You Fail At Grammar

I'll save you the trouble of clicking on the following link if you don't feel like vomiting on your keyboard today. Some person named Rae Hart Anderson lost her bid for Minnesota State Senator, so she sent her opponent a concession letter. I'll summarize:

Anderson: Congratulations on your victory. You really should find Jesus before you die and go to hell. LOL.
Chaudhary: ......?

I probably should have mentioned that State Senator Satveer Chaudhary is a Hindu.

Anderson’s letter disturbs me, but not because someone this ignorant ran for office. That's hardly unusual. Nor am I upset that her tone closely resembles a Scientologist sales pitch. Nor am I shocked that some people voted for this lady—herself, for one, and her mother. And yet, even with her supporters behind her, this loony wasn't elected, and that gives me hope for humanity.

No, what disturbs me about this letter is the Minnesota school system's utter failure to teach Rae Hart Anderson how to write. I've seen better compositions in AIM chat rooms. Her letter is poorly organized, uneven in tone, and a grammatical nightmare. Take her opening paragraph, for instance:

"Congratulations on winning the District 50 senate race. Your phone is 'busy'...no doubt with good wishes!"

Anderson's use of quotation marks around the word busy would seem to indicate sarcasm, however the irony isn't supported by the context. If Chaudhary won the election, wouldn't it stand to reason that his phone would be busy? Or perhaps Anderson meant to imply that no one actually cares who won the Minnesota District 50 race. In other words, she is so incompetent that she can't win an election that is so insignificant that if she were to have won, no one would have bothered to call her and offer congratulations. Anderson seems to ponder this grammatical paradox mid-sentence with an ellipsis. Alternately, she was omitting a comment, such as:

"Congratulations on winning the District 50 senate race. Your phone is 'busy', you godless, low-life, election-stealing infidel. I bet you had to sacrifice 30 babies to Zeus or whoever to swing the vote, no doubt with good wishes!"

Unfortunately, her opening sentences are among her best in her letter. From that point on, her crimes against the English language become bolder, more brazen, as she hijacks the noble ellipsis and presses it into service for a variety of purposes normally reserved for the comma, semicolon, or period. She takes similar liberties with the M-dash, so that she may better construct grotesque run-on sentences with impunity:

WRONG: "God in Christ is reconciling the world back to Himself, with offered forgiveness--this is one choice we get to make nose to nose with the living God--fear Him and you need fear no other."

RIGHT: "In the form of Christ, God is reconciling the world back to Himself, by offering forgiveness to all qualifying infidels. This is one choice we get to make nose-to-nose with the living God. Fear Him and you need fear no other. Act now, and you'll also receive a free toaster with each salvation."

Often, she combines these techniques, like she does in this gem from paragraph seven:

"Take some time to get acquainted with this power-filled Jesus...God with us. You could be a temple of the living God, by invitation---yours, TO GOD. :)"

Tisk. Tisk. Let's see if we can make that better:

"State Senator Chaudhary, as a practicing Hindu, you may not be aware of the many high-powered Jesus options available to you. For instance there's Jebus, Disco Jesus, Jesus Marx, Baby Jesus, Personal Jesus, and even Jesusaurus Rex. Did you know that everyone qualifies to be a living temple of God? It only takes one phone call and credit check to sign up! :)"

I think this effectively demonstrates why it's so important that every election require a writing sample from each candidate, to be graded by a panel of bipartisan judges on a holistic scale from one to five. I give this letter a -3.

My Dilemma

I finally told my parents that my laptop wasn't so much a laptop anymore, but a small desktop, ever since the hinge on the lid snapped and the screen won't fold down anymore. The bright side is that I might have a new computer coming my way. The bad news is that I have to say goodbye to my beloved Ziggy. Ziggy, who by now was so old that her retro looks would get me ooohs and ahhhs from Mac geeks on campus who wondered if it was some sort of new brand of MacBook they hadn't seen. Ah, Ziggy. Your pixels brought me such joy.

Moving on. I need to decide on a name for my new computer. I have a scifi robot/computer theme. Previous used names include Gort, Gir, Robbie, Artoo, Bender, and Data. I need to pick a name that will exude awesome, and communicate that this is a computer that can pwn Windows, and will be used towards geeky ends. So far, the canidates are:

Bishop ("Synthetic Human", Aliens)
Tom Servo (Robot, MST3K)
Caprica 6 (Cylon, Battlestar Galatica)
Deep Thought (Computer, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy)
Hactar (Evil computer, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy)
Wintermute (AI program, Neuromancer)
Jane (AI program, Ender's Game series)
Lappy 486 (Computer, Homestar Runner)

Any thoughts? Suggestions?



Update: From Wikipedia: "The hinges on the Titanium PowerBook display are notorious for breaking under heavy use. Usually the hinge (which is shaped like an 'L') will break just to the left of where it attaches to the lower case on the right hinge, and just to the right on the left hinge (where the right hinge is on the right side of the computer when the optical drive is facing you)."

Well, now I know. And knowing's half the battle.

Horray for Number Two!

I had to see a professor in his office hours last week and he asked me how I was doing. I hesitated. At this juncture, I had two options:

1. Lie. My professor feels better about me but I become a horrible person.
2. Tell the truth. Appear to be emo PMSing emotional wreck that can't cope with a measley twelve credit hours.

I threw caution to the wind and went with number two. "Actually, I think I'm getting progressively dumber as the semester progresses." From the adjacent office, the neighboring professor overheard our conversation and chimed in: "Oh, thank god I'm not the only one!" Horray for honesty.

I got to thinking about the incident later. What if I had hit upon a universal constant in the college experience? As I went to my classes, I did an informal poll, asking various people I ran into how smart they felt at the beginning of the semester, versus how smart they feel now. The results were disturbing:



The evidence is irrfutable, and very useful for explaining a variety of phenonoma, like the 2004 presidental election. Democrats were counting on college students showing up in droves to vote for Kerry, but we didn't show up. Why? Because by November, we were already falling down the stupidy curve. Since it also applies to professors, it goes a long way towards explaining how they will assign rediculously complicated projects in the last weeks of class, only to later complain that they have a lot of grading to do.

I have a solution. It involves time travel, and moving from the end of the semester (where things are difficult but you're stupid), to the beginning of the semester (where things are easy, but you're smart). This would not only allow you to bring the intelligence/workload of a semester into balance, but you'll notice that it also generates a time loop, where as soon as you return to the end of the semester, you get bumped back to the beginning. That's right. Not only does your semester go better, you never get old, and you never die. Genius.

Priorties

Like everyone else, I spend a lot of time waiting in linings, riding the bus, or sitting at red lights, so I have some time to kill with no real productive way of spending it. Times like this, I retreat to one of a dozen or so standard fantasy scenarios I've been working on for the last few years. One of my favorites is to imagine what it would be like if I woke up one morning to find myself in hte past, in my five year old body. I would have advance knowledge of all sorts of things--the direction of technology, which companies to buy at IPO, September 11th, Bush, Iraq, Harry Potter...

Wait a minute. Harry Potter. Do you realize how close we are to that book coming out? The anticipated release date is sometime in 2007, which is right around the corner. Not to mention Spiderman 3, Batman 2, Hellboy 2, Sin City 2, and Joss Whedon's Wonder Woman. They're so close I can taste it. I have a lot to live for.

Thinking it through, that would mean that I'd have to wait eighteen years just to find out if Harry really is the eighth horacrux. I'd have to wait even longer to see Joss Whedon pwn at the box office, and I won't even waste my time hoping to see Hillary Clinton return to the White House with Baracak Obama as her running mate. Sure, I'd be comphensated by living about seventeen extra years, but some of those would be in the eighties, and all of them would be filled with reruns. I'm not sure if I can stand to see the X-Files jump the shark again, or hear another Hanson song on the radio.

So I guess we're stuck with Bush in office and the twin towers flat as pancakes. Not that I could probably fix either of those anyway. At five years old, I would either wind up ignored or in a lab getting anal probes from mad scientists.

Alibi

Hey guys. I need one, some, or perferably all of you to provide me with an alibi for, let's say, this Saturday. I'm in a group project, again. And, as per usual, it was assigned the first week of class, which was about the same time I got my portion of the project worked out and ready to go. Now, I'm getting e-mails that my other three group members don't "get" what the assignment is about, even though we've had around fifteen meetings were we discussed this very thing. I'm afraid that for the good of the gene pool, these people must be dispatched with all due haste before they marry and interbreed with more idiots to produce the next generation of Republicans.

So, if anybody asks, I was running a Serenity one-shot this Saturday, were you guys stole something awesome from somebody who sucks, and then Eric's character was beaten up by a pack of rabid hobos. Thanks a bunch.

Good News

Good news. Emi consulted her Magic Eight Ball to see if I was going to get into grad school, and it said that it was decidedly so. I know it wouldn't lie because yesterday I drank a bottle of Jones Soda, and the fortune under the cap said I was in for a plesant surprise soon. Sure enough, later that day, Emi got the internship she's been wanting for months. So I'm set. No worries.

Why I can never seem to lose those last six pounds.

I've been avoiding talking to my parents for the past, let's see, ten days or so, give or take a week. I've been doing this because, technically speaking, I haven't gotten out my grad school applications, because, technically speaking, I haven't written the essays I need to send them off. I have a very good reason for not doing this, and that reason is that I suck. I will sit at my computer to write my Statement of Purpose and will my fingers to write something witty, yet respectful, that conveys my dazzeling intellect with humility, elloquence, and proper grammar. What happens instead is that I wind up reading online newspapers for a few hours. I'm no closer to getting into grad school, but I feel very informed.

When I do get anything done, it's done to the background of a very annoying voice in my head: "Statement of Purpose? What's that supposed to mean? My purpose is to get into your god forsaken program. Why else would I be applying? Ok, ok, can't say that. What can I say? I can't tell them I'm smart, because that's arrogant, but I can't not tell them or I'll sound stupid. Maybe I could tell them about the Marti Saga. Wait, they're reading a segment. Maybe I could talk about my screenplays, but that might hurt me because they don't offer a screenwriting program. Shit shit shit. Do they even read this thing? Three hundred Statements of Purpose all from people with proto-novels about plucky, likable characters that want stuff and do stuff to get it. Fuck it, I should have become a doctor or lawyer." And so on, a never-ending internal monologue that never pauses for breath because inner voices, much like vampires and zombies, don't need to breathe.

I think my problem stems from the fact that I'm a much better writer when there's nothing at stake. I have no problem pounding out something for this blog, because ultimately I'm only risking boring the half a dozen people who might read this post on their lunch break. School paper's aren't a big deal either. Worst case scenario, I don't properly tie a few of my points back to the central thesis, and I get a B and then the Earth spins off its axis. For the first time, I actually have something to lose if I suck. Or, put more accurately, I have a lot to lose by not absolutely fucking brilliant. I don't have to look good compared to perhaps thirty undergrads, most of which wrote their papers while hungover. No, I have to look better than the 300+ applicants applying for seven slots in the program, many of which have been writing for much longer than I have. Doing a bit of sloppy math in my head, I figure I've got perhaps a two percent shot of getting into any particular program I apply to. I'm applying to eleven programs.

Even taking into account the law of averages, I might as well get a head start applying for a job a McDonalds. I have not mentioned a lot of this to my parents, who are paying for the application fees. I know better. So I've been selectively "losing" my cellphone for the past week, so tragically I've been missing their calls. Until today, when I made the mistake of picking up the phone, three times in a row.

First Phone Call: My mother is screaming in the background. My father is on the phone, acting as translator. If I don't get into a program soon, I might as well forget the minors and leave undergrad now, get a job, and stop wasting their money. Valid points, all.

I am worthless. Less than worthless. Narrowly avoid crying. Fuck the diet, I'm eating chocolate.

Second Phone Call: Thirty minutes later. Mom must be in the other room, but Dad's obviously speaking from a well-rehearsed script she's prepared for him. Basically, a Cliff's Notes version of the last conversation, sans screaming.

Cry for ten minutes. Contemplate future as soulless cublicle dweller after I fail to get into writing progam and lose my parent's love.

Third Phone Call: This time it's Mom, chipper. She forgot to tell me, the Fredricksburg candlelight tour is December 9th this year, can I make it? Let me check. Yep, classes end December 8th. I can come. Wonderful! I'll get tickets. Bye bye. Click.

Bewilderment. Dismay. Time for a blog update.

Saturday Morning

I hate football weekends. I've been awake for five minutes, I'm not out of my pajamas, and I've already been invited to a keg party. The back of my apartment building faces the back of someone else's apartment building, so as I shuffled into my living room this morning, a la Shawn of the Dead, I found myself the center of attention for about six coeds, who at eleven am were already clustered around a keg on my neighbor's balcony. The biggest, hairest one of the lot, the one wearing an Animal House "COLLEGE" t-shit, waved erratically from his lawn chair and made "Come on over!" gestures, because as we all know, standing in your living room in house shoes, frog pjs, and a knit monkey hat is the universal sign for, "Whoo, baby, I'm in the mood to get drunk and get funky." Still, it's nice to get invited, I guess.

Speaking of monkey hats, I've decided to become a sensitive artistic type. This way, I can wax philosophic on such disparate topics as the symbolism of hands in Sophie Treadwell's Machinal versus Shakespeare's Macbeth, or, I dunno, the benefits of a d-10 system versus a d-20 system, and people will assume I know what I'm talking about, because I'm a sensitive artistic type. I also plan to do strange and exccentric things, like randomly wearing a pirate hat to classes. I won't have a reason for this, but I won't need one. Sensitive artistic types just do things like that.

Hmm. I should buy a beret. Maybe adopt a European accent. Not French, though. Out of Vogue. Are the Brittish still cool? I don't know. I wonder if the kegger people know. They seem to be "with it." They might even be sober enough to ask.