JoelSchwaab's Xanga

Schwaab for President

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 16:49:53 GMT

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 14:41:18 GMT

I'm bringing Xanga back - drop a comment if you're with me!

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Tue, 18 Apr 2006 20:51:34 GMT

If one ever has the opportunity to become a sitting member on anything even loosely termed: Curriculum Committee, one would be well served to lie down and avoid it. I write this with terrifying first-hand knowledge. Curriculum Committees only exist in quantum states - they occur simultaneously in twelve co-existent dimensions of space and time, and it is only when some high school administrative jerkoff from Screwjob City decides to ruin an hour and a half after school for every department chair that Curriculum Committees even begin to form. Naturally, we perceive them from our tiny partition of time/space reality to be some necessary component to the governance of an educational facility. It would maybe even appear as though being invited to sit on such committees would be an (gulp) Honor. This is pure fiction, of course. The "reality" of the situation is almost laughably contrary. In truth, there can be no necessary reason to form a Curriculum Committee. The decisions made and topics discussed have either already been decided or discussed by the individual members of the committee. And if department chairs are to facilitate communication between the lowly, cloistered teachers and our radiant, swollen Headmaster, this committee thing seems like a lot of hassle compared to the relative efficiency of a Suggestion Box outside BigHead's office - like one of those Jewish boxes on the outside of doorways...a Mezusah? Musesah? (Who made up Hebrew, anyway? Dr. Seuss?)* - each "suggestion" would amount to an expression of faith-based obediance. So the whole liaison-thing doesn't hunt, either. Ergo - it is my opinion that the un-natural occurance of such a pointless meeting for that period of time; the UNholy moment a group of low-level administrators sits together and begins to take MINUTES... It is at this moment that a terrible, gaping hole begins to form at the center of our continuum. Moons split and suns freeze. Time yawns and all reason; intelligibility; sense; order; substance; and without a doubt PURPOSE - these things mean nothing in the great temporal wound we call Curriculum Committee. For years I tried to deny it, too. Surely that's too absurd to be true, right? I mean, the alternative would seem to shed the blame for unrelenting hours of mindless tedium on the people on the committee. That would, in fact, condemn the intelligence and propriety of each and every member - including myself. Now THAT'S absurd!

Anywho. I managed to pass through the Curriculum Committee in relative repair. The beauty of passing through a vortex in the fabric of Logic and Reason is that you usually don't remember what the hell just happened, so there is a silver lining to the whole mind-screwing experience. Nature is so cool.

* That by the way is a secular-crack at the root-origins of the language and is in no way meant in a religious or ethnic vein. Don't get me started on german, oy vey!

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Tue, 11 Apr 2006 21:50:10 GMT

Teacher. This name of names ascribed to me by virtue of a job in education, itself an ethereal, formless concept endlessly approached, more often mimicked in the guise of school. I am a teacher, in this school. A sweaty sack of bile and bone in a cheap tie and in the simian process of mimicking the manufactured: teacher. With a modicum of addition, it is readily apparent that for what I take to be my I, there is but less of me than the baseless, costumed marionette leaping about in an irrational fear of disappointing some larger force he cannot hope to comprehend. Now that’s a freakin’ onion metaphor - like one of those Russian toys in which each figurine hides a slightly smaller identical twin, and so forth. If I am broadly viewed as a hetero male American Protestant teacher in a state named Florida on a planet called earth, then it is equally lamentable that each of those categories should be sub-divided and, redundantly, re-sub-divided ad infinitum. The frightening thing about those Russian toys, and quite possibly the reason for their popularity the world over, is that none of the figurines is any more real or authentic than any other figurine. They’re all hollow, deceptive and hollow. No core. No center. No nascent being. Just diminishing quantities of negative space.

Dude. It was a long day at work. I should have stuck with economics in college. Sure, chasing the concept of money may be as illusory as that of knowledge, but if you’ve ever tried to teach cultural philosophy to an audience who could care less simply because the grades don’t count, well, you begin to appreciate the idea of self-inflicted schadenfreude – or masochism – or masochistic irony. Those work, too. And what if, in the worst case scenario, I did graduate with an economics degree and got that phat corporate job, perhaps middle management, and I still wasn’t fulfilled? Well, at least I’d have a cool set of wheels and some trophy-wife-lovin’ every other week. I can admit openly, but with some amount of frustrated shame, that other than suburban girls (who get Jettas on their sweet sixteenth), nobody really thinks these cars are “cool”. As for the wife, my trophy hasn’t been loved for months. It is, in fact, just another diminishing quantity of negative space. Sigh.

Friday, March 31, 2006

Fri, 31 Mar 2006 01:23:52 GMT

I realize that the mere suggestion of returning full tilt to the xanga arena may send at least two loyal readers into fits of joyful celebration (or sarcastic ecstasy - whichever), but I caution all the bored consumers of my ritualistic pap that this single entry does not designate a comeback. Most comebacks involve lots of secretive training out of the public eye, right? Then there are the third-person cut-a-ways that demonstrate the iron willed determination of the subject to "show those bastards" what they were apparently neglecting. Well, in this case, I haven't done anything approximating training, and I can't even convincingly argue that tremendous events of interest and insight have accumulated in the months that have passed since my last correspondence. Fact is, I just lost the inspiration. Perhaps I could write about that, eh? Sod it. I bored myself at the suggestion. Maybe dating. Dating seemed to be fertile ground for run-on sentence-making and sardonic hyperbole. Everyone enjoys reading how screwed up other people are when it comes to sex and love - if this weren't the case, Oprah wouldn't have much of a list (unless there's a whole underground genre of literature meeting the needs of female Trekkies and goths who prefer Sleepless in Seattle to the Matrix. It would be a crossbreed of true crime, action/sci-fi and general fiction. Sort of Tuesdays with Morrie meets the Martian Chronicles).

Imagine: Planet Libido - a new kind of sanctuary for convicted Catholic priests and America's finest female writers. All citizens of Libido must live under tyrannical robot mothers that feed like vampires on self-esteem. So too, must all male Libidos feign heterosexuality and compensate for the existential pretense with repeated self-abuse and periodic road-tripping to Vegas for "girls' nites!" A minor rebellion was narrowly averted in the early years of colonization when it was discovered that the same pair of denim trousers would not, contrary to conventional wisdom, fit everyone on the planet, let alone contrive to make everything okay. Authorities were quick to respond, asserting that dramatic weight fluctuations should be mandated to alleviate the practicality of owning pants altogether. Within one lunar year, a typical colonist must now lose or gain the difference between the masses of Rene Zellweger and Star Jones, respectively. Obviously, some lunar years are easier than others.

And since I have now conspired to write myself so far off-topic (or lack thereof) that I cannot in good faith make any valid effort to return, I shall endeavor to ignore whatever it was I thought I was saying in the first place. ...and...done.

I do however have a lovely bit of verse that I meant to include in what now is a very old entry about being sick at work. I believe I was in a meeting (see: AERM) and I forgot that the following is the only tangible reward for my attendance that fine, illin' day. It's not good poetry in the least, but it does convey a sense of the absurd that I believe supports the equally absurd premise of that December day.

Mete Me at Three-thirty (bitch!)*

My job deals with people

meeting people

meeting other people

about people we didn't invite to meet (yet).

Meetings meting meetings about people meting other people in meetings about people who couldn't meet because they couldn't meet their schedule, meting disaster.

Such meting of meetings demands an awful amount of time.

And always, I leave meetings with my expectations having never been met.

Clearly, I need to meet some better people.

* I just tacked this on. It was never intended to be a part of the formal (ahem) moniker. I apologize for being crass and if, in the process of selfishly amusing myself, I offended any bitches.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Wed, 07 Dec 2005 22:03:22 GMT

It turns out that I run through real girlfriends faster than I do the aforementioned, fictional germfriends. My "ladies" are all gone (or off on a suspiciously long sabbatical) but I am not alone. No sir. The codependant germs are still firmly entrenched and while they do go out for the odd hair appointment or "just to do a couple things," they almost always come back whether I really want them to or not. So be it. The only real downside is the tone of my voice. Apparently, the longer I'm alone with my germs, the lower (and dare I say, huskier) my voice becomes. The upshot of which, was a one PM meeting this afternoon between my immediate superiors and a man that looked like me but spoke like Darth Vader eating a Johnny Cash record (if they had a love child, his name could be Darth Cash; soulful bard of the working classes with a fiery temper OR Johnny Vader; teen idol by ten, pop icon by twenty-five, Johnny Vader now rockin' the cinema with his eponymous action hero!). Anyway, I went to this meeting with a germ-filled throat spitting Cash-eatin' teeth, and after about twenty minutes, the Dean leans over and asks: "Are you...sick?" And all I could think was: Are you really...my superior? Of course I'm sick! Jumpin' Jesus. The only reason I woke all my various and often competing personalities up this morning was to come to work to attend this Annual Evaluation Report Meeting. I can't miss the AERM, right? I mean, people just don't do that and get away with it. There are repercussions for these things! Skip the AERM and spoil the child! Or so I chose to believe. More fool me.

The meeting noted the fine efforts my glorious (sometimes vainglorious) staff is doing, and then, to my woeful swelling of pride, also mentioned my own successful endeavors, but only briefly. A few words were also mentioned about changing the curriculum and you'd think someone suggested troop withdrawl from Iraq, because all our voices suddenly got all deep and serious and we all spoke in earnest, convincing tones. This lasted only briefly, of course, because you can only feign seriousness for a short time before everyone gets tired or bored or distracted and that's precisely what happened when another Dean spontaneously blurted: "Maybe you got sick coaching soccer." There was a weird silence that lasted for what seemed an eternity before almost simultaneously the rest of us suddenly started bleating like goats that need some scratching: "Oh he's right! Oh yeah. Yep! That's gotta be it." Apparently that seemed like a natural break-off point because the first Dean, the one that had so brilliantly focused her keen powers of perception to foster the insight of the afternoon - and thus the topic of the AERM - by inquiring about my obvious state of health, she says: Well, Joel, I guess that pretty much wraps things up. That was easy! Thanks for coming in!" And then another Dean says: "and don't coach too hard!" before a third and final Dean pats me on the back and unwittingly summarizes the whole of the absurd event by saying: "You know, we hardly see one another. You should catch me up on what's going on in your department. Let's have a meeting. Call Katerina and set one up."

I couldn't say anything to that, naturally. There remained neither the desire nor the energy, and it was all I could do to stagger drunkenly to my loyal german automobile. Once again, when called upon, German dependability was there. Teaching may rob you of your senses, but the Germans are all about restoring order...yeah I know, some boo-birds and negative-nellies throw around the word: "reich"but I prefer to ignore this tyrannical cosmology for the swell gas mileage and tremendous warranty I get. Anywho - I got home. Changed. Ran like a fat guy running like a fat-guy in a successful attempt to disgust the germs who were, by now, inviting their mothers in law to visit. Germs out, I'm going right to bed to finally get some rest. I don't know why, but tomorrow should be a better day. I won't have to share a bed with any kicking, wheezy, blanket-sliming germs and should I not pass in the night, I can look forward to a day without another administrative meeting. AERMs and germs will surely be the death of me.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Sun, 04 Dec 2005 17:23:39 GMT

It's almost one o'clock and I have been sitting here in front of my computer procrastinating for almost two hours. I am supposed to meet an exotic stranger for coffee, but I can't call her to confirm the time and place. You see, one of the tremendous perks of teaching is based on the law of association. If one student gets sick, all those associated with him or her get sick, too. Teachers are sort of like the nuts on the furthest branches of this associative shrubbery, which means they get germs the way nice guys get dates: they wait on the periphery of the semi-formal dance in full awareness that the only germs willing to talk to them are those who have either gotten bored with the popular crowd or those that are too smart or opinionated for the average jerks to appreciate. It's these last germs a fella has to watch out for. They're battle tested and quite accostumed to taking initiative similar to those who have undeniably unpacked their respective toothbrushes and scented Kleenex in my sinuses. The upshot of dealing with domesticated germs is that they make seeing other people a hassle, particularly people you would like to see more regularly. So here I am, slugging back coffee and hoping my live-in, domineering germfriends allow me to call this girl so I can meet her for coffee. It's quite clear that in this relationship, the germs wear the pants. Being ill is one thing. Being codepenent on one's illness is, sadly, quite another.

I might as well call. Besides, the ladies loved Jonny Cash, right? And what about Kenny Rogers, that guy made a living out of singing like a tracheotomy (sp?) patient. Right. Here we go then...

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Thu, 20 Oct 2005 21:38:03 GMT

I teach religion at a high school, and today I learned what philosophers and drama students around the world have known for some time, God is dead and we have killed Him. My particular epiphany, in keeping with the score of my existence, arrived on the back of an ironic burro seeking shelter from a satirical storm as to give birth to the Son of absurdity. Praise be, the Lord has come, let hilarity and hypocrisy reign.

Yep. Another day, another infinitely dire meeting. I don't know how people do it. Work, I mean. I don't mean just make it to work, right? I don't mean just punching the proverbial clock - or the literal one for that matter. Nope. I want to know how it is that one can sit around a table after a full day of dealing with adolescents only to voluntarily spend an extra hour and a half swapping half-developed opinions concerning "religious life" on campus. Here's a newsflash: it doesn't exist in any form warranting more that at best thirty minutes of discussion. The Jews need more time to complete their history homework after a full day of atoning for a year's worth of ignoring the Covenant? Super. See the instructor. Next! The Hindus need more henna? Shazam! They got it. Catholics want white fish on Friday? What's to change? If God had known how to deep fry, he would have ordered clams in the first place. If the guilt-ridden bastards don't dig on these they can slap some spongy cherry tomatoes into a pita and consider it glorious punishment for all their prideful thoughts and rampant unholy buggery. Next! Etc... How hard is it? Apparently this is a considerable issue and one that requires no shortage of run-on sentences, pointless polemics and incessant rephrasing of points with little bearing to begin with. The upshot, of course, as with most transparent attempts to pay lipservice to organized religion, a force more immediately powerful, confounding and absolutely more dangerous than any vengeful god could ever hope to be - the upshot is that people do what all religious apologists do: suggest sensitivity training for faculty. Said training would no doubt amend this broken, stilted community of ours, and transform it from one of oppressive humanist secularity to one characterized by a veritable holy-host of counseling cliches. We need to create a "nurturing" environment where students of "all faiths" feel "safe" to practice their faiths in an "atmosphere of trust and tolerance" - no matter how freakish or pedestrian their pagan ways may seem to you and me. Give me a ropes course and I'll give you Eden, halleluhjah! Amen.

I can't stand it, of course. Try as I might I can't even begin to feign interest in "affectual" conditions surrounding students of "many faiths". Don't "touch base" with me or dare to "keep me in the loop." I don't want to know if Freshman Bob is "falling through the cracks" or "getting lost among the weeds." And while I'm at it, if there happen to be any failed priests out there who just couldn't make the commitment last - you lost your faith after a terrible camping accident in which your entire Methodist party died of scurvy while the Mormons organized a gleaning retreat the same weekend. Maybe you're gay, bisexual, trisexual, trapesexual, or worse, a hetero woman. I dunno, maybe you lost a soul in a Superbowl bet with the devil, whatever... The point is this: at the conclusion of a religious life committee meeting that has run longer than the list of errors in the logic of intelligent design theory, don't ever, EVER, suggest that we end the fiasco with a prayer. And if, for the sake of argument you somehow survive this suggestion without incurring immediate and swift revenge from the tired, cranky philosophy guy sitting next to you...do not even THINK about taking his fucking hand in the process of the aforementioned prayer. I for one, felt pressured, as though I was finding myself in an unsafe environment; one in which I could not comfortably express my disbelief amid the forced din of all those around the table devoutly mimicking the gesture they assume faith to demand. Hey Chaplain. Hey Yuri. Hey Berkeley and Augustine and Tillich. If you would like to continue the charade of supernatural imposition; if you want your Papal placebo, go for it. Just leave me out of it. I'm not kissing your rings or washing your goddamn feet. I won't robotically recite your childish prayers or pretend to be impressed by existential insecurities as prominent as a priest's erection. And I absolutely, under no circumstances, will sit through an hour and a half of counselors, coordinators, and Ukrainian pastors as they take credit for inventing what even the most cerebrally challenged middle division teacher recognizes as common sense. That's the thing about humanism that must so infuriate people of the cloth. Most of what they couch in the guise of divine inspiration is nothing more inspirational than basic sense. Alas, there is no reason, no order among the believers. Just a keen desire to suffer en masse and then bitch interminably about suffering...and...and... Wait a minute...

I forgot what I was writing about. Whew. That took longer than I expected. Usually I can "blood" my daily demons in less than two reasonable paragraphs. Clearly, I have some issues with religion. Perhaps I'll remember what it was I was typing about next month when our rumblin' bumblin' stumblin' band of Religious Lifers take to the Committee once more. Of course, the prospect of attending another such meeting within a twelve month window is almost too much to bear. If I can round up some wolfbane and virginal blood, I'll finally get a chance to use that Satanic Bible that's been gathering dust on my shelf. Anything to get me out of that next meeting. Christ almighty.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Wed, 19 Oct 2005 23:17:36 GMT

So I'm lumbering up the road in my filthy German automobile when it dawns on me that, while I do enjoy the simple pleasure of idling in standing traffic for hours on end, it might behoove me to just freakin' park. So I do. And then I stretch to the extent my four load-bearing bones can bear before lumbering further up the road in my filthy running shoes and accessorizing t-shirt. I make it several miles, actually, before my lungs catch on to the dangerous intake of clean air and begin to lobby the brain for subsidized rest and healthy doses of socially acceptable carcinogen. So I stop, naturally, but only just long enough to dupe my famously naive cardiovascular system and before I and my oblivious physiology know what's what, I'm back to my loyal VW Jetta. I think I'll buy more of these Volkswagons. You just know that when it comes to dependability fashioned out of ludicrous determination and single-mindedness, nobody does it better than war criminals! And German war criminals harkening back to the greatest global conflict in recorded history? Dude. Seriously. It's like owning a mini-Panzer with airbags. Of course, superiority comes standard. Let's see Saturn try to manufacture world domination. They can barely take a Kia! But this is hardly the point of my story...

So I run for a bit and then decide to swing by the ol' workplace to grab me a bag of soccer balls. Seems as though I had mighty significant plans to pollute my lungs later in the evening - which is the only reason I might subconciously desire to further exercise an already taxed skeletal structure and loosely organized abdominal organs. I got me bag of balls and trundled over to the field for a touch of masturbatory soccer - solo that is - and after some altogether embarrassing attempts to ply moves requiring youthful finesse, I decided I'd done enough for one night and began to change my boots. It was then that one of the PE teachers I happen to know on a purely mundane level happened across my sweaty, malodorous body perched atop a picnic table. Long story short (ahem), this is a fellow who just recently presented a forceful exhortation to the student body to demonstrate proper respect when reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. It was a simple, gutteral speech that may have succeeded in its exhortation to demonstrate proper respect, but one that nonetheless demonstrated precious little respect for clarity, timing or presentational nuance. Imagine a younger, more muscular Travis Tritt telling you to "really think" when you pledge your allegiance to the flag, and you have, admittedly, a marginally more accurate image of this man's speech. The upshot? I remember being entertained by his appeal, but the only lasting effect was one bordering on pity. I know. It's truly awesome, even for myself, to be so dutifully attentive to my own grossly inflated ego, that I can feel positive about pitying a man earnestly encouraging teenagers to honor their country's many freedoms. Science has tackled many fantastical conundrums but is impotent in the face of such a mysterious power as mine. How do you explain a Lex Luther, a Darth Vader, a Khan, or a private school Headmaster? There's just no measure for such narcissism. Anywho...

The PE teacher asked me whether or not I had seen a film that I use in my philosophy curriculum. It's a film about nuance, perception and degrees of socially constructed realities. I sat there in my soggy shorts and realized that this guy was, in fact, a fairly nice fellow. More to the point, this was a man of insight and understanding. Turns out, that delivery I originally found trite was simply direct. He spoke honestly of particular questions that resulted from his viewing of the film, and I couldn't help but engage him in a brief but intense discussion. I criticized this guy for being too brutish and stupid to recongize the complexities of life, let alone the symbolism of our goofy flag. Now it occurs to me that complexities are entirely overrated. It makes much better sense to pick a side of any given dilemma and just run with it. Run like hell. Run like a Frenchman. Just run, and do not stop until that philosophy finally runs into a position it cannot overcome. Then claim ignorance, buy new sunglasses and pledge allegiance to whatever it is with which you now choose to identify. Existence should be so easy, but that's what I learned tonight from this guy. Chaos is not an issue when there's simplicity in cosmos. Quit thinking. Pick a side. And start pledging. Ad infinitum.

I should have written about my day. Softball. Anything. That just took way too long and rewarded no one with anything worth reading in the first place. Like watching an orchestra play in a fancy-ass opera house, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but once you get a ways into it, you wonder why it's taking so long and if you can't politely excuse yourself. No worries. The maestro has long since retired and this performance is mercifully over.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Tue, 18 Oct 2005 21:03:45 GMT

Two hours. We spent two hours that I will never get back. We spent two hours discussing the prospective utility of offering more electives within our curriculum; this at the Tampa Branch of Clown College that employs my limited talents as a (ahem) teacher. What occurs to me, among the myriad of inconsistencies and outright untruths that decorate our institution like other schools have championship banners - what occurs to me is the oddity, perhaps audacity is a more accurate term, of the conversation. Do these well-educated, seemingly well-intentioned professional educators honestly believe that incorporating electives into high school curriculae is a demonstration of initiative? That somehow, they might be alone in such a bold undertaking? Cripes. The only thing worthy of boldness in this case is the effort and energy so desperately needed to keep a school so utterly lost in its own self-importance that it would let an archaic proposal reflecting academic diversity seem damn-near revolutionary! Now THAT takes big, brass, bold balls. Sure, copping the school crest from Crusade coats of arms, the colors from UNC and our very name from Cal Berkeley, these things took pluck. Hell, advertising the academic rigorousness of your institution with a grading scale fit for medieval halfwits and still-borne lemmings, now THAT takes freakin' hutzpah. But sucking the life out of two hours that I shall never get back; taking two hours that I could have been sucking the life out of my lungs, this my friends, this demands the aforementioned, impressively fashioned, brassy, bold, fucking balls.

The meeting was punishment And I'm not entirely certain what it may have been that warrented such horrible, soul-sucking enterprise. Did I punch a nun or step on a legless cat? Did I shoot Reagan or introduce Stalin to Lenin? I didn't microwave any pets, nor have I ever, even under expreme duress, drunk mine or anyone else' urine. I'm utterly and fabulously innocent of these crimes, and many more to boot! Compared to lots of jerks on this planet, I'm even rather praiseworthy! And while I might abuse the bejesus out of my body in my off hours, that's still my rotton perogative, right? I choose to suck solace from a long, skinny tube with a tin nipple for a teat, and this makes all the difference when one compares the insufferable guttersniping that makes a useless, dangerously superfluous curriculum meeting a forced march through jungles of beaurocratic despair; rivers of narcissitic tee-toting and wild after wild of squawking, flightless department heads. After all, if my life is meant to really suck, and there is ample evidence to suggest that it is, in fact, meant to do so, then by gum, I might as be the one really sucking it.

And suck it. I shall.