Vices we love: February 2007

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

I miss New York

No question about it

I love nation-states

One of my M.Ed. assignments was to create a webquest for students where they would use the internet to do educational exercises. In an uncharacteristic burst of academic effort, I decided to go beyond goat porn. (Great. Now I'll be able to see on the sitemeter how many people looked up Vices We Love in a search for hermaphrodic goat orgies.)

And so, instead of naked pictures of Condolezza Rice on a goat farm, I came up with Nation States, a great little program which offers issues of such complex nature as the rising divorce rate and the chance to implement excellent solutions such as:

"Divorce should be illegal. 'For better or worse,' anyone remember how that goes? We should return to the good old days, when you got married for life and stuck by your partner no matter how much of a drunken, abusive, adulterating disappointment they turned out to be."

No? How about...

"If couples would just call each other 'darling' once in a while, there would be far fewer relationship breakdowns. A little affection is all it takes. So the government should make it mandatory: call your spouse 'darling' at least once a day, or face a fine."

And finally, my pick....

"Abolish those arcane laws that discriminate against same-sex marriages. It's obscene to treat people differently because of their sexual preference."

Given how this game is structured, I fully expect to see something like "Gay couples from all over the galaxy come to Mipperotamia to get hitched in the Mipping chapel of love before they become intoxicated and beat each other to death with dildos. Mipperotamia's chief of police, Jay J. McJockey claims that dildo-inflicted wounds are responsible for the fact that Mipperotamia's homicide rate has quadrupled. "Them dildos sure are heavy-duty," said the chief before his untimely demise." I'll keep you bisexual goat porm addicts posted. Is Lynn from Texas still around? (Apropos nothing. It's not like I write "goat porn" and automatically think of Lynne from Texas.)

Sunday, February 25, 2007


I know many important things about me. Three of these things

are the most important. First is a beauty. I am so pretty.

Many men and women are interested in me. Then, I am so

intelligent. My psychologist made me psychological test and

my IQ is very high. Also, I am very friendly. I have many

friends all in the world. I get along well with other people.

I do not fight with other people. For these reasons, many

people love me. I think that I belong between perfect

people in the world. :o)

Monday, February 19, 2007

If you ever wanted to feel the author's terror....

....leaping off the page as the words were written, check out this dandy corporate ransom note. Man, I wish my students could write with as much emotion.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

My toothy Valentine

A belated Valentine post from Vices We Love with special thanks to the incomparable Sandmonkey. He has once again enlightened me as to that special sort of romantic gesture only certain mufti's are capable of. And as a bonus feature, the comments discuss, so very appropriately, this must see gem of a movie.

Sandmonkey, I thank you. My mother thanks you. My father thanks you. Apes and pigs everywhere thank you. And I still want to woo your auntie.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Things not to do: throw your life away

They just took J to the hospital with cancer. It's a recurrance. Odds are, I may not see him again. I have no feelings about this and that bothers me. Didn't I work with the guy for five months? Didn't I live right across the hall from him? Shouldn't I feel regret and sympathy? Maybe...but I don't and don't believe in faking it.

J is somewhere around 53. A typical EFL vagabond, he spent a year or three in the fleshpots of Thailand (that's Thighland in EFLese), ran out of dough and caught a flight up north. A charming enough fellow on the surface, he had a tendency to rag on and on about whatever subject pops into his mind. His beer intake was roughly a liter a day, with some whiskey and vodka to spice things up of course. I spent exactly one evening in his company, which ended when he nearly threw a shotglass at me and called me a sonofabitch. I tend to inspire that reaction in people.

In the five months that I have known him, J has complained endlessly and relentlessly about his surroundings, about the town, the students, the teachers and so forth in the grips of a sort of pedantic depression as he recounted the thousands of great opportunities that he had missed out on in his life and expounded on how great they were. It was almost like living in Harlem again, where numerous not-so-young men declared time and again that the reason they have been sitting on the stoop and collecting welfare for the past decade was because America is full of racist bastards who don't give them a chance. But J was worse. A White Christian American with two Masters degrees, he had all that this profession requires. (I had mentioned before that being white and spouting a few key phrases from old J.C. was all one needed to be set in EFL and I stand by that.) Hell, he had all that most people require since most are superficial bastards and only care about feeling comfortable around a person- competence is a secondary issue in most fields. But J decided to piss it away. Wandering from the oil fields of Louisiana to the sands of Oman and onto the bountiful whorehouses of southeast Asia, carrying his trusty bottle and tape recorder (which played some of the most goddamnawful zydeco music ever recorded.)

Nevertheless, out of desperation more than anything else, I asked him to take my classes for the two weeks I would spend munching pierogies. He agreed in his half-hearted way, and I paid him a week's wages upfront in a mix of currencies. I was not the least bit surprised, upon my return, to find an email from him about how ashamed he was that he had cancelled two days of class due to being ill. It was then that he told me about the cancer.

I knew nothing about it- it's a fucking awful disease but not one I know much about. The only choice I saw was to invite him over so we can talk and maybe grab dinner if he wished. I thought it was the humane thing to do. He looked worse than ever- rail thin with sunken eyes- and although I did not relish his company, I thought that I owed him at least that much. He thanked me for the invitations but did not take me up on it. I had considered knocking on his door to remind him but held back. Why? Was it his notorious sensitivity to noise? Was it because I sensed that he wanted to be alone? Was it because my sympathies competed with my dislike of his personality and did not want to be around him THAT much? After all, I am a notorious pest. Why wasn't I pestering him that night? Am I just plain bad?

I saw him again that same night as he entered the building ahead of me. His Southern accent more noticeable, J growled "I don't particularly want to talk to you" as a way of greeting while passing me by. Later still, while bringing up the laundry, I passed him again. His sunken eyes regarded me with a mix of hatred and astonishment that I have never quite seen before. Soon after that encounter, he banged on my door. Remembering my promise to him, I opened it and asked that he come in- he did not, calling me out to where the students were talking on the stairs, their voices carrying into the residences.

"I have to listen to this all night," he began again, on a running theme. I tried telling him that it was not THAT loud- that he should try to get some sleep. But the subject turned to myself. "I just wanted to tell you that you're a sonofabitch you know that? You're a fucking bastard." I excused myself at this point and ignored his knocks for the remainder of the evening. That was the last I saw of him until a few hours ago when the police broke down his door and carried him out crying to the hospital.

Not my idea of a grand finale.

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Subliminally sublime

Thursday, February 08, 2007

The things I do when not blogging about you

Okay, Masters degree time again. Two weeks of classes, eight hours of lectures a day, shared student housing, assignments, exams and the constant flow and odor of medicines all around me. (Science really is complicated. How anyone who has massacred so many brain cells can master these implements is beyond me.)

This set of courses are 1) techonology in the classroom and 2) curriculum design. Basically this means 1) making videos/powerpoints/slides/etc about OURSELVES [who loves us? We do] and 2) learning to keep Bible-thumpers out of the classroom. (Off tangent, I once worked for an alleged radio talk show host named Steve Feuerstein (a rich dilettante who pretended to be a journalist out of boredom) who interviewed Jerry Falwell while I was listening it. Fun times.

After tomorrow, I'll be 3/4th done with my M.Ed. We have started up a wiki discussing gay cows. Cuz we're professionals.

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