Movember, Day 24: The Goatee Is Thankful

The girls and I are currently visiting my parents in Colorado, where I grew up.  Here are a few highlights of our trip so far:

1.  Jilted by TSA
Total letdown by TSA at the San Diego airport.  I wore my best cologne, some special "form-enhancing" underwear, and my patented Come Hither smile, but the screeners didn't even give me a look.  What the hell, security?  You think you can lead me on like that and then ignore me when I'm right in front of you?

I won't be ignored, Dan.


2.  Weather rocks
Colorado remains as awesome as ever.  I love coming here, no matter what time of the year it is.  I especially enjoy this month, the softly graying limbo between Fall and Winter.  The trees have officially lost their leaves, which means when I wake up in the mornings and go out to stand on my parents' porch, tree branches make the stark silhouettes of a crone's fingers against the sunrise, which itself looked like someone spilled gold and pink paint across the sky today.

I love it.  I love it when it's so cold the sky becomes even more intensely, impossibly blue in the middle of the day.  I love it when it turns slate-gray before a coming snowfall.  I love how nighttime here is the hush beneath a warm, dark blanket.   Every time I visit, I wonder why I ever left to go to stupid ol' Southern California.

3.  Held Hostage by the Rockettes
My mom arranged a special treat for the Mini-Pirate this year.  She bought tickets for the whole family to to go see "Christmas with the Rockettes," which is basically a Capade without ice at a nearby sports arena.  We all got dressed up yesterday and drove down to Colorado Springs to witness the spectacle, which is allegedly a scaled-down, leaner version of what they do at Radio City in New York this time of year.  Two hours of tap dancing, Christmas merriment, some pop-and-lock performances by the Radio City Singers, a mammoth nativity scene, and many, many costume changes.

For SaucyWench and me, sitting through the entire spectacle was like being strapped into that Clockwork Orange brainwash chair with our eyelids taped open, our retinas seared with cheerful holiday imagery until our wills were broken.

But for Mini-P... it was sheer Magic Time.  I kept looking over at her -- she was on the edge of her seat, clapping wildly after every number.  I don't think she blinked the entire time.  Which made the whole thing worth it for us droogs.

4.  Movember Thanks
Which brings us to a Movember update.  I was going to shave the goatee down to the classic Burt Reynolds mustache today as promised, both in honor of Thanksgiving and to prepare for my audition in case Hollywood ever follows through with that Cannonball Run remake.  But, well, we're here staying in my parents' house, and Senior Matriarchal Management has informed me that I will not be permitted to ruin our family holiday photos with a giant fuzzy caterpillar moseying across my upper lip.

Message received, Mom.

I'll do the final stachedown on Friday, after the last piece of pumpkin pie has been scarfed down, the last thanks have been given, the last family photo snapped.

Here's the last Movember photo with the full goat.  It's probably good to wait a couple days before baring the bottom half of my face anyway.  I gotta say, the goat keeps my mug warm:

Jealous, Grizzly Adams?

Me and Mini-P on a hike below the Boulder Flatirons.
If you look closely, you'll see that we're dancing, in preparation
for the Rockettes.  Ok, she's dancing.  I'm going for more of a sashay.

I'm thankful for a lot this Thanksgiving, as always.  I'm thankful for the same stuff you are.  And I always feel sheepish that I'm not thankful enough during the rest of the year.  But I do have a particular item on my Gratitude List that wasn't there a year ago:

 I'm thankful that two good friends of mine who had cancer last year do not have it this year.  One had prostate cancer.  He doesn't have it anymore.  I'll never say this to his face (and luckily he only reads this blog when I badger him), but this guy is one of my best friends, someone who's made my existence better.  And last year when he told me had cancer, I was scared.  He's better now.  And so I am better now.

No better reason for Movember, in my book.  We have six days left to raise funds for men's cancer research.  That's right, I slid that "we" in there, in case you haven't thrown a couple bucks in over at my page, or the Team DadCentric page.  There's still time.

Happy Thanksgiving, my loyal and steadfast didactic crew members.  Have a great holiday, and enjoy that tryptophan coma tomorrow night.  I know I will.

Going to the Airport: The Amazing Race

I'm not great with travel.

I say "not great." My wife prefers to call me "tense."  Also, "high-strung."  And "antsy."  And "tight as a brand-new sphincter."

It's not the actual flight.  I have no weird flying phobias.  Once we're in the air and I have my book and three peanuts, I'm so relaxed I'm comatose.  No, my stress is solely about getting to the airport.  

This is me every time we leave on a trip:

It starts as soon as I wake up on the day we leave.  I'm roving around the house.  Checking windows.  Turning lights on and off.  Double-checking our luggage, reconfirming the flight online about fifty or sixty times, just in case there's late breaking news that the entire flight traffic system has accidentally switched the fight numbers for all airlines, and the only way to identify our own flight is to get to the airport really, really early, scout the runways for our own plane, and be prepared to wrestle other passengers to secure the seats we need.

"We're fine," my wife says.  "Relax.  I checked us in online yesterday."

Relax.  Right.  That's just what the terrorists are hoping I'll do.

We need to leave roughly eight hours ahead of time to make sure that we navigate our five-minute commute to the airport.  That's just the way it is.  Be prepared for any and all emergencies, am I right?

The real race begins when we leave the house.  As soon as we lock the door behind us, we're racing the clock, as far as I'm concerned.  It's a race, the countdown is ticking away the seconds, and I'm Jack Bauer.  We get in the car, and I rev that engine.  Everybody in?  Everybody buckled?  Bags in the trunk?  Then let's go!  Go!  Go!

Saucy always wants to leave later than I do, and I always overrule her.  Why?  because there might be traffic.  HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, THERE MIGHT BE TRAFFIC.  Or a train derailment.  or a circus train derailment, with overturned cars that releases a legion of monkeys across the city, which will obviously make us miss our flight.

"No," my wife says, shaking her head.  Naive wife.

She has no idea what I'm prepared to do so get us to the airport on time.  I will mow down every other car on the freeway like that bus in Speed.  I'm prepared to crash this car and commandeer a faster one.  I will ditch the car altogether and leap across traffic with our luggage strapped to my back, run across the roofs of buildings, and ride a zipline down to Passenger Drop-off if I have to.

We pull into the airport, which is clogged with people coming and going, everybody in my way.  Families picking up arriving travelers out front and just standing there, in the middle of my path, hugging each other!  Standing there!  Hugging!  MOVE THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY!  I HAVE A  FLIGHT TO CATCH!

I park us in the long-term lot and leap from the car, ready to sprint down the covered walkway to Check-In.  My wife and daughter do not sprint.  I swear, those two are going to bring down this entire great nation with their slowness.  I do my best to match their meandering pace, all the while trying to nudge them just a little faster.

"Stop nudging me," my wife says.
"But we have to hurry," I plead.  "We're going to be late."
"Take a pill."
"We have to goooo!"
"No."

Inside the terminal, everything in the Check-In area is designed to slow us down.  We stand in line while I tap my foot, check my watch, and listen to the countdown timer in my head.  We've got morons with fifteen kid and 75 pieces of luggage in front of us.  We've got slow-moving idiots who don't know how to work any of the self-check-in kiosks, excited because this is their "first time on one of those miracle flyin' machines!"   I whisper into my watch: Come in, Central. Need assist.  We've got idiots.  Repeat: we have idiots.

"Stop talking to your watch," my wife says.
"I wasn't."
"Yes you were."

I want to leap over them, knock out all obstacles with throat punches, and clear a path for my family.  I want to throw our bags onto the conveyer belt, and tell the attendant behind the counter a ready-made story about  how there's a kidney waiting for us in Denver that's not getting any fresher.  Whatever it takes to speed this shit up.

We make it through check-in.  We're now unencumbered by luggage, which means we can bob and weave more quickly.  We can navigate like jungle cats, darting past strollers, wheelchairs, the group of ambling nuns that just "happen" to suddenly appear in the corridor in front of us.

They will not slow me down.  Not even my family will slow me down now.  I grab my wife and daughter and we race towards the gates and NO THERE IS NO TIME TO GO THE BATHROOM. YOU CAN GO IN COLORADO, NOW MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!  GO, GO, GO!  NOW, NOW NOW!

Then we get stuck waiting in line at security.

I'm in agony.  Our plane is probably boarding this very minute.  They're moments away from closing the big heavy door.  Gaahhh!!  Doomed!

The security proceedings inch forward, of course. Luckily, I had myself prepped and ready before we even reached the end of the line, four miles back.  My shoes off, my belt off, pants off... ok, by the time I get up there I'm naked, but it's because we need to get through this process quickly, people!  Why aren't the rest of you naked!!!  Someone strip that little old lady in the front down and get her ass x-rayed!  (Sure, TSA has now made sure that I don't need to get physically naked anymore -- they do it for me with their radioactive-bombardment machines that will eventually turn us all into The Hulk.  But I like to at least lose the pants, to streamline the process.)

We get through security.  Having a kid usually means they don't give you a hard time.  Plus the being naked thing.

"Sir, please put your clothing back on and proceed to your departure gate."

We race up the stairs.  Sometimes the fastest way is to sprint up the Down escalator on the heads and shoulders of arriving passengers.  I drag my wife and daughter relentlessly.  They don't realize what's at stake if we're late.  I scan the main gate area frantically.  4C... 4C... FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHERE'S 4C???

And then I see it.  Our gate.  The sign shows our flight number and departure, which looks to be on time.  We arrive.  There's not even a line yet.  I flop myself on the counter, breathing hard, sweat dripping from my brow.  We made it.  Thank God, we made it just in time.  I look up gratefully at the attendant at the console in front of me.  I grasp her hand.  Thank you, I say. Thank you for being here.  We're here now too.

I look out the window next to our gate.  There's no plane out there.

The attendant informs me that the plane is still en route from Seattle.  In fact, it isn't due to arrive for two hours.  And there may be a slight delay in takeoff.

I nod.  Sure.  I mop my face with sleeve.  We're going to have to wait here for a few hours.  But the important thing is, we made it on time.  When that plane arrives, we'll be first in line to get on it.

Behind me, my wife is shaking her head at me.  I go to her, and we situate ourselves in some deeply uncomfortable chairs.  Mini-P cracks open her DS and starts playing a game where Mario and Luigi wear penguin suits.

"Excellent," my wife says, settling in with a magazine.  "Now we get to sit here for four hours."  I nod.  I feign being apologetic, but in my head, I'm still Jack Bauer, and I got us here in the nick of time.  Just barely.

We sit idly for a couple minutes, and then my wife looks around.  "I'm hungry.  Is there a Starbuck's somewhere?"

I leap up.  I'M ON IT.

*

P.S. Big thanks to Studio 30Plus, who made me their Featured Blogger this week.  Someone's has  a hefty muffin basket coming their way.

At DadCentric: Me at the Parent-Teacher Conference. It's Not Pretty.

I'm sitting in a tiny red plastic chair designed for a 4th grader.  It's like trying to get comfortable inside a yogurt spoon.

Parent-Teacher Conference.  These meetings aren't supposed to emotional roller coasters.  And yet:

"So," Ms. S says, flipping through a folder with my daughter's name on it, preparing to dive in to a peppy discussion of my daughter's performance so far this year.  I haven't gotten to know Ms. S that well yet this year.  At this point, I know that she is young, bright and enthusiastic; and my whole goal for this conference is to please her.  It's very important that I be her favorite parent in the class.  So much so, that I'm actually a little nervous in this moment.  Because obviously, none of this is about my daughter at all.  It's about me.

Click here to DadCentric to read the rest of this post and find out what neurotic parents like me are thinking during these meetings. 

P.S. This post is dedicated to Meangirl Garage, who recently finished up Parent-Teacher conferences from the other side of the table.  Check her out.  She writes about other stuff beyond just teaching.  Like sex toys, for example.

***

How about a quick Movember update?  Day 19.

The goat's looking a little rough around the edges.  It's time for the next step, as we work our way down to the final 'stachegasm.  You tell me: Mustache and chin moss?  Mustache and soul patch?  Mustache and gigantic clown wig?

And have you donated, either in my name or Team DadCentric?  Cancer bad cancer bad cancer bad.  Couple of bucks.  Don't make me bring General Zod out here.  He has a mustache and laser eyes.

Movember, Day 17: Cower Before the Goatee

So this whole Movember thing is moving right along.  Turns out it takes very little effort to devote your face to helping fight men's cancer by basically... not shaving for a month.  I've been making some extra effort, though.  Each morning before I get dressed, I do forty Face Crunches to tone things up, reinvigorate the follicles, and increase the growth.  I'm also rubbing my face with Rogaine every night, for good measure.  It burns the eyes, but all for a good cause, am I right?

The actual Movember rules state that participants are supposed to grow a 'stache only, sans beard, presumably for maximum public ridicule.  I'm going to get there in stages; I started off the month with an unkempt, feral-looking mess, and am now whittling it down week by week. My plan is to end on the 30th with a finely cultivated, dapper mustache.

This week's stage: Goatee.

Goatees are tricky.  If you grow one, you have to know what it says about you.  On some guys, a goatee says, "Hi.  I enjoy Green Tea  Tea Lattés and reading poetry at Open Mic Nights.  I like talking about feelings."

On others, it says, "I'm a badass.  Check out my Daughtry cover band tonight at the Doubletree off Route 45.  We play after the headlining band because I don't get off my Wal-Mart shift  until 7.  You should totally check us out."

And on some, a goatee says, "Good morning, class!  I'm an authority figure, but I'm cool like you!  Twitter!  Cee-Lo! TFLN!  See?"

Hmm.  On me, a goatee seems to be saying something different:

Kneel.  KNEEL BEFORE ZOD.

Cower before me, Puny Cancer.  I shall CRUSH you, with my army of facially hirsute warriors.  You shall feel the pain of a thousand mustaches!  You shall be pulverized, shattered into powder. I shall stand over you, and laugh with the strength of one who leaves only despair and chaos in his wake.  You shall REGRET THE DAY YOU EVER CAME TO EARTH.  HAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

And you, Human: you, who have not yet donated to fight Earth Man Cancer.  You will go here now and contribute in either my name, or that of my team.  If you do not, my goatee will seek you out, make you crumble to your knees where you will writhe in agony and RUE THE DAY.

Dying is Easy. Comedy's Hard.

Her:  Daddy, I have a joke.  Do you want to hear it?

Me:  Absolutely.  Tell me a joke.

Her:  You’re going to laugh so hard, it’s so funny!  Are you ready?

Me:  I’m ready. Lay it on me, Leno.

Her:  Ok.  These two dogs walk into a bar.  I mean, wait – not dogs.  Two men.  There are two men, and they walk into a bar, and they have dogs.  They both have dogs.  I messed up before.  And also, they’re blind.

Me:  Who’s blind?  The dogs are blind?

Her:  Yes.  I mean, no.  Don't mess me up!  Let me start over.  There are two men who walk into a bar, and they’re blind, and they have dogs, and then there’s a bartender and the bartender says that there are no dogs allowed.  Oh, and one dog is a Chihuahua.  That’s really important, so don’t forget.

Me:  One dog is a Chihuahua.  Got it.

Her:  So there are the two men, and the one dog who's not a Chihuahua, and the other dog that is a Chihuahua, and the bartender says........ wait.  They walk into the bar and they say that they want beer.  So they ask the bartender for beer, and the bartender says they don’t serve beer there.  

Me:  The bartender says they don’t serve beer at the bar?

Her:  No, they…hold on.  They do serve beer at the bar.  But they don’t serve beer to dogs.  I mean... wait, thats not right.  What it actually is, is the bartender?  He says they can't have dogs in the bar, unless they're the kind of dogs that help blind people.  What are those dogs called again?  

Me:  Seeing-eye dogs.

Her:  Yes!  Seeing-eye dogs!  The dogs are seeing-eye dogs, ok, that help the blind men with stuff, and the bartender says "No Dogs Allowed in This Bar!"  And then one blind man says but this is my seeing-eye dog so it’s ok!  And then the bartender says, "Nuh uh, that’s a CHIHUAHUA!!!!"

(Daughter collapses in hysterical laughter at own joke.)

Me: .........

Her:  Do you get it?

Me:  I'm not sure.  I think I missed something.

Her:   See, the second man is blind!!!

Me:  No, I know.  But I don’t… did you skip a part?

Her:  No I didn't!  It’s so funny!

Me:  Ok.

Her:  Why aren't you laughing?

Me:  I am.  I think I just got a little confused.

Her:  See, ok, see, the two men are in the bar, but they’re blind, and so they can’t see!  And the bartender says that the one dog is a Chihuahua, and the second man is all, "Chihuahua?"  HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!  (Daughter falls to the floor in a laughing fit.)

Me:  Huh?

Her:  Chihuahua!

Me:  Um.  Ohhhhhhh.  Ok, sure.  Sure, Chihuahua.  Yea, Chihuahua!  I get it!  Boy, that’s a good one.  Well done, kiddo.

Her:  Don't you get it, Daddy?

Me:  Oh, yea.  I definitely get it.  That’s really a good one.

Her:  I don’t think you get it.  Here, let me start over.  There are two men, and they have dogs.

Me:  And one of the dogs is a Chihuahua?

Her:  DON'T MESS ME UP!

Movember, Day Twelve: Situation Getting Hairy

It's time to make a decision.  I can't keep walking around like this.  After not shaving for 12 days, I'm experiencing some challenges.  I mean, I'm tough -- I can take it.  My face is curing cancer here.  There will need to be sacrifices.  But after 12 days off the razor, here's what's happening:

1.  My daughter is starting to stare at me with increasing suspicion.  She doesn't trust my face anymore.  Apparently, I look shifty with a beard.

2.  My face is starting to distract my students.  You don't think they notice when you change your appearance, but they totally do.  I walked into class the other day and one of my students raised his hand and said that he'd been selected by the group to ask "what was up with my face."

3.  My wife isn't down with the smooches when my face is this hairy.  She says it's like kissing a yeti.  (She used to date one in college.  Apparently he was a dick.)  I've said from the beginning that if this whole Movember thing gets in the way of me getting the smooches, I'm out.

4. My entire face is ITCHY as hell.

5.  Turns out a full beard coupled with a bald head looks even weirder than I expected.  It's not uncommon for me to go a few days without shaving -- in fact, I'm usually most comfortable with some scruff on the mug.  (When both my head and face are freshly shaven, I look like a giant thumb.)  Originally, I'd hoped that a full beard coupled with a bald pate would make me look like a badass lumberjack, or maybe a bouncer at a cool club.  Instead, I look like a frequent patron at a bear bar in the more colorful part of town.

  I haven't seen recent face updates from most of my DadCentric teammates, but somehow, they're managing to maintain a more gradual, carefully moderated growth.  (Although I will say that the stubble on Homemaker Man's upper lip is looking impressively lustrous lately.)

No one said curing cancer would be easy.  I'm still in, all the way.  But it's definitely time to do some grooming.  By Monday, I'll return with something that helps me look a little less like Tom Hanks in Castaway, and a little more like someone who lives in the civilized world.  I'm thinking I might slowly whittle this hairy mess down over the next couple weeks: maybe a more trimmed beard first, then a goatee, then a mustache/soul patch situation, culminating with a full, glorious Magnum P.I. at the end of the month.

You know what you should do?  Go to Team DadCentric's Movember page and donate a couple bucks that goes straight to men's cancer research.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to outside and chop down some high timber.

The Mighty Cheating Weasels of UCF

I only cheated one time in school.  It was 11th grade.  I was taking AP Physics, due to a major scheduling misstep.  The class was comprised of 25 overachieving brain trusts... and me.   In terms of intelligence, I was less of a brain trust and more like Bobo, your pet golden retriever, staring around at everyone else with a big stupid grin on my face: Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Hi everybody!  What's that big shiny thing over there?!  Are we inside or outside?!?

I was in over my head, and my assignment grades were plummeting.  So I cheated on a test by looking onto a fellow student's paper and copying answers.  I cheated out of panic.  I cheated because I was sure I was too dumb to pass on my own merit or intelligence.

I got caught, of course.  The teacher called me in for a meeting afterwards, to confront me.  I sat in his office, feeling trapped, miserable and terrified. He gave me the chance to confess, which I did, immediately.  Because of that, my teacher showed great leniency; rather than failing me in the class and reporting me to the administration, he had me retake the test.  I probably looked so terrified and pathetic sitting in front of him, he realized that an receiving a big fat F would send me into paroxysms of guilt so intense I'd end up having some sort of seizure right there on his Formica floor.

I learned my lesson.  I never did it again.  Not in high school, not in college.

Now that I teach college writing, I have an absolute zero-tolerance policy when it comes to cheating.  It's the quickest way to fail my class in one shot.  No bargaining, no mercy, no second chances.  I tell my students on the first day of the semester: Plagiarism is an immediate sledgehammer to the kneecap of your grade.  Don't do it. 

So when I read about a Massive Cheating Event (or as we say in academia, a Confluence of Crapweasels) that took place this week at the University of Central Florida, I felt my pirate ire rising.  Both by the event, and by some of the student reactions later.

This is being called the biggest cheating scandal this school has ever seen.  Here's the lowdown:

Dr. Richard Quinn teaches undergraduate business classes at UCF, and after giving a recent mid-term, he discovered that one-third of the class had cheated by using a stolen answer key.  It's a class of 600, so we're talking about 200 students cheating.  Soon, Dr. Quinn had a list of the cheaters' names, thanks to some fancy forensics and digital fingerprint work.

 This ABC news video sums it up well, and includes sound bytes from a couple students, one of whom I want to smack hard.  Watch it and guess which one.  (Update: the original link has changed.  Apparently, Yahoo News doesn't keep their links up for more than 24 hours or something.  Sorry.)

After learning what his students had done, Dr. Quinn delivered a lecture to his class the next day where he gave his class a full-on, no-holds-barred beat down.  But, y'know -- professionally.  He maintained his composure, although you can see how upset he was.  He explained to the students that he'd tossed the old test results and that there would soon be a new, cheater-proof exam ready.  Everyone would have to take it, whether they'd cheated or not.  He then went on to explain that while various entities on campus were gearing up for an even bigger smackdown on the cheaters, he'd decided to approach the Dean with a deal: if the cheaters confessed, individually and privately, they'd be allowed to retake the exam with everyone else and there'd be no penalty beyond that.  Stay silent, and risk Big Bad Repercussions that might include expulsion.  (The video below is his full 15-minute speech.)


Professor Speech About Cheating from Knight News on Vimeo.

This was a class of seniors, by the way, all expecting to graduate this year.  Seniors.  About to graduate with a Business degree.  Hoping to enter the world of Business.  You know, Business?  Where ethics should be sort of a big deal?

I'm particularly outraged at what the second student says in the ABC video -- this kid is all pouty about the disciplinary actions, calls the investigation a witch hunt, and says it shouldn't be made into a big deal.  Why?  Because, as he says, "This is college.  Everybody cheats.  Everyone cheats in life."

Seriously, Kid?  That's the big lesson you're talking out of college?  Please, depress me more.  (SaucyWench pointed out something awesome, though.  This guy, with his Everyone-Does-It-Therefore-It's-Not-Wrong theorem, has now been televised, with his name pasted across the screen.  Good luck getting a job after graduation, bro.)

I'm sure students have cheated in my classes and gotten away with it.  Since my assignments are all papers instead of tests, plagiarism is actually harder to pull off.  Typically, I stumble upon accidental plagiarism more than anything else: a student who overquotes a source and puts his citation in the wrong spot, stuff like that.  Which is part of my job to teach anyway.

But every once in a while, I do come across a paper from a student that he or she clearly didn't write.  It's actually pretty easy to catch when it happens.

When it does, the resulting conversation is never fun.  I don't enjoy busting cheaters, despite what some of my past posts might say (heh).  There's no pleasure there.  True, I don't take it as personally as Dr. Quinn did.  When a student cheats, it's never a vendetta against me, an arch-villain's effort to destroy my mission for Truth, Justice, and Proper Source Documentation.  And while it's true that some students cheat because they're lazy, arrogant, or just possess inherent weasel-like qualities, others students will cheat because they're panicking, or feeling trapped.  Or convinced they can't pass the course on merit and brain power alone.  Sort of like me in 11th grade AP Physics.

This case in UCF is different.  Remember, we're talking about 200 students in this case, who seemed to feel totally comfortable in their cheating weaselhood.  Frankly, I think Dr. Quinn was way too lenient on them, allowing them a retake.  These people knew exactly what they were doing, and felt totally fine with it.  Some of them were bragging to non-cheating friends about it later.

When I watch this footage of Dr. Quinn delivering his High Noon lecture, I feel bad for him.  What's he supposed to do, now that he feels surrounded by Cheating Weasels?  This has permanently changed the way he's going to view students from now on.

What will I do the next time I discover a Cheating Weasel?  Propose a do-over, like Dr. Quinn did?  Offer redemption, like my 11th grade science teacher?  Or will I go with a sledgehammer to the academic kneecap?

At the moment, I'm sticking with sledgehammer.  Why?  Because if I don't, I'm perpetuating what that second kid said in the video:

"Everybody cheats."

And I just can't live with that.

Wordless Wednesday: How to Give My Wife a Heart Attack

Me: Honey, look what we found in the backyard!

Her: GAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Muy Macho Edition

I haven't gone Random in a few weeks, but this is a good day for it.  So let's roll.  (With word up to Super Keely the Unmom, proprietor of RTT.)



1.  Movember, Day Eight
Here's the latest progress in my face's ongoing quest to a) fight cancer, and b) turn me into a bald, wilderness-dwelling survivalist:

It's probably a little tough to see the freshly grown machismo on my face, due to the blinding light reflecting off my shiny forehead.  But it's coming along well.

You can get an update on Team DadCentric's progress here.  There's some very, very manly scruffiness happening across the board.  Still no idea what Movember is all about?  Itching to find a fast and easy way to donate a few bucks towards men's cancer research?  Click here.

I'm going to have to make a facescaping decision soon: full beard?  Goatee?  Chin moss?  Soul patch, for the obnoxious coffeehouse poet in me?  I'm pretty sure the official Movember rules state you're supposed to grow out just the 'stache, with no other facial adornment.  But if I do that, you guys, I'm going to look like a discount 70s porn star who's desperate for work.  Even if I had hair on my head, a solo 'stache would look strange -- but considering I have no head hair, it would just look freakish.  I have to stand in front of 100 students twice a week, people.  I'd like to try and hang onto that last tiny shred of respect I've got left in the classroom.  As it is, they're already looking at me apprehensively with the facial hair I've cultivated so far.  One student (who feels way too comfortable being honest with me) said that a full beard makes me look like a serial killer.

I don't know what he's talking about.  Although I did decide that I'm going to walk into all my classes looking like this today:

Wait! Come back!  Let's diagram some sentences!

2.  Climbing the Mountain on the Backs of the Oppressed
If I ever write a memoir about teaching, I think that will be the title.  I just finished scaling Everest grading a mammoth stack of papers.  The assignment was to write a researched editorial piece that presents a unique take on a local or regionally focused issue -- something current.  (I had to add a special addendum on the assignment sheet explaining that the paper must be plagiarism-free.  Sometimes you have to actually articulate it.)   They could pick any issue they wanted; it didn't have to be something on last week's California ballot, although that was fine if they wanted to go that way.  I told them they could pick any topic they wanted.  Here's a sampling of some of the titles I received:

Pot Rocks!
Marijuana for the Masses
Freedom to Toke
It's for Medicinal Purposes, Dammit
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of a Sweet High


and:


Mexico: The Silent Storm Lurking at Our Doorstep

I'm still not quite sure what that last one is actually about.  And I read it twice.

3.  Atrophy, Thy Name Is... My Name
Thanks to work, child, and personal lassitude, it's been about a week since I've gone to the gym to pick up heavy things and put them down again several times in a row.  Sure, I know what you'll say: cultivating this massive beard is a form of exertion in itself.  Shouldn't it count as exercise?  Yes, yes it should.  It doesn't grow like this on its own, folks.  It requires effort.  I've actually been doing 15 face crunches a day to help push this scruff out so quickly.

Most people think lifting weights is boring.  They're right.  But I like that.  Lately, it seems that the only way my brain can stop spinning in its pan is to do something repetitive and monotonous that requires little or no cognitive reasoning.  It helps me stop thinking,  lowers my stress, keeps me chill, and apparently ensures that I'm more pleasant for my family to be around later.  (What am I like when I don't exercise?  See above photo.)  I need to get back to my routine soon.  It's good for me, good for family, and frankly, good for America.

4.  Links: DadCentric and CultureBrats
I'm over at DadCentric today with a new post.  It's about how the Mini-Pirate came up with a great pretend game to play with me, and how I subsequently crapped all over it.  And made her cry.  Awesome.  Yet another entry in my ongoing (lifelong), "How to be a Better Dad than Me" series.

On the less guilt-ridden side, I've also been recapping AMC's new zombie series The Walking Dead over at Culture Brats.  My take on the second episode is here.  Check it out.  There's viscera.

Movember Day Five: Does watching my beard grow count as procrastination?

Day Five in my face's ongoing quest to fight men's cancer (click this Movember link to understand what exactly the hell that means):

Not channeling Chuck Norris yet, but I can see some decent progress.  The good news is my facial hair grows pretty quickly.  The bad news will be when I see exactly how much of said hair is gray.

This entire Movember process is clearly a worthy cause, but I can already tell I'm going to get real sick of posting pics of my sorry mug every few days.  Which means you're probably going to get sick of seeing it.  Sorry 'bout that.  Just remember:  Cancer bad!  You can click here to get to my Movember page, and donate anything you can by clicking on Donate to Me or Donate to My Team.  (Team DadCentric -- a noble team of 'stache growers if ever there was).

In other news:  I'm currently buried under a stack of student research papers which I collected this week, but I'm trying really hard not to complain about it.  After all, I'm the one who gave the assignment in the first place.  If I could only teach writing via rigorous multiple choice tests.  Would that be so wrong?  Do you actually have to write stuff to become a better writer?  Discuss amongst yourselves.

I'm sure I'll grade my way through the stack quickly.  I just need to buckle down and do it.  No procrastinating.  Just sit down with a sturdy pen, my grading scale, and a healthy amount of angst and vindictiveness.  (I kid.)

Before I get started, though, I should probably organize my desk.  I mean, it's seriously cluttered.  How can anybody work like this?  Post-its and soda cans everywhere.  And where did all these potato chip crumbs come from?   I'll just put a few things away, clear some surface space, then settle in for some productive grading.

I should probably check my email first too.  My inbox is pretty full.  There could be some important correspondence in there.  Who knows how many distressed Middle Eastern heiresses currently need my help and bank account information to temporarily store their funds as they prepare to sneak out from under the oppressive regime of their war-torn country?  So I'll organize my desk (for better grading efficiency), and check email (to help heiresses).

And maybe run out and get the oil changed in the Volvo real quick.  It's been a while, and you don't want to let that sort of thing go.  I'm pretty sure it's long past the miles written on the little windshield sticker.  Sometimes when it's warm, cars with dirty oil circulating in their engines literally explode on the freeway.  It would be irresponsible if I didn't get that taken care of right away.  I drive my child around in that car for God's sakes.  So: desk organizing, email, and oil change.  Then straight to grading.

And get a flu shot.  I literally just read an article about how we can expect five different strains of exotic influenza this winter, all of which come with a fever so dangerous it can melt your brain until your skull is nothing more than a bowl of bubbling goat cheese.  That's not ok!  I wouldn't be any good to my family then!  Or my students!  Putting off a flu shot would be damn irresponsible.  So, ok: Desk.  Email.  Oil change.  Flu shot. Then straight to grading, where I will methodically evaluate 93 essays and not stand up until I'm finished.

Of course, by the time I'm ready to start grading, it'll be time to check on my beard progress and write another blog post about it.  I can't blow that off -- we're fighting cancer here, people.  Cancer.  How can I possibly grade essays when there's cancer out there?  If I don't document my facial hair growth in meticulous detail, CANCER WINS.

So: Organize desk.  Check email.  Change oil in Saturn to prevent spontaneous engine explosion.  Get flu shot to prevent brain bubbling.  Write another blog post about my face that will cure cancer.

Then I'm totally going to get to work on those essays.

Unless you need me to run any errands for you.  Just let me know.

Sources of Depression: Election Results vs. Grading

Big fat depressing day today.

Possibly slightly vaguely a little bit because of the election results.  I'm not particularly pleased with what I read in the paper on this post-vote morning, but I doubt I would've been doing the Happy Spaz Dance if things had turned out differently.  I don't know. I voted, I made sure I knew what the hell I was doing.  I read up on the candidates and the big ballot issues, found articles written from multiple perspectives.  I gave my options careful thought before I filled in my little bubbles.  Like a lot of other moderates, I saw two paths diverging in the wood, and had to pick one.

My problem is what my problem always is: imagining the big-picture, long-term results of my choices.  I don't have the confidence that others do when I vote -- that Magic 8-Ball Faith that my vote will lead to the civil rights protections, fiscal healing, smarter spending, yaddah yaddah.  But what's done is done.  New votes, new paths.  The media loves calling this year a "Republican resurgence."  ("Republican tsunami" was probably a tad over the top.)  In a few more years, we'll all see how that went.

But even though I'm not particularly thrilled with how the election went, I don't think it's why I've got a big, grumpy Depression Monkey sitting on my shoulders today, picking Lice of Malaise of its sorry self. (Heh.)   The real reason might be because I just collected stacks of essays from all my students yesterday, and every time I think about cranking up the grading machine, I want to crawl back into bed.

My classes focus on argument: examining them, reacting to them, and writing them.  My students just handed in papers with an editorial focus, some sort of persuasive intention.  Past experience has taught me that I can expect to find the following when I start reading:

 5% of the papers will fulfill the job I assigned, written by students who put real effort into writing a well-crafted essay that both meets the assignment requirements, and shows some creative thought.  Excellent.  Awesome.  Aces to those students.  Ye make my job enjoyable, ye do.

10% of the papers will come from students who may have missed the mark, but tried really hard.  They're intimidated by writing, they were freaked out by the assignment itself, but they worked through their fear of writing and really tried.  Those are the hardest papers to grade.  If I could give A's for effort alone, I would.  While I'm at it, I'd also like to give A's for nobility, courage, and stout-heartedness.  Still.  This particular group makes teaching feel worthwhile and important.

10% will start strong, but will start to meander around on page 2, explore new ideas, and show some impressive stream of consciousness.  This is because those students wrote the first couple of pages early on, and then wrote the rest of the essay one hour before it was due.  You can literally see the spot on the page when things start to fall apart.  If the spot occurs late in the essay,  they're likely looking at a B-.   Any earlier, and they can expect something around C level.

15% of these papers will be about the same topic.  That topic will be why California should legalize pot.  15% of the papers are always about that, no matter what the assignment is.  Intriguing.

20% of the papers will meet the length approximations I gave them, but will do so by exhibiting margins fatter than damn picture frames in the Louvre.  Plus line spacing so wide you could drive a luxury car through the paragraph breaks.  Because they think their teacher is an idiot who won't notice that sort of thing.

15% of the papers will not actually address the assignment they were given.  I sat down with those students a week ago when I read their rough drafts, to explain this to them.  They nodded at me and said, Yea I get it, I'll make sure this works better.  I said Great, talk to me if you have any questions.  None of those students did so.  Their papers will exhibit the same off-topic craziness, but those students will prefer to hand that in instead of going back and crafting some new writing

5% of the papers will be plagiarized, but it'll be done so effectively I won't be able to catch it.

And...

20% of the papers will have big, lofty, authoritative opinions running through them... but with virtually no evidence or support to stand on.  We've spent weeks in class discussing how to draw conclusions based on what we discover through research.  Which is awesome, except that students hate research and will do anything to get out of it.  They think a two-minute Google search (pot+legalize+awesome) counts.  That's the big challenge, I've found -- teaching the idea that having an opinion comes with the responsibility of knowing where it came from, and being able to substantiate it.  Too many of my students have no problem showing off big opinions, but don't seem concerned with figuring out what's influenced them.

I wonder how many people like that walked into voting booths yesterday.  (Zing!  See what I did there?)

I probably shouldn't schedule essay deadlines on election days.  it just feeds the Depression Monkey.

Welp, I better get started with the grading.  The future certainly won't crap all over its own potential by itself, will it?