I have noticed an increase of about 30 page hits a week thanks to Blogger's "NEXT BLOG" button at the top. Took me a while to figure out where the random lurkers were coming from. Welcome.
But, I still keep track of other ways that people make it to my page, and found a yahoo search for the phrase: "Smells of the lamp." I thought I remembered that I had used this phrase and found it on my second blog entry, that's right, #2. If you want to increase your web presence, quote an ancient Athenian and wait 34 weeks!
If this is a new expression to you, and you have found this page because you are trying to figure it out, let me help you. Basically, it was an insult from Pythias to Demosthenes. You remember Demosthenes, don't you? He was an orator who came by his skills very un-naturally. (He put pebbles in his mouth and "shouted against the waves" so that he could overcome some speech impediment.) To make a long story short, Pythias calls Demosthenes pedantic because he only is clever when he can work the night before into the long hours for his speeches. In other words, Demosthenes was not fast on his feet, er... tongue. This is a complimentary affliction to esprit d'escalier, which means that you could have thought of a better response if you had more time. But of course, I am being donnish with all of these inkhorn terms.
This lesson is almost over, but there actually is a funny punchline to this 2,500-year-old confrontation. I am too lazy to look up the exact quote, but Demosthene's lame-hiney retort was something like: "Oh, yeah? Well I bet there is a difference between my work by lamplight and yours." Of course, no one remembers this horrid come-back. But Pythias' comment lives on.
I can sympathize with Demosthenes' predicament. I am of extremely average intelligence and have never been able to make a quick rebuttal. I am in awe of stand-up comedians and talk-show hosts who are quite capable of demonstrating this ability. Indeed, as I write this I am impressed with the fact that I am working by lamplight.
Okay, so I helped out those of you looking for this interesting historical/literary facet. For those of you still looking for the lyrics for "Sa, Sa, Sa: La Mesa Que Mas Aplauda," dude, I can't help you. The song is about Mexican table dancers, so you should probably keep your mind out of the gutter anyhow. I find it interesting that I keep commenting on this song title bringing the occasional visitor, which obviously increases this blog's ranking in the search for said lyrics. Is that ironic? ...or just self-fulfilling. I do not claim expertise of the issue of irony. Maybe someone can comment with their favorite definition.
--gh
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Blogger
I need to take a general business class to try and understand the business models of google and blogger. Google made a clear distinction in their venture capital prospectus to "not be evil." Can they remain evil-free when a significant portion of the company becomes public? As a share-holder, could one try to encourage Google to become more evil?
Case in point? Blogger no longer has advertisements at the top of my blog. I am not a paid subscriber or anything. I don't think I see advertisements when I blog, and now I really don't see how they make their money by supporting my useless (witless) ramblings.
Oh, and they own Hello.com, which lets me publish images, ad-free as well.
To paraphrase Ted Kennedy, (or was that Tip O'Neil), the mere absence of evil means that we need to look for proof of evilness. (Said statement was actually about George H.W. Bush jumping into an SR-71 Blackbird and flying to France to negotiate a deal to release the hostages in Iran. You see, he had 6 hours on one day in mid 1980 unnacounted for in his schedule. I miss the eighties sometimes. Not really.)
Google, are you truly not evil?
--gh
Case in point? Blogger no longer has advertisements at the top of my blog. I am not a paid subscriber or anything. I don't think I see advertisements when I blog, and now I really don't see how they make their money by supporting my useless (witless) ramblings.
Oh, and they own Hello.com, which lets me publish images, ad-free as well.
To paraphrase Ted Kennedy, (or was that Tip O'Neil), the mere absence of evil means that we need to look for proof of evilness. (Said statement was actually about George H.W. Bush jumping into an SR-71 Blackbird and flying to France to negotiate a deal to release the hostages in Iran. You see, he had 6 hours on one day in mid 1980 unnacounted for in his schedule. I miss the eighties sometimes. Not really.)
Google, are you truly not evil?
--gh
Sophomores
When you make it to the tenth grade you should sigh in relief that your position in your micro-society will not be determined only by your class status. It really is nice to be finished with the freshman year, when you can fade into the oblivion of being a sophomore. Most of the attention is off of you, as long as you don't stick your head up too high. Such is the description of my attitude toward my presence at school.
If you haven't made it to your sophomore year yet, you might be wondering two things. First, isn't there more to fear about "hazing" after the Freshman year? The answer to that is: probably, but only by social outcasts and losers. A second question might be about the "freshman" year experience in college. Let there be no doubt in your mind that second-year+ students in college have more to worry about than that, (fraternities possibly excluded). The funniest thing that I learned was that the cruelty inflicted on freshman is actually perpetrated by sophomores. "Upper classmen" really have better things to do with their time.
So, what was my sophomore year like? Well, I started out with a cast on my right arm. On August 9th, 1983, I was involved in a car accident that broke my right arm and took a tiny layer of skin off of the right side of my face. (My eyebrows are still uneven.) I was not wearing a seat belt. Little did I know that my lingering pain would be the muscle spasm in my back. It hurts every single day when I get up in the morning. This is one of my deep rooted resentful situations in my childhood. I was technically on visitation with my father (5-7 miles away) when we crashed. My brother could not remember if he hit the steering wheel or not, so the doctors were very nervous about his chest cavity, naturally. I only blacked out for about 10 seconds, but I can remember everything. My friend, who was to start college, broke his left arm and hit his head on that metal dashboard so hard that he still doesn't remember 30 minutes before and after this accident.
So, with only a broken arm, and a lot of scratches, I was the least of anyone's concern. The doctor set my arm, and lightly bandaged my shoulder, but not my face. I went back to my mother's house for the evening. My head ached slightly, but I was more worried about my friend who was kept in the hospital over night. That evening my back began to hurt more and more to the point of being unbearable. It felt like someone shoved a softball into my back muscles and stitched it up. The next morning I was due back to end my weekend with my father. I could not stand the legality at which both my parents addressed this situation. I pleaded with my mother to let me stay at home, in my own bed. My father did not have a bed for me and I knew I would be on a polyester couch, or worse, the floor. My mother became indignant and said that it was my father's weekend and that there was nothing to be done about it. She left the room and I cried. That's right, fifteen years old and crying. I cried later that night when I was pushed off of the only sofa in my father's house that I could sleep on. My arm had finally started to ache and throb, and my back was twice as worse as the night before. Who pushed me off? My sister's boyfriend, that's who. I pleaded with him to let me sleep on the sofa, but he said he had it the night before and it was his couch for the night. I ached and throbbed and cried myself to sleep hating him, hating my mother for shoving me out of her house, and hating my father for never providing a bed for me EVERY OTHER WEEKEND!!! I'm pissed right now thinking about it. (Language.) Oh, and my back hurts.
But back to the 10th grade... No one was really impressed with my scabbed face and broken arm. My english teacher wrote two notes to me about my sloppy handwriting in my writing assignments. I showed her my right arm in a cast, but Ms. Bentley seemed nonplused. She just gave me this dopey blank stare and said that I was going to have to try harder, or she would kick me out of class and have me sit in the principles office until I decided to not be so recalcitrant. I wasn't mad at her, though. You have to understand that Van Halen had released their album 1984 earlier that year, and the hit song of the day was "Hot for Teacher." Oh yeah, Ms. Bentley was hot. I began writing left handed for this women.
My PE instructor was Ben Womble. Man, this guy was square! He also told me that I had to participate in PE, even with a broken arm, because I did not have a doctor's note. (Perhaps the cast was just fashion, and only a doctor could prove that I had indeed broken this arm.) Ben Womble was not hot, so I resented him all year for this. I had to learn to play tennis with my left arm. I became the best player in class, in fact. I even beat (two matches!) one of the stars of the JV tennis team, who was really ticked off and began calling me names. I couldn't even keep score properly, so he must have been frustrated by being beat by a hobbled kid that appeared mildly retarded.
What are those letters after Biology, you ask? Well, I took the "gifted" form of biology that year. I mainly took this election to be in a class with my brother, who apparently was taking his science electives out of order. Poor Mrs. Roberts, having the two of us in one class almost drove her insane. Great woman, though.
And, finally, you will note the vokie class, technical drawing. I was inspiring to study drafting and eventually architecture, so this vocational class really inspired me. Five years later, in college, I was using the same skills I learned in this class in my manual cartography classes. I was embarassed to go down that section of the school, though. There was such a stigma about the vo-tech program, and I really played it down. I laughed with all of the other students when jokes about taking auto-body work, HVAC, printing, and bricklaying courses. I was a mule. (Language.) Those kids were able to go on to successful and lucrative careers with only 6-months of training after high school.
In all, I could not wait to get through this school year. I was turning 16 at the end of it, which meant driving. Oh, and I was considering taking a summer job. (I didn't, I started working in the fall of my junior year.) I started to care much less about my school work, and started to avoid studying at all. Actually, I am amazed by the grades that I did get that year.
Writing about all of this is cathartic, kind of like therapy. My back hurts.
--gh
If you haven't made it to your sophomore year yet, you might be wondering two things. First, isn't there more to fear about "hazing" after the Freshman year? The answer to that is: probably, but only by social outcasts and losers. A second question might be about the "freshman" year experience in college. Let there be no doubt in your mind that second-year+ students in college have more to worry about than that, (fraternities possibly excluded). The funniest thing that I learned was that the cruelty inflicted on freshman is actually perpetrated by sophomores. "Upper classmen" really have better things to do with their time.
So, what was my sophomore year like? Well, I started out with a cast on my right arm. On August 9th, 1983, I was involved in a car accident that broke my right arm and took a tiny layer of skin off of the right side of my face. (My eyebrows are still uneven.) I was not wearing a seat belt. Little did I know that my lingering pain would be the muscle spasm in my back. It hurts every single day when I get up in the morning. This is one of my deep rooted resentful situations in my childhood. I was technically on visitation with my father (5-7 miles away) when we crashed. My brother could not remember if he hit the steering wheel or not, so the doctors were very nervous about his chest cavity, naturally. I only blacked out for about 10 seconds, but I can remember everything. My friend, who was to start college, broke his left arm and hit his head on that metal dashboard so hard that he still doesn't remember 30 minutes before and after this accident.
So, with only a broken arm, and a lot of scratches, I was the least of anyone's concern. The doctor set my arm, and lightly bandaged my shoulder, but not my face. I went back to my mother's house for the evening. My head ached slightly, but I was more worried about my friend who was kept in the hospital over night. That evening my back began to hurt more and more to the point of being unbearable. It felt like someone shoved a softball into my back muscles and stitched it up. The next morning I was due back to end my weekend with my father. I could not stand the legality at which both my parents addressed this situation. I pleaded with my mother to let me stay at home, in my own bed. My father did not have a bed for me and I knew I would be on a polyester couch, or worse, the floor. My mother became indignant and said that it was my father's weekend and that there was nothing to be done about it. She left the room and I cried. That's right, fifteen years old and crying. I cried later that night when I was pushed off of the only sofa in my father's house that I could sleep on. My arm had finally started to ache and throb, and my back was twice as worse as the night before. Who pushed me off? My sister's boyfriend, that's who. I pleaded with him to let me sleep on the sofa, but he said he had it the night before and it was his couch for the night. I ached and throbbed and cried myself to sleep hating him, hating my mother for shoving me out of her house, and hating my father for never providing a bed for me EVERY OTHER WEEKEND!!! I'm pissed right now thinking about it. (Language.) Oh, and my back hurts.
But back to the 10th grade... No one was really impressed with my scabbed face and broken arm. My english teacher wrote two notes to me about my sloppy handwriting in my writing assignments. I showed her my right arm in a cast, but Ms. Bentley seemed nonplused. She just gave me this dopey blank stare and said that I was going to have to try harder, or she would kick me out of class and have me sit in the principles office until I decided to not be so recalcitrant. I wasn't mad at her, though. You have to understand that Van Halen had released their album 1984 earlier that year, and the hit song of the day was "Hot for Teacher." Oh yeah, Ms. Bentley was hot. I began writing left handed for this women.
My PE instructor was Ben Womble. Man, this guy was square! He also told me that I had to participate in PE, even with a broken arm, because I did not have a doctor's note. (Perhaps the cast was just fashion, and only a doctor could prove that I had indeed broken this arm.) Ben Womble was not hot, so I resented him all year for this. I had to learn to play tennis with my left arm. I became the best player in class, in fact. I even beat (two matches!) one of the stars of the JV tennis team, who was really ticked off and began calling me names. I couldn't even keep score properly, so he must have been frustrated by being beat by a hobbled kid that appeared mildly retarded.
What are those letters after Biology, you ask? Well, I took the "gifted" form of biology that year. I mainly took this election to be in a class with my brother, who apparently was taking his science electives out of order. Poor Mrs. Roberts, having the two of us in one class almost drove her insane. Great woman, though.
And, finally, you will note the vokie class, technical drawing. I was inspiring to study drafting and eventually architecture, so this vocational class really inspired me. Five years later, in college, I was using the same skills I learned in this class in my manual cartography classes. I was embarassed to go down that section of the school, though. There was such a stigma about the vo-tech program, and I really played it down. I laughed with all of the other students when jokes about taking auto-body work, HVAC, printing, and bricklaying courses. I was a mule. (Language.) Those kids were able to go on to successful and lucrative careers with only 6-months of training after high school.
In all, I could not wait to get through this school year. I was turning 16 at the end of it, which meant driving. Oh, and I was considering taking a summer job. (I didn't, I started working in the fall of my junior year.) I started to care much less about my school work, and started to avoid studying at all. Actually, I am amazed by the grades that I did get that year.
Writing about all of this is cathartic, kind of like therapy. My back hurts.
--gh
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Fiction, again!
Three of my readers (half my audience!) might be aware of my fiction issues. I like fiction a lot, but feel guilty reading it. (I should be reading about the current trouble in Sudan and plotting my plans to fix the situation, etc.)
I just started the re-read of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Actually, it is a family-reading-aloud event, so I get to share a book that I enjoyed so much my freshman year in high school. Don't know if the kids are into it. (My opinion is that the ironic-plot in the first three chapters is so drawn out that it is pedantic. I think I remembered feeling that way in 1983 as well.) Anyway, I know it gets a LOT better. We have a car-ride coming up this weekend, maybe we can read it on this trip as well.
Terra doesn't know it yet, but she has a family visit coming up. If I quietly whisper her brother's name, she will recognize it and start looking around. I can tell that we do not have an overtly cruel family, because the kids don't think it is funny to trick her this way. I say his name when he is coming THAT day, and she still spends a good bit of time looking out the window for him. She's looking at me now, oblivious to her upcoming family reunion (brother, sister, mother).
--gh
I just started the re-read of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Actually, it is a family-reading-aloud event, so I get to share a book that I enjoyed so much my freshman year in high school. Don't know if the kids are into it. (My opinion is that the ironic-plot in the first three chapters is so drawn out that it is pedantic. I think I remembered feeling that way in 1983 as well.) Anyway, I know it gets a LOT better. We have a car-ride coming up this weekend, maybe we can read it on this trip as well.
Terra doesn't know it yet, but she has a family visit coming up. If I quietly whisper her brother's name, she will recognize it and start looking around. I can tell that we do not have an overtly cruel family, because the kids don't think it is funny to trick her this way. I say his name when he is coming THAT day, and she still spends a good bit of time looking out the window for him. She's looking at me now, oblivious to her upcoming family reunion (brother, sister, mother).
--gh
Monday, August 09, 2004
Recent movies
On a whim, I rented Jamie Kennedy's Malibu's Most Wanted. It was either that, or Dumb and Dumber-er. Honestly.
I thought the movie was going to be a copy of Hoch's work in Whiteboys. (Man, that was a good movie.) It was nothing like it, but it wasn't too bad, either.
You can skip The New Guy. However, if you are looking for a movie with Gene Simmons, Henry Rollins, Kool Moe Dee, Horatio Sanz, Robert Van-illa-Ice Winkle, David Hasselhoff, and Lyle Lovett, then this might be your only choice.
I really want to see Whiteboys again. It's almost time to hook up the television, and I hope the Independent Film Channel puts this back in their rotation.
--gh
I thought the movie was going to be a copy of Hoch's work in Whiteboys. (Man, that was a good movie.) It was nothing like it, but it wasn't too bad, either.
You can skip The New Guy. However, if you are looking for a movie with Gene Simmons, Henry Rollins, Kool Moe Dee, Horatio Sanz, Robert Van-illa-Ice Winkle, David Hasselhoff, and Lyle Lovett, then this might be your only choice.
I really want to see Whiteboys again. It's almost time to hook up the television, and I hope the Independent Film Channel puts this back in their rotation.
--gh
Freshman year at Chantilly High School.
As you can see, I had a respectable year in terms of grades. My lowest grade was a class that I enjoyed (C+ in Algebra). The teacher's name was Mr. Rayburn, and he told us this wonderful story of falling out of a huge oak tree while harvesting Mistle-Toe. He had a mustache, and a knack for teaching algebra to fools like me. But, somehow my lack of homework production led to this lowest grade. It is odd that in a few short years, a C+ would be a grade I was proud of.
I seem to remember every single class with Mrs. Haynes in World Cultures 1. (I don't remember a 2, or 3...) Some of the stuff that she taught us was just plain wrong, and much was politically incorrect. She taught me to hate Yassir Arafat, and to distrust anything from North Africa. A friend of mine in this class was born in Africa, and was half Chilean. She would let me know after the class what was correct or not in that day's lesson. To her credit, I do not remember her correcting the teacher in front of the class. She did correct me, though, when I repeated a derogatory term for latinos. She told me that "spic" was not a nice term and that I should not use it. She handled it in such a gentle fashion that I never used that term again. She could have raked me over the coals for that, but chose diplomacy instead.
I learned a lot from my Earth Science class. In fact, in 1990 I was a graduate student teaching nearly the exact same stuff (called Physical Geography) and was frustrated when people found the material confusing. In the weather section, we covered cyclogenesis, cold/warm air fronts, adiabatic temperature gradients, and cloud formation.
This was my last year of spanish, until college that is. Quitting this language (and taking Latin later) was a huge mistake. I liked the course, but never considered taking more. If I had taken two more years of this pleasant language, I could have avoided a lot of problems in college. It should be mentioned that all of the Chantilly guidance counselors, including one who later became my step-mother, incorrectly advised students to take three years of language to avoid the requirement in college. I went to a state school 50 miles south of Chantilly, and their requirement was FOUR years of language in high school. (I didn't have four years because I did not pass the second year of Latin. Yes, the four years could have been 2+2.) I wonder how many other students were burned by this mis-information. Incidentally, one of my college roommates had four years of spanish in high school. He got good grades, which means that secondary education (for languages, that is) in Lexington, Massachusettes must really be lame. He could not conjugate, and had no understanding of tenses. ("Me gusta las vacas verde" was the type of gibberish he spoke.) Lame.
I wasn't bullied in the 9th grade, except by one kid in Earth Science who decided to step on my toes. It was one day after I had my toenails sliced up by a podiatrist to treat ingrown toenails. He didn't believe me. That was the only day that anyone ever stepped on my toes to "hurt" me deliberately. Ever. Why was this one day after my toenails were worked on? I tried to make a new friend in that class, his name was Scott and he was about 5-times the geek that I was. He eventually introduced me to a good friend, John. This later became the friend that I would identify my high school experience by, so I guess Scott served his purpose.
I also decided to take guitar playing more seriously my freshman year. I had a nearly busted nylon-string (I won't even dignify it with the term classical) and an epiphone electric. I started through the classical guitar book by Frederick Noad for about the ninth time that year. (My wife is using it right now, working through page 100 or so.) The last time I took music seriously, I was in a guitar class in the 7th grade. Actually, that was a funny story. In a class of about 30 students, I was one of four with previous experience. The teacher's way of handling this was to put me with these three other kids in a small sound-proof room. Two of the kids were 8th graders, and they taught me how to play barre chords and to play the music of Boston, REO Speedwagon, Deep Purple, and Led Zeppelin. My chances for formal guitar lessons were gone, though, my parents wouldn't pay for it. For the next four years, I would be purely "self-taught." In other words, I sucked.
This was probably the last year of my childhood. I stayed at home on Halloween night to hand out candy. One of the people I gave candy to was my brother, one-year-older and wearing a toga. It was also the last year I spent in the house with my brother. He moved out at the end of that year, to live with my father. Instantly, he had access to a vehicle, and those cool John Lennon sunglasses. That happens when you grow up.
--gh
I seem to remember every single class with Mrs. Haynes in World Cultures 1. (I don't remember a 2, or 3...) Some of the stuff that she taught us was just plain wrong, and much was politically incorrect. She taught me to hate Yassir Arafat, and to distrust anything from North Africa. A friend of mine in this class was born in Africa, and was half Chilean. She would let me know after the class what was correct or not in that day's lesson. To her credit, I do not remember her correcting the teacher in front of the class. She did correct me, though, when I repeated a derogatory term for latinos. She told me that "spic" was not a nice term and that I should not use it. She handled it in such a gentle fashion that I never used that term again. She could have raked me over the coals for that, but chose diplomacy instead.
I learned a lot from my Earth Science class. In fact, in 1990 I was a graduate student teaching nearly the exact same stuff (called Physical Geography) and was frustrated when people found the material confusing. In the weather section, we covered cyclogenesis, cold/warm air fronts, adiabatic temperature gradients, and cloud formation.
This was my last year of spanish, until college that is. Quitting this language (and taking Latin later) was a huge mistake. I liked the course, but never considered taking more. If I had taken two more years of this pleasant language, I could have avoided a lot of problems in college. It should be mentioned that all of the Chantilly guidance counselors, including one who later became my step-mother, incorrectly advised students to take three years of language to avoid the requirement in college. I went to a state school 50 miles south of Chantilly, and their requirement was FOUR years of language in high school. (I didn't have four years because I did not pass the second year of Latin. Yes, the four years could have been 2+2.) I wonder how many other students were burned by this mis-information. Incidentally, one of my college roommates had four years of spanish in high school. He got good grades, which means that secondary education (for languages, that is) in Lexington, Massachusettes must really be lame. He could not conjugate, and had no understanding of tenses. ("Me gusta las vacas verde" was the type of gibberish he spoke.) Lame.
I wasn't bullied in the 9th grade, except by one kid in Earth Science who decided to step on my toes. It was one day after I had my toenails sliced up by a podiatrist to treat ingrown toenails. He didn't believe me. That was the only day that anyone ever stepped on my toes to "hurt" me deliberately. Ever. Why was this one day after my toenails were worked on? I tried to make a new friend in that class, his name was Scott and he was about 5-times the geek that I was. He eventually introduced me to a good friend, John. This later became the friend that I would identify my high school experience by, so I guess Scott served his purpose.
I also decided to take guitar playing more seriously my freshman year. I had a nearly busted nylon-string (I won't even dignify it with the term classical) and an epiphone electric. I started through the classical guitar book by Frederick Noad for about the ninth time that year. (My wife is using it right now, working through page 100 or so.) The last time I took music seriously, I was in a guitar class in the 7th grade. Actually, that was a funny story. In a class of about 30 students, I was one of four with previous experience. The teacher's way of handling this was to put me with these three other kids in a small sound-proof room. Two of the kids were 8th graders, and they taught me how to play barre chords and to play the music of Boston, REO Speedwagon, Deep Purple, and Led Zeppelin. My chances for formal guitar lessons were gone, though, my parents wouldn't pay for it. For the next four years, I would be purely "self-taught." In other words, I sucked.
This was probably the last year of my childhood. I stayed at home on Halloween night to hand out candy. One of the people I gave candy to was my brother, one-year-older and wearing a toga. It was also the last year I spent in the house with my brother. He moved out at the end of that year, to live with my father. Instantly, he had access to a vehicle, and those cool John Lennon sunglasses. That happens when you grow up.
--gh
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Spanish I, and Earl Coffey
So, here's how things began. In 1982, I started my freshman year at Chantilly High School. As you can see, I brought a credit of Spanish I with me from the eighth grade. (I was absent for four days that year (my grandmother died mid-way through the school year). Rocky Run Intermediate School was for 7th and 8th grade, and that is when I began to dislike school. However, at this time, I was keeping my grades up, and this B+ is indicative of those days, I believe.
Rocky Run was a ridiculous school. It was shaped like some kind of ellipse, like a space city would be designed. When you walked in the halls, you never really saw more than 50 feet, because it kept curving inward. Sort of like the Death Star.
I need to clarify something I said above. I always disliked school, but I think this is when I started to detest it. As far as I know, my parents were too distracted with their own problems to bother with my school performance. In the six years between 1980 and 1986, I remember talking about my school progress three times with my parents. I don't know if they didn't care, or what, but I realized by 1982-3 that I did not really have to try anymore.
I made no new friends in Intermediate School, pretty much keeping with my friends from Greenbriar East elementary. I remember having a distrust for the kids from Brookfield elementary, but my sworn enemies attended Greenbriar West. There was an important element that was added at Rocky Run, the redneck kids from Braddock Road. Those kids were tough.
I remember one in particular. This was my first week (7th) grade at Rocky Run and I happened to be sitting near a fellow 7th grader that looked about 24. His name was Earl Coffey, and he wanted to be a truck driver. I laughed at that, and he grabbed my ear. He told me that he wouldn't let go until I cried. It took about 15 seconds. My brother was in the eighth grade, and he had heard about this. He got after me about crying in front of the whole crowd at lunch. I pressed him on how to get even, and he said something to the effect that Earl's life was going to suck eggs. My only recourse was to think that I was probably headed for a better life. My brother was good about seeing perspective like this, at least in my life.
Earl, where are you? It is over 20 years later, so I am now hoping that your life turned out okay. In fact, I didn't think ill of you after a month, so I hope karma was not too brutal for you. I don't even remember seeing you past January of that year, did you move? Maybe you enlisted in the armed forces and they helped set you straight. Earl, this post is dedicated to you.
--gh
Rocky Run was a ridiculous school. It was shaped like some kind of ellipse, like a space city would be designed. When you walked in the halls, you never really saw more than 50 feet, because it kept curving inward. Sort of like the Death Star.
I need to clarify something I said above. I always disliked school, but I think this is when I started to detest it. As far as I know, my parents were too distracted with their own problems to bother with my school performance. In the six years between 1980 and 1986, I remember talking about my school progress three times with my parents. I don't know if they didn't care, or what, but I realized by 1982-3 that I did not really have to try anymore.
I made no new friends in Intermediate School, pretty much keeping with my friends from Greenbriar East elementary. I remember having a distrust for the kids from Brookfield elementary, but my sworn enemies attended Greenbriar West. There was an important element that was added at Rocky Run, the redneck kids from Braddock Road. Those kids were tough.
I remember one in particular. This was my first week (7th) grade at Rocky Run and I happened to be sitting near a fellow 7th grader that looked about 24. His name was Earl Coffey, and he wanted to be a truck driver. I laughed at that, and he grabbed my ear. He told me that he wouldn't let go until I cried. It took about 15 seconds. My brother was in the eighth grade, and he had heard about this. He got after me about crying in front of the whole crowd at lunch. I pressed him on how to get even, and he said something to the effect that Earl's life was going to suck eggs. My only recourse was to think that I was probably headed for a better life. My brother was good about seeing perspective like this, at least in my life.
Earl, where are you? It is over 20 years later, so I am now hoping that your life turned out okay. In fact, I didn't think ill of you after a month, so I hope karma was not too brutal for you. I don't even remember seeing you past January of that year, did you move? Maybe you enlisted in the armed forces and they helped set you straight. Earl, this post is dedicated to you.
--gh
Thursday, August 05, 2004
I are sucked.
So that you don't think I am writing a mystery or something, I will give you the most first. As you can see below, perhaps it is not fair to say that I hated high school and leave it at that. Upon reflection, it is obvious that high school reciprocated these feelings and hated me right back!
I graduated with exactly 500 other students, and as you can see I am part of the lower 50th percentile. That's right, I am clearly below average as you can plainly see (262 out of 501!).
Was I an under-acheiver? You bet, but that is not the complete story. I was dealing with a handful of problems (social problems, mostly, lol) and this wonderful GPA of 2.55 just about sums up who I was when I entered college. I can now speak with authority (professional experience!) that almost 1/2 of all high school students are under-achievers. So sure, I could have tried harder, and so could everyone else. And I would still be right about the middle.
Of course, there is nothing wrong with being average. I won't even debate that I am of average ability since my SAT and GRE scores are also in middle. So how did I get to where I am now? Easy, remember when you were told that the humans only use 10% of their brain's ability? Well, I figured out how to use 13%! That has made up the difference and propelled my career and personal goals.
By the way, I had never heard of the word GPA in high school. I think I heard that this was going to be an issue in college, but I was surprised to find out that my report cards have been keeping track of this for four years.
--gh
I graduated with exactly 500 other students, and as you can see I am part of the lower 50th percentile. That's right, I am clearly below average as you can plainly see (262 out of 501!).
Was I an under-acheiver? You bet, but that is not the complete story. I was dealing with a handful of problems (social problems, mostly, lol) and this wonderful GPA of 2.55 just about sums up who I was when I entered college. I can now speak with authority (professional experience!) that almost 1/2 of all high school students are under-achievers. So sure, I could have tried harder, and so could everyone else. And I would still be right about the middle.
Of course, there is nothing wrong with being average. I won't even debate that I am of average ability since my SAT and GRE scores are also in middle. So how did I get to where I am now? Easy, remember when you were told that the humans only use 10% of their brain's ability? Well, I figured out how to use 13%! That has made up the difference and propelled my career and personal goals.
By the way, I had never heard of the word GPA in high school. I think I heard that this was going to be an issue in college, but I was surprised to find out that my report cards have been keeping track of this for four years.
--gh
High School Transcript
Okay, here goes. Below is a scanned copy of my high school transcript. My blog has not had a direction for a while, and I thought this would keep me busy for a week or while.
Before you think you are getting ripped off with the way-too-compressed image, details will follow. The most gruesome details that are sparked by looking at this document piece by piece. You see, like many of you, I hated those four years.
And for a fortnight, my blog is dedicated to sharing with you my reasons for these feelings.
I thank Blogger(Google) and Hello.com for bringing this technology to us.
--gh
Before you think you are getting ripped off with the way-too-compressed image, details will follow. The most gruesome details that are sparked by looking at this document piece by piece. You see, like many of you, I hated those four years.
And for a fortnight, my blog is dedicated to sharing with you my reasons for these feelings.
I thank Blogger(Google) and Hello.com for bringing this technology to us.
--gh
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Blog #155
Ever seen the episode of Seinfeld where George learns to leave on a high note? ("Thank you, good night!") I had that feeling today with parenting and my son. Amy was a little tired of "El Otro Mundo" Mexican radio station this evening, so I changed it to the local classic rock station.
There was a short spot in between songs that played about 2/3 of a second of the following songs: "Pride and Joy," "Welcome to the Jungle," and "Foxy Lady." That was it, not even a chord change. The whole thing was less than 2 seconds (is my math correct?)
Without hesitation, Tyler said: "Stevie Ray Vaughn, Guns and Roses, Jimi Hendrix." He turned 11 this week. My work is done.
Thank you, good night!
--gh
There was a short spot in between songs that played about 2/3 of a second of the following songs: "Pride and Joy," "Welcome to the Jungle," and "Foxy Lady." That was it, not even a chord change. The whole thing was less than 2 seconds (is my math correct?)
Without hesitation, Tyler said: "Stevie Ray Vaughn, Guns and Roses, Jimi Hendrix." He turned 11 this week. My work is done.
Thank you, good night!
--gh
Monday, August 02, 2004
Now serving Mexico!
I am excited to report that a full 1% of total page hits to my blog come from the Los Estados Unidos de Mexico! Are they looking for some Eglefino/Abadejo links? Maybe. Or it could be the Za, Za, Za strip club song, or the explicit meta tag that states that there is no inappropriate Jamaican content on this page?
...Le mando, le mando, le mando a la niña (now that is an addicting song)
Maybe I am just "reaching out."
My goal is 50 page hits in one day before the end of the summer, and at least one day of 100 before the end of the year. For a blog that is about ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, this is an ambitious goal!
To further my reaching out-ness, I think I should find a "sister blog" from somewhere else in this grand world of ours. Currently, this is my pick:
--gh
...Le mando, le mando, le mando a la niña (now that is an addicting song)
Maybe I am just "reaching out."
My goal is 50 page hits in one day before the end of the summer, and at least one day of 100 before the end of the year. For a blog that is about ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, this is an ambitious goal!
To further my reaching out-ness, I think I should find a "sister blog" from somewhere else in this grand world of ours. Currently, this is my pick:
--gh
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