an inspirational blog that just launched a blogfest that really gets us writers to put on our PR hats while celebrating our works.

To join this blogfest, I have created THREE pages on my blog, primarily dedicated to my serial killer novel. Please visit my blog, check them out, comment, etc and then go to A Writer's Journey (link provided as picture caption) and enjoy other inspirations. Who knows, maybe our inspirations will inspire you!

Well, hopefully not to kill people. I'd feel bad.

Am I Drunk, Punked, or Fucked?

I understand that language will and must evolve to join with scientific discovery, technological progression, and cultural mish-mashing, but I'm more in favor of creating new language instead of just redefining words already used.

For example, I love the word google. It started as a proper noun and then the frequency of its use morphed it into the verb to google which means to investigate or to look up. I don't even mind that text has become a verb because the spirit of its meaning remains the same. That emo has replaced my generation's goth to describe that teen sub-culture is just fine. No problemo.

But, when a word that's been around for a while changes definition--that irritates me.

Currently, my students are setting up a mock trial based on the novel The Stranger. (If you haven't read the novel, don't worry, you can continue reading this post without becoming confused.) To keep these seniors who have mentally graduated motivated, I put them into legal teams, assigned them to be the prosecution or defense, and then paired the teams up to compete against one another. To take it up a notch, I informed the students that only one legal team in each pair can earn an 'A'.

A few days ago, they presented their opening statements. Robed, perched at my podium, I played the judge. As each team presented, the rest of the class acted as jury. After all teams had presented, I asked for jury responses. For one particular pair, the jury unanimously favored the prosecution. After the results were presented and the defense team was slinking off to their desks, one of the members of the prosecution taunted: "We smashed you."

Based on the content, I knew what the student meant, but my understanding of the word smashed did not compute with the situation.

To my knowledge, smashed had gone from meaning “totally drunk” in my day to “having sex” for the current adolescent lexicon. In fact, Urban Dictionary specifies that smashing is "fucking someone good" which if we apply the rules of grammar means "fucking someone who is a good person" so I am guessing that Urban Dictionary intends smashed to mean fucking someone so much (or so hard) so that the fucker dominates the fuckee. In a consensual sex kind of way.

And I don't allow fornication or drinking alcohol in my classroom, so clearly, the meaning has changed.

"Hey Cody," I called to the gloating student. "What does 'smashed' mean now?"

"It means like a landside victory. We totally dominated."

"So it doesn't mean 'to have sex' anymore?" I asked.

"No, it means that too," Cody said.

"In my day, it meant 'drunk'," I said.

"Oh, it means that too."

So now smashed can be counted with those words that have so many definitions one must provide several context clues so as not to cause confusion or panic.

For example, if I were to tell my friends, “I got smashed last night,” they wouldn’t know I got drunk, punked, or fucked. And then they wouldn’t know whether to stage an intervention, make fun of me, or buy me a chastity belt. They’d have to really sit back and think about which definition is more likely to be true. And nobody is gonna like the results of that.

That same day, I asked my college class how they use the word smashed. As it turned out, my college students don’t use it to mean “dominated” in a competitive setting. In fact, one student, Stevie informed me that “We actually used smushed to mean ‘having sex’.”

I dunno, being smushed is ever less appealing that being smashed. But because Stevie is a great writer with a unique spirit that I admire, I considered her clarification seriously. My conundrum was just getting more conundrummy.

Already planning to write a post on the usage of the word, I tested my title: “Am I Drunk, Punked, or Fucked?” to illustrate the problem with the multiple definitions. Several students laughed, which was the reaction I was hoping for. Charlie, who happens to sit behind Stevie, offered a solution, “Well, if you said, ‘I am smashed’ it would be more clear.

I presented my I-was-smashed-last-night example to illustrate that unlike talking to, smashed didn’t come with a preposition (or linking verb) to aid in the clarification.

Being another talented writer, Charlie was not discouraged, “Technically, punking someone isn’t the same as dominating someone in competition. Punking is more like a practical joke.”

These fools can’t use MLA format, but they sure as hell can punch holes in my rhetorical wittiness.

The conundrums were now smashing and multiplying. “Great Charlie, now I have to decide whether of want to be rhetorically catchy or denotatively accurate.”

“I like your title,” Christine, who sits in front of Stevie said. I asked her, “so stick with the title, even though it’s not accurate?”

She nods.

“The inaccuracy doesn’t bother you?”

She shakes her head and I have to remind myself that not everyone is as anal as I am. And I mean anal as in “obsessively orderly.” Besides, Christine is a pretty good judge of when I am actually being funny and when I am actually being an idiot based on which of my jokes she finds humorous.

Nevertheless, I still did some online research before composing this blog. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, smashed appeared in the English language in 1819 to mean “crushed; broken to pieces.” It retained that definition until those rebels of 1962 used it to mean “intoxicated, drunk; under the influence of drugs.” No mention of fornicating, dominating or otherwise.

I did look up smushed on Urban Dictionary and I was right—it is less attractive that getting smashed. According to that site, smushed is “the act of pressing a flaccid penis against a woman’s groin area in a vain attempt at sexual intercourse.”

Therefore, as the self-proclaimed czar of diction and with the Oxford English Dictionary to back me up, I declare that smashed is only allowed to mean “crushed” as in “broken to pieces” or “drunk.”

Although, “Am I Drunk, Punked, or Fucked?” is a better title than “Am I Broken to Pieces or Intoxicated?”.

A Rose by Any Other Name . . .

"What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By Any other name would smell as sweet?"
                             --- Romeo and Juliet


If names didn't matter, expecting parents wouldn't spend months researching and debating names.

Take my name for instance: Holly. It means a plant with red berries (that are poisonous). I'm sure my parents went ten rounds on which plant to name me after.

So, Holly by any other name would be just as poisonous? Awesome.

If it weren't for the Internet and social networking, I would agree with Juliet (on the value of a name only). For most of us, our birth names don't really represent the scope of who we are as people. But we didn't name ourselves and our parents name us before any sign of personality shows itself. At best, our birth names represent what our parents hope we'll become.

So, my parents wanted me to be poisonous. Awesome.

But on the Internet, when we set up email accounts, Twitter accounts, participate in online gaming, and dating profile we get to create a name that we think represents who we are. Therefore, my lovely and naive Juliet, a name does represent the scent of the rose. Or at least a person's willingness to take a whiff.

For example, my email involves a reference to vampires. I  have had the address forever, back when I wanted to be seen as dark and dangerous because I thought it was sexy. I keep the email address out of pure laziness: it's just too much for me (see technology humor posts) to send out a mass message directing my friends and family to my new addy. And, if I want to be honest, I still hope that whomever I give it to will see its contrast to my physiognomy as mysterious. Edgy. Unconventional.

Sexy.

What usually happens now is that those to whom I give it regard me as kooky. Confused. Immature (even though I always explain that my vampiric address has "nothing to do with Twilight"). They laugh at my explanation--trying to sound humored by my wit--but really they are backing away, lowering their eyes, and quickly closing the conversation (or transaction).

Missed Periods has great posts about the value of a professional email address, so I'll move on to profile usernames.

Usernames that are known only to you--sure, unleash the inner adolescent. Sexy beast. Lunatic. Go ahead and register that "BoogerEater." "69forever." "BloodyPretzel." Hopefully, you won't have to call the IT support line and be forced to share it with a complete stranger.

But, with dating profiles, the inner adolescent, sexy beast, and lunatic needs to be harnessed. When potential mates are perusing their matches, they may look at every aspect of a profile before noting the specifics of the username. The problem arises when someone is notified via email that someone winked, smiled, emailed, or wants to meet you.

For example, I have received the following notifications:

"Clitlicker wants to meet you."

"Cocknorris just winked at you."

And my favorite, "Bigdaddypoopface is interested in you!"

And recently, I learned that I am a favorite of MrRightNow!69 and WalkingDeath.

Let's just say that I have no intention of being the dick-sucker to Clitlicker.

My vagina doesn't want to be anywhere near Cocknorris.

And I am certainly not interested in Bigdaddypoopface. I might be open-minded, but I'm not disgusting.

And MrRightNow!69 gives me performance anxiety.

Select. Delete. No viewing profiles. Clitlicker could be Gerard Butler, Cocknorris could be Vin Diesel, and Bigdaddypoopface could be George Clooney, but I will never know.

WalkingDeath? I guess I'll hit him up when I'm feeling suicidal or necrophiliactic.

Therefore, Juliet, there is a lot in a name. One can't be too hard a a tween expressing what little wisdom he or she can gather in the first thirteen years of their lives.  I mean, everything turned out alright for her, didn't it?

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"

I am slowly but surely breaking down teenagers' mental stability. All those things that parents have done to make their children feel safe in the world they live in, I taint with my radical pedagogy. What little ego, what little self-esteem, what little confidence they have in their beliefs, I am picking apart like a vulcher tearing off the last bits of meat on a bone.

I am not producing articulate young men and women; I am producing cynics.

Sacred truths are being exposed in room R102. Look out Mulder, I am on the scene. Government conspiracy the cover up the existence of aliens? Whatever.  I, a mere school teacher, have recently ripped the mask of deceit from a sacred truth. 

That Van Helsing is not Hugh Jackman.

I know, some might think me callous. Some could rightly say that I've lost all reverence for faith, fantasy, innocent. But I cannot allow my students, my protegees, to go into the world blinded by such falsehoods.

Currently, I am teaching my seniors how to write a research paper.  In order to model this, I use the topic of vampires in literature. One of the keys to teaching is modeling, and I figured why not use a subject they might find interesting and a subject I know a lot about? I also find it a good opportunity to tune up their analytical skills: the vampire isn’t just titillating entertainment; it can be used as a way to interpret the beliefs of an era.

Don't get me wrong; we aren't watching The Vampire Diaries, True Blood, and Twilight (I do get to Twilight, but it at the end of a survey of all kinds of vampires). In fact, I start with some mythological background and then the first piece of literature I expose them to is Bram Stoker's Dracula. Throw in some classical vampires; go back to the roots, yo. I understand that the dense Victorian prose might lose them, but I make sure to pick the "juicy" parts to read. Yes, read; not watch.

This year, when I announced that next class Van Helsing will be making his appearance, students visibly perked up: they sat up straight in their desks, eyes popped open, a few excited "really?"s humm through the room. 

"Van Helsing is in Dracula?"

"Yep. Stoker created the original."

"Wow!"

They seemed more excited than students in the past at meeting the father of all slayers.

  

It's the next day and I am reading the parts from the novel where Van Helsing is introduced and examining poor Lucy (the first of Dracula’s English Victims—those who have seen the film, the hot red-head whose breasts will not be harnessed by any nightgown), I sense the energy that had carried over from the class before waning. Whispers. Students twisting around in their seats.

Pausing, I look up to make sure everyone is following along and am met with perplexed stares.

A student raises his hand. "I'm lost.”

"We are on page 123," I say.

“No, about Van Helsing." He stabs his book with a finger, "Van Helsing is some old guy?" 

“Well, I guess you might think him old. He’s a college professor from Amsterdam. Dr. Seward sends for him because he's an expert in strange diseases. He's the perfect balance of scientific man who has, as Dr. Seward says, 'a completely open mind'.  These characters living in this time would never think of vampirism as the cause of Lucy's illness. They weren't nearly as mainstream as they are now. Stoker needed a character who is both educated and yet a bit quirky, a bit nonconformist, if you will, to bring this to light.”

The student frowns. He is not pacified by my articulate and thorough justification of Van Helsing's character.

"He doesn't work for the Vatican?” the student almost pleads.

For a second, I think What in the Hell is he talking about? but then remember the Hugh Jackman flick. Laughing, I say, "You're thinking of the movie. That is not an accurate depiction of the original character."

Another student asks, “He turns into a werewolf, right?” His voice pitching, and it's not because puberty hasn't kicked in yet. It's panic. 

I make a mental note to add "accurate" and "depiction" to next weeks vocabulary list.

“That movie didn’t create character of Van Helsing. He’s been around for a while.” I hold up my copy of Dracula, “Stoker invented him. In fact, he’s based on a good friend of the author.”

The students are not impressed. At all.

I downshift to their mode. Picking up the DVD of Francis For Coppola's Dracula (if you want to stay alive, you have to intersperse movie clips throughout the study of a classic) I throw it in and hope that Anthony Hopkins' portrayal of Van Helsing will pull the students back in.

It doesn't. His social awkwardness, his sardonic humor, his ability to go from Victorian gentleman to blood-drenched avenger in the flash of a fanged mouth.

I emphasize how the original Van Helsing, a mere mortal without the aid of Rome, specialized weapons, the reincarnated soul of an archangel, and the ability to transform into a werewolf can still defeat such a powerful, nefarious preternatural creature as Dracula. 

Despite his accomplishments, my students are still disappointed. "The Van Helsing in the movie is cooler," a few reiterate.

Well, I guess I better not tell them that Frankenstein's monster and Dracula's stories don't really intertwine. But, there's no sense in kicking them when they are down. Not even am I that cruel.

Actually, I am. Did you know that Dr. Frankenstein not once says, "It's alive!" in the novel? Not once.

Monkey-fuck-a-football: an Example

Back in August, I blogged about my father's humorous rhetoric. One of my personal favorite "Dadisms," as I call them, is monkey-fuck-a-football. It can be used as a noun or adjective. The definition is a situation in which one is extremely uncoordinated and clumsy.

The evolution of monkey-fuck-a-football is rooted in my father's need to plan a time to plan the plan. Nothing, nothing takes place in his world without careful thought, some deliberation, and a lot of measuring. On those rare occasions when he must act on the fly, the most simplest tasks become riddled with complications. During those times, Dad would say, "It's like a monkey trying to fuck a football," which has evolved into monkey-fuck-a-football.

Not only is imagery funny, but the use of alliteration and consonance appeals to the ears and the tongue. Bravo, Dad. Not bad for an engineer.

My brother-in-law, Cory, doesn't quite understand it's meaning and he's an English teacher as well! He might not get this particular metaphor, but he adds an example of irony to it quite nicely.

Even more ironically, it is the birth of his and my sister, Kelli's, son on Wednesday that led to a perfect example of monkey-fuck-a-football. And, of course, I am the star. Well, I'm the supporting role. The stars are Kelli and Cory's pets: Jade, Duncan, and Zeus.

Jade is a Pit Bull, Doberman, Labrador mix. Her looks may be mostly Pit Bull, but her temperament is all Lab. When she hauls her 50 pounds of pure muscle into your lap for a belly rub, it is both adorable and painful. In her world, playtime is all the time. No one can wear this girl out--your arm will go numb before she's tired of playing fetch.

 Duncan, a puppy only twelve weeks old, is a Shih Tzu / Maltese mix. He weighs 3 lbs. but bosses the entire household around. My dad calls him Rizzo the Rat. When I first saw him, I asked Kelli if that was a dog or had she just cleaned out her hair brush?

Duncan munching on my finger.

Zeus, an average alley cat, is twelve years old and one grumpy old man. Kelli adopted him when he was a year old and he clearly had been an outdoor cat because he has escaped his indoor life several times. Zeus barely tolerated Cory moving in on my sister, but the addition of Jade and Duncan has really ticked him off.  He spends a lot of time brooding and whining. Kelli swears that if he had opposable thumbs, he would pack up his shit and leave. He tries to woo all visitors into taking him home with them by trying to climb into purses or curling up in laps and purring. 

For the three nights that Kelli would be in the hospital (my nephew, Jay Joseph was born by Cesarean section) Cory and I planned to trade residences because they live close to my work and I live close to the hospital. Also, my three cats could survive without people around as long as food was in their bowls. My sister's pets--who all have individual regiments for everything from where their food bowls are located to their level of access to the backyard--would not fare so well.

Kelli and Cory manage their animal's routines and restrictions with confidence and deftness. Me? Monkey-fuck-a-football.

Last week, after spending the day at the hospital I drove up to Whittier anticipating very anxious animals who had been sequestered for over twelve hours. Having spent the entire time alone in the backyard, Jade greeted me with a pit bull's enthusiasm and nails. She is trained, but still struggles with not jumping on visitors. I struggle with not stepping in dogshit or falling into a hole that she had dug on my way from the garage to the back porch. Doing this at night? Oy.

Once I made it to the porch poop-free but with a bruised thigh from where Jade's paws had landed, I let Duncan out of the laundry room. He bounded outside, yipping away, looking like a giant hairball blowing across the lawn.

I went into the house, followed by Jade, to put my stuff down: overnight bag, keys, purse and cellphone. Zeus immediately accosted me with squawks for food. I dropped some kibble into his bowl and then went back outside with Jade to monitor the peeing. Because Duncan is so small and a puppy, he is not left outside for long periods of time.

My Nemesis

I didn't go out through the laundry room, because that's where Duncan is closed up when no one is home with his food, a crate, and puppy pads. I had traversed enough shit for one day and really no one ever goes in an out of the house that way. The main exit from the house to the backyard is a set of glass doors complete with screens. I decided to close the screen doors only.

Jade went over to her food and water bowl and had dinner while stood with hands on hips, ordering Duncan to do his business so we could go in the house and go to bed. Instead of business, Duncan was frolicking around, plucking up pink flowers that had fallen off a bush. He brought a wilting bud to me, then got another one, shook it vigorously to show it who was boss and then took it on a tour of the entire backyard. Unfortunately, the tour didn't include bathroom breaks.

While my back was turned, Zeus snuck out onto the porch. I saw him and acted with authority and calm so that he wouldn't bolt. Opening the screen door, I called to Jade who immediately came and went inside. Duncan, on the otherhand, needed more coaxing. He may be a puppy, but he's a slippery little booger, and it was quite a challenge to catch him and keep and eye on the cat as he skulked around the lawn. Once I had Duncan, I threw him into the house (along with a few pink flower petals) and closed the two doors so that the dogs wouldn't come back outside (the screen doors don't really latch closed) and startle the cat into a run.

"Zeus, you silly boy, what are you doing?" I cooed as I crept up on him. He hunkered down a bit, suspicious, but I moved slowly and kept my voice low until I got close enough to snatch him up. Cat in arms, I lugged him to the door, shifted his girth under one arm, grabbed the doorknob. . . and found it locked.

Mumbling under my breath, I went to the laundry room door . . .  and found it locked.

Oh shit.

Wrapping Zeus in a tight, double arm hold, I went to the door that led from the master bedroom to the backyard and found it . . . you guessed it . . . locked.

Hell, if the house caught fire, each resident had his or her own exit, but I as one person couldn't find a way in through any of them. Cory, I have just usurped you as a model of irony.

Great. I'm locked outside with an indoor cat at 11 p.m. without keys and without a phone. Jade and Duncan sat in front of the glass doors wagging their tails and cocking their heads at me in confusion. I watched Duncan pee on the carpet and then scurry around it with triumph.

My only option was to leave Zeus in the garage, climb over the fence, hope I didn't break a bone because I couldn't call an ambulace, and then hope that a neighbor would bring me his or her cellphone to call my mother (who I learned later actually didn't have a key). I had no plans to call my sister or her husband; they had just had their first child and all they needed was to worry about me being locked out of their house. With the cat.

Trudging across the back lawn (still managing not to step in dog shit) I found the garage door also locked. Oh, and the garage door opener? In the house. With the keys and my phone and my brain.

Fuck me.

I could barely hop a fence with a ladder, a pully system, and a team of stuntmen. Haul my shit over a fence with a very agitated, overweight cat? Forget it. Zeus began to voice his disapproval with a gutteral growl. I squeezed him tighter; he squirmed.

It was out of the question to leave the cat in the backyard while I tried to get to a neighbor's house. The chances that he'd still be around when I returned were slim and I could not lose this cat. The few times he had run away--once being gone for three days--Kelli had been distraught. If I lost the damn cat, she'd be devastated and I'd never forgive myself.

Hoisting the cat up, I marched with purpose back to the glass doors. Eyeing them, I took a deep breath. I turned my profile to the target, leaned my weight into one leg, readjusted my hold on Zeus, and launched my less burdened foot toward the door. My heel cracked the white paint of the wooden frame. Encouraged, I slammed my foot into it again. The dogs scooted back and lowered their heads, but they did not run. Zeus snarled and squirmed. I tightened my grip and delivered a series of kicks--my leg whipping out from my body; a boom and rattle echoing from each strike. The glass in the door quivered.

I would have looked pretty bad-ass if I hadn't been wearing yoga pants, a shirt with a lotus flower and the image of a mediating Buddha on it. Oh, and clutching a fat, grey cat to my chest. But, I felt bad-ass. Until I had to take a break and catch my breath.

Glaring at the cat in my arms and panting, I drew my posture up, jut out my chest, lunged back, and fired my leg out one more time. The doors flew open spraying chips of wood and sending two dogs fleeing. Tossing the cat onto the ground, I gave him a good scolding. I think I also cussed out my keys and phone for good measure. I flipped-off the garage door opener.

Yanking off my ugg boots, I dropped them on the floor only to have Duncan take one in his mouth and drag it out of sight.

There was pee to clean up, but I wanted to make sure the door was secure first.

The inside and outside knobs were still intact, but the strike plate and the deadlatch were not longer securely in the door. I tried to push them back into place, but bent screws and bits of broken wood got in the way. Finally, I was able to force the doors closed, and luckily, the screen doors had hook latches on the inside. I could at least keep strangers from breaking in.

That done, I turned to head into the kitchen for a glass of wine (or shot of Tequila) and stepped in Duncan's pee. But, I kept going only to find that they had no red wine and no chilled white wine. And no Tequila.

The icing on the cake? Not only do I have icing, I've got decorations too. During the night, Duncan peed in the bed while I slept spooning Jade. The next morning my foot sunk into a nice little turd Duncan left for me in the hallway. And, later that next day, my brother-in-law decided to run home, discovered the damaged doors, and called the police because he thought someone had broke in.  He wasn't totally wrong; someone did break in. There was just no need to call the police.

Well, maybe there was.

When my sister called to ask me about the doors and asked "if I had noticed that they'd been pried open?" I said, "Of course, I noticed because I did it. Only I didn't pry them open, I had to kick them in."

After a pregnant pause (I know, groaner pun), I added, "It was monkey-fuck-a-football at your house last night. I had my ass handed to me a 3 lb fur-ball and a 14 lb feline."

She needed no other explanation.

"The Question" Has Changed

The great question used to be "To be or not to be."

Now, it's "To blog or not to blog."

What is that saying: All you have to do in life is pay taxes and die? Well, now it's all you have to is blog, pay taxes and die.

I used to think "I want to blog this morning"; now I think "I have to blog this morning." It's gone from what I like to do in my spare time to another thing added to the list. Yesterday, I sat down grumbling about my new "have to" and started a post about how I'm going to be an aunt for the first time. I typed away about the pressure of being an aunt and the importance of that role in a satirical, yet light-hearted way.

Then I realized that most of the people who read my blog probably don't give a shit that my sister is having a baby.

Those who follow my blog are my *clearing throat* audience.

If I don't produce for my audience, I'll lose them. Therefore, I have to blog. If I lose my audience, will I stop writing? Do I have an audience so that I can write or do I write so I can have an audience?

Enter Sellout.

Enter Ego.

Enter Creative Frustration.

I started blogging as an avenue of self promotion that will (hopefully) help me snag an agent. Once I have an agent, he or she can do all the damn promoting.

(I know; in my dreams.)

My point is that the blog started as something I had to do. As I posted more and more, and my audience grew and grew, and --god help me--I produced quality a few quality pieces that might never have been born without the blog, I found that I wanted to blog. It wasn't taking away from my creative energy; it was pushing the boundaries of skills. Making me more versatile; more deft in my craft. I had never written flash fiction before blogging; my musings on language actually got put into language.

But, the pendulum has swung. It's been two weeks since my last post and I feel pressured. Updating the blog jumped back onto my list of things I have to do.

So I sit down, planning on blogging about my inability to blog (might as well capitalize on my ego causing me to sellout resulting in creative frustration).

Enter Instant Message: the greatest time-suck, procrastination aid (along with its siblings texting and Facebook) every invented.

Chicago, online friend that I stumbled across as while I have been traversing the online dating and blogosphere scene, is checking in on my evening. And I am more than willing to provide the details of my very boring Saturday night.

Before I know it, I am co-writing vampire horror erotica. Chicago has been nudging me to compose his ideas for erotic horror fiction, but I've resisted. I feel as if I have enough of my own projects to not get wrapped up in someone else's. I have written vampire fiction; I occasionally write erotica; I frequently write horror, but I had no plans on combining them.

As it turns out, I ended up with the draft of what could be a good piece. And I was just pounding it out. In my effort to avoid my creative frustration, to avoid updating the blog, I managed to sink my teeth into a new vein of my creativity. (This is called hitting you over the head with metaphor or in other words, bad writing.)

So there you have it: my blog update about how in avoiding updating the blog, I wrote a new piece which I will not be including in my post.

Is there a blog award for "worst post ever"?

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"

I promised myself that I would not use this site as a teenager-bashing forum. But, I just can't resist putting this up.  It just happened in one of my senior English classes.

Currently, we are reading Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger; we are seven chapters into it. This is one of my favorite unit to teach: I read it aloud to the students with plenty of dramatic flair, I am really good at connecting the protagonist's experience to theirs (and with teens, if you make it about them, they are in), and using it as a tool to build their skills of analysis.

This is the cover of their copies.

They've taken a couple of quizzes, we've had discussions, and they have had a copy checked out to them.  At this moment, the students are working on completing some analysis questions for those chapters we've read. I always preface these questions with the statement, "These are not recall questions. This story is not that hard to follow. These questions require you to think of the significance of what's happening in Holden's life."

Students nod, either to acknowledge an appreciation for their budding intelligence or because they just want me to shut up so they can figure out where they are going to get wasted this weekend.

I go to my desk to input attendance and to email my sister. Oh, and to check in on the blog.

I see the blur of a white T-shirt in my peripheral as a student approaches me.  "Uh, Ms. Vance, who is Salinger."

Without shifted my eyes from the computer screen, I throw out the side of my mouth, "The author of the book."

A few minutes later, an second student asks me the same question. Much to my chagrin, I realize that students are getting stuck on question #3: "Compare and contrast Ackley and Stradlater [characters in the novel]. Why do you think Salinger has Holden interact with them?"  To try to waylay further irritation, shuffled over to my podium so that I am at the center of attention and announced to the class: "J.D. Salinger is the author of the book."

A chorus of "Ohhhhhhh"s fills the room. I smile, give them a curt nod, and return to my computer.

One young lady, who is very pretty and therefore very popular and therefore, therefore hasn't seen the need to develop her brain says, "Oh my God, this is a biography?"

I peer from around my computer screen, "No, honey. Make-believe stories are written by humans too."

She blinks at me, and then to save face, flicks her hair back. I think two boys who sit across the room from her swoon. Fluttering her beautiful green eyes to the ceiling, she says knowingly, "Oh, so then he's one of the characters. But, which chapter was he in?"

Holy shit.  And it's only 2nd period. I have two more periods of seniors ahead of me.

For 3rd period, I decide to nip this in the bud. As soon as I pass out the questions, I tell the class to look at question #3 and then say, "Salinger is the author of the book. I just wanted to make sure you all knew that before ten of you ask me and I flip out because several people last period asked me who he was."

This time, I get a chorus of, "Who doesn't know that? What dumb-asses [I think the exact word they use is  'fuck-tards' but I find that really offensive and dumb-ass means the same thing]," but then I notice a few of their classmates studying the cover of Catcher, as their shoulders roll forward, they hunker down a bit, and then glance up nervously to see if anyone else noticed that they were one of those "dumb-asses."