My Luck, I'll End Up in Canada

I'd like to believe that, to be named an official overseas representative of the United States, one must exemplify the highest ideals of what it means to be an American citizen on the world stage: a firm grasp of geopolitics, a reputation for sophisticated public intellectualism, that sort of thing.

Turns out, one just needs a lot of cash and a willingness to lavish it on one's political patrons.

Which, I guess, when you think about it, is a pretty appropriate representation of Americanism after all.

Now that President Obama has secured a second term, the time has come for him to reward his most stalwart supporters with choice ambassadorships around the world.  Top fund-raisers may soon be invited to lead embassies in such desirable locales as London, Paris, and Rome.  While career diplomats--i.e., those who have devoted their lives to public service--get stuck in such garden spots as Yemen and the Sudan, those who wrote nice big checks have to go slumming in Papeete, Tahiti, or Oranjestad, Aruba.

Sure, there's a certain logic to this breakdown of responsibilities: Since trouble is far more likely to flare up in Pakistan than in the Bahamas, it makes sense to have more experienced foreign-service officers in these potential hotspots.  On the other hand, if a billionaire heads an embassy in an underdeveloped land, he or she could probably just buy the country in the event of revolution.

Bottom line, though, this practice of doling out plum ambassadorships to well-heeled political cronies strikes me as more than a little corrupt, and I want in on it!  I'm realistic: I understand that the five dollars I sent to the Obama campaign in 2008 will not get me into the Court of St. James.  But I don't want to get sent to one of those loser countries like Uruguay or Denmark, either!  I've given this a great deal of thought over the last ten minutes, and I think Australia would be perfect: I sort of speak the language (what the hell's a didgeridoo?); I have a full appreciation of grilled meats; and I know the words to every Men at Work song ever recorded.  President Obama, you know where to find me.

Pack up the cats, WOS, we're heading to Canberra!

(WOS: Oh, God, what is it this time?)

Someone's Got a Birthday, I Wonder Who. . .

Well, actually, it's WOS.   So, happy birthday to WOS!  Be back tomorrow.

Eat S*** and Don't Die

I don't always eat lunch, but when I do, I like to spread out at my desk and bring up the New York Times.  Today, however, as I browsed through the front page while chowing down on a salami and provolone sandwich, I came to this article about--

Uh, look, if any of you are enjoying a nice peanut-butter sandwich or, God help us, bowl of chocolate pudding right about now, may I suggest you finish eating before reading further?  I'll wait.

OK?

All right, I came across an article about the latest innovation in gastroenterology: fecal transplants.

Yes, that's right! Suffering from a seemingly incurable intestinal infection?  Forget penicillin!  Forget vancomycin!  What you need is a heaping helping of, well, poop.

Not your OWN poop, mind you.  That would just be gross.  No, you need high-quality material from a healthy donor.  And wouldn't you just love to see the donor information form?  What must it ask?  Frequency?  Consistency?  Bran intake?

How depressing must it be to be turned down?  "I'm sorry, Mr. Hendricks, but your shit don't stink.  In this case, that's a deal-breaker."

Speaking of which, in case you were wondering how the transplanted. . . matter gets into the gut of the sufferer, there are apparently three options: enema, coloscope, or "a tube run through the nose into the stomach or small intestine."  You read that right! Option three calls for a tube--through which someone else's fecal matter will flow--to be placed UP YOUR NOSE.  How sick would you have to be?!?

Still, I suppose this represents an improvement over more traditional fecal transplant therapies: "Books on traditional Chinese medicine mention giving it to people by mouth to cure diarrhea in the fourth century; one book called it yellow soup."

Yeah.  I know.  After "yellow soup," I was pretty much done with my sandwich.

Another Great Moment in Student Service

. . . or, Why I Will Likely Be Passed Over Again for Teacher-of-the-Year.

A student came to my office yesterday.

STUDENT: Excuse me, could I ask you something?

SOLIPSIST: Sure.

STU: Well, I'm in your class tonight.

SOL: English 142?

STU: Yes.

SOL: OK.

STU: And I wanted to make sure of the time.

SOL: Seven o'clock.

STU: OK. . . And what room?

SOL: B-12.

STU: Oh. . . Uh, where's that?

SOL: The Biological Sciences building. [EDITORIAL NOTE: No, I don't teach biology; space is just at a premium on campus.  Classes are held wherever.]

STU: Oh.  Where's THAT?

SOL: Top of the hill.  Just go up those stairs outside, all the way to the top, and the building'll be right in front of you.

STU: OK.  Seven o'clock?

SOL: Yes.

STU: So. . . . Do I meet you here?

SOL: Here. . . ?  In my office?  (STUDENT nods.) No. . . No, you just go to the classroom, and I'll meet the class there.

STU: Oh.  OK.  And it's. . . the Biology building?

SOL: Yes.

STU: What color is it?

SOL: What. . . Uh, wait.  What color is the BUILDING?

[EDITORIAL NOTE: I do not teach in Whoville.  All the buildings are a uniform shade of unremarkable brick.]

STU: Yes.

SOL: Uh. . .  Building-colored?

Baby Steps

I suppose in the current political climate, any suggestion that common ground exists between those who would increase restrictions on guns and those who would like to see a Sherman tank in every driveway should be celebrated.  Still, I'm not sure what to make of this article in yesterday's Times: "Both Sides in Gun Debate Agree: Punish Background-Check Liars."  According to this piece, last year about 80,000 Americans were kept from buying guns after they failed background checks.  Although it is illegal to provide false information in an attempt to buy guns, only 44 of those 80,000 people were charged with a crime.  Just about everyone involved in the gun-control debate thinks this number is too low.  Maybe.
Let's say, though, that President Obama issues an executive order requiring the Justice Department to investigate these liars more thoroughly.  What will this accomplish?  After all, in order to convict someone of a crime, prosecutors must establish that the person knowingly provided false information: A fair number of these people may simply have made a mistake.  As for those who tried deliberately to game the system, how many will be prevented from getting their hands on guns as a result of these new measures?  Since they were willing to commit one crime to acquire a gun, why wouldn't they be willing to commit another one, i.e., avoid the background check altogether and buy a gun on the black market?

If anything, the fact that 80,000 people were, in fact, prevented from buying guns suggests that, contrary to what gun enthusiasts claim, current laws DO (at least kinda sorta work) and ARE (at least kinda sorta) being enforced.  And yet we still have psychopaths managing to (legally) get their hands on guns.  So, y'know, maybe a little added regulation wouldn't be a bad thing?  Maybe?  Hm?

The Buyer's Remorse of the Magi

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.  

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone. . . .  

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.  

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

--O. Henry, "The Gift of the Magi"

And Della flitted lightly into the kitchen and so did not see Jim's smile slowlytransform into a pensive grimace.

"Dinner, Darling," said Della, flitting lightly back again, carrying the Christmas dinner she had lovingly prepared that very afternoon.

Jim sat up, determined not to ruin Della's happiness with any hint of dissatisfaction, but when his eyes fell upon the serving platter, he could not stifle a flash of despair.  "What has happened to the chops, dear Della?"

"Oh, Jim!" wailed Della, flitting lightly about the room.

"Della, please stop flitting.  It's quite distracting."

"After I purchased your chain, I had no money left for the promised chops!  I had hoped you would appreciate this special Christmas dinner nonetheless!"

"It's not that I don't appreciate it, Dell.  But. . . It's porridge."

"Yes."

"We have porridge every night."

"But this is Christmas porridge!"

"What makes it 'Christmas porridge'?"

"The candy cane!"

"Ah, yes, of course. . ."

Della wrung her hands anxiously.

"You don't like it!"

"Well. . . Peppermint-flavored porridge. . . " But seeing his wife's trembling lip and fearing she would start flitting again, Jim straighened up, smiled broadly, and declared, "It shall be our new Christmas tradition!"

Della relaxed, and they both sat down to a Christmas dinner they would remember through all the days and nights of their marital bliss.  As they finished, Jim let out a sigh.

"What is it, my love?"

"Oh, Dell. . . it's nothing."

"No, darling, please tell me."

"Well. . . It is just. . . You understand, I truly appreciate the watch chain."

"Yes, darling!  And I love my combs!"

"Wonderful, my beloved!  But. . . Well, you know. . .After all, your hair will grow back.  And then,
you've got these beautiful combs. . . ."

"And. . . ?  What is your point, my sweetest?"

"Well. . . .I just have this. . . .well, let us face it, useless watch chain."

"Yes."

"I just think you've gotten quite the better of the situation here."

"Well, Jim, I could hardly know that you would go and sell your grandfather's gold watch, could I?"

"No!  No, of course, my love.  Of course. . . "

Della began to flit lightly back to the kitchen.  Then, remembering that this might annoy Jim, she abruptly stopped.  She stood quite still in the small apartment.

"What is it, Dell?"

"Nothing!"

"No, no, something is clearly bothering you.  Let us have it."

"Well, since we're discussing the gifts. . . ."

"Yes?"

"Your grandfather's watch.  That was a GOLD watch.  And all you were able to purchase was a single box of combs?"

"What are you implying?"

"I just think you could have held out for more!"

"Look, I was in a hurry!  I didn't have all day to haggle!  You know how those people are!"

"What do you mean, 'those people'?"

"You know!  The pawn broker!  Meyerowitz!"

"Beloved! I had no idea you could be so petty!  And, frankly, anti-Semitic!"

"I'm not--"

"You know, I am half-Jewish!"

"You are?"

"On my father's side."

"Really?"

"Does that present a problem?"

"No.  No, not at all, my precious."

"Good!"

"You could mentioned that before I spent all that money on a Christmas present."

"Oh, really!  Well if that is how you feel, I will return the combs!"

"No, Dell, no, I won't hear of it. . . ."

"Or perhaps I shall just wait until my hair grows back and sell it again!"

"Dell!"

"Why, what shouldn't I do to keep my beloved husband festooned in timepiece accessories!"

"Now who is being petty?"

"You know, James, there is a word for women who sell their bodies to maintain the lifestyle of their men--and a word for the men whose lifestyles are thus maintained!"

"Della!  I am no whoremonger!"

"And I am no whore!"

"Don't I know it!"

"And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, dearest, nothing at all."

"No, no. . . You obviously have something to say."

"Well, it is just that, we have not had relations--"

"I have had a headache!"

"Since Halloween?!?"

"Darling," Della said, a placatory note suffusing her dulcet voice.  "Let us not do this any longer.  It is Christmas, after all.  And we are together.  And what matter combs or chains, watches or hair, when we have each other.  And life.  And love."

And Jim, mollified, and resigned to another night bereft of relations, smiled at his bride.  "Agreed, Dell.  Agreed."

And with that, the pair reclined together on the worn davenport, a sanctifying snow falling gently on the city streets outside.

"Darling?" Della spoke after several minutes.

"Yes, my love?"

"What time is it?"

"Oh, fuck off."

And Could I Get Little Johnny a Comfier Chair? Or Perhaps a Beverage?

"[P]arents have no idea whether it’s better to be a squeaky wheel, or avoid rocking the boat lest they irritate a teacher who will subsequently take his or her annoyance out on the child, a common parental fear, according to Ms. Lee, and one that’s almost always unwarranted."
--Sara Mosle, "The Dicey Parent-Teacher Duet" (New York Times, January 13, 2013)
 

Yeah. Sure. "Unwarranted."  Because why on earth would a teacher react poorly to being told how to do his or her job by a "well-meaning" parent who only wants to "help" and do what's best for his or her "child."  Like all professionals, teachers appreciate nothing so much as unsolicited advice about how best to do the job they've been trained for and to which they've devoted their entire educational and professional lives.  I myself always make a point of visiting burning buildings and telling firefighters where their hoses should go--advice to which they generally respond with rather personal and painful-sounding suggestions of their own--so I can fully understand the parental impulses discussed in this article.

Still, I feel it my duty to warn parents that not all teachers are as enlightened as I--hence the significant "almost" in the above quote.  Not that teachers will FAIL a child in response to a parent's interventions.  But some teachers might, for example, respond to a mother's suggestion that little Johnny was receiving too much homework by, say, explaining to the class that--since little Johnny's mommy doesn't want him to work too hard--a series of high-stakes pop quizzes will be given to ensure that the students are "getting it" despite the reduced homework load.  Or, a teacher might explain that everyone ELSE will need to do an additional 10 pages of homework per night to make up little Johnny's share of the class's "Mandated Homework Minimum." (Yes, I--or whatever unscrupulous teacher might do such a thing--know there's no such thing, but the students don't!)  Then, I--or, y'know, WHOEVER--might leave the classroom for a few moments so that the rest of the class might thank little Johnny for his mother's valuable suggestions.

So, parents of school-age children, be cautious before approaching your child's teacher with critiques or suggestions.  Make sure the teacher is part of the "vast majority" that values your input, rather than part of the petty and spiteful minority.