Seinfeld Time-Warp: an exercise in becoming self-aware

I have a tendency to repeat myself, usually when rehashing anecdotes or tidbits of useless information (which I'm full of. Don't believe me? Just wait!). I'll forget that I've told someone something and start reading from the script in my head. Even if the person has already heard the what I have to say, I still feel the need to finish so as not to develop a brain aneurysm. It's like I need to retell a story X number of times in order to fulfill a quota, the amount of which is not readily known to me. Does that even make sense?

Anyway, I've found this gaping hole in a Seinfeld episode, pertaining to its passage of time. I bring this up because the episode was on last night. I've brought up this example to several people, and I feel that by writing it down here I'll accomplish two things: 1.) it'll eat up a portion of my quota, and 2.) I can refer people to this post in lieu of telling them the same story for the 20th time. I do have a tendency to repeat myself, you know.

So the Seinfeld episode I'm talking about is titled "The Nap." Here's a brief recap: Jerry has hired a carpenter to make him some new cabinets; however, this guy needs his hand held through every step of the process, which causes Jerry to achieve a Larry David level of frustration. Meanwhile, George finds that without a midday nap, he's not able to function properly. So he asks this carpenter--Connie, Conrad, Con; whatever you prefer--to expand the space beneath his desk at work to accommodate his sleeping on the job.

Kramer can't seem to find a pool big or free enough to satisfy his need for swimming 8 million laps a day, so he begins to swim in the East River. Elaine's boyfriend has a bad back and he buys her an orthopedic bed from the Lumbar Yard. She gets offended, figuring he's "expecting a roll in the supportive hay." She gives the bed to Kramer who funkifies it with East River stink. When Elaine confronts her boyfriend about the bed, he tells her that he ordered the bed with her body dimensions in mind. Instantly, she feels flattered and asks Kramer to return the mattress, which is when she finds out that Kramer has funkified the mattress.

Jesus Christ, what a shitty summary. Good thing I don't start teaching two sections of Comp in the next two weeks.

ANYWAY, to get to my point I'll skip some of the nuances of the episode, since I haven't been concise so far. The massive time-warp occurs at the end of the episode. Elaine is trying to move the stanky mattress out of her apartment, but her back goes out and she becomes trapped under the bed of funk. She calls Jerry to come help her out. At the same time, the ticking of an alarm clock in George's work desk causes George Steinbrenner, his boss, to alert the authorities. Earlier in the episode George was trapped under his desk mid-map when Steinbrenner came looking for him and wouldn't leave his office. George called Jerry and told him to call in a bomb threat. The call to the bomb squad is warranted.

Cut to Kramer preparing to do laps in the East River, only to find that Elaine's boyfriend has told his chiropractor how swimming in the East River has worked wonders for his back, and that the chiropractor recommended it to all of his patients.

Cut to the bomb squad sawing through the desk to find out if there's a bomb in there. Then cut back to the East River where all Kramer's laps are being impeded by all of the chiropractor's patients. Including Elaine, who just moments ago was trapped under a funky mattress. That's the time-warp. The way the episode is setup makes it seem as though this is all happening in the same day. If there was a call to a bomb squad, they certainly wouldn't wait a day to show up to the site. Especially when that site is in Yankee stadium, where George works.

How did Elaine get to the East River so fast?

God, that was exhausting. Probably even more so for those of you just read it. Sorry about that. Maybe I won't need to ever repeat this or any other story, now that I know what it's like to be on the other end of them.

Bulls. Wolves. Minneapolis. March. I'm there.

So, here's a quick update on the Bulls-Wolves tickets I had written about in a previous post. I ended up shelling out the cash for two more Green Mill pizzas. They were on sale for $5 a piece at Cub, so I figured why not. That brings the total money spent on pizzas to $24. Add postage (for sending in all the paperwork), round up, and we're at $25 total.

The tickets arrived today, and I expected to see two things: a high number after the Aisle/Row heading and a low number after the price. Instead, I was surprised to find that the "Eat like a Wolf" promotion dishes out good seats. Mine are 100-level seats that have a face-value of $40 a pop. The T-Wolves website gives you a 3-D preview of your seats here (ours are section 126, row R). Not too bad.

So my point is that if you come across one of these free ticket promotions, go for it. Even if you initially toss out the required proofs of purchase, it's still worth it.

Paradigm shift in sports writing

For the longest time, I had this irrational hatred of Bill Simmons's writing. I think it stemmed from my very rational hatred for ESPN (which contains some of the most self-serving, hackneyed programming on television today). Whenever I read an article by Simmons, I'd redirect my anger that I have for his employer and apply it toward his specific work. Recently, however, I've been able to compartmentalize my hostilities, and I think that's largely in part to the fact that he can really write.

Which is kinda the point of his latest article on ESPN. (I know, I know--if I hate ESPN so much, why do I keep reading? Answer's simple: I...uh... No comment.) Anyway, if you have the time you should read his take on the new boxing movie, The Fighter. It's not just a movie review; he's also commenting on the state of sports movies and how they've had to evolve from the formulaic story lines of the last thirty-plus years. Sports movies today have to compete with the high quality sports documentaries you find on the indie screen, HBO, and (surprise, surprise) ESPN.

But he hits the nail on the head when he states that in order to compete with documented "real life" stories, fiction writers need to step it up. He compares this need for producing better stories in film to what has become the new standard in television drama: compelling, character-driven narrative (like "The Sopranos," "The Wire," and "Mad Men"). It's my belief that these shows were the result of television screenwriters needing to compete with "reality TV" for viewers. The only way these shows were going to succeed at drawing in viewers was to produce something worth watching.

For a more articulate take, check out Bill Simmons's story here.

So, let's see what's in the news.

Hey! Obama signed the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" into law. Great news for a section of our brave soldiers who have served their country, while being forced to mask their identity. That's progress!

Of course, you wouldn't necessarily get that sense of forward-thinking if you saw the Star Tribune's website today. Check out this screen shot on their main page:

Notice anything that seems a little, I don't know, backwards? How about the highlighted subheading for this story, which reads, "Gays"? One could make the argument that on its own the word "gays" isn't necessarily homophobic. But given the fact that the word is used as a category or tag for a story on gay rights, it does appear to be about as sensitive as a thick foot callous.

I wonder if this is a reflection on the Strib's obliviousness to decency, or if the newspaper is catering to a specific audience. Either way, the use of the word "Gays" here is definitely inappropriate. And I think the Strib caught on, since they updated their website an hour later.

"Ban repealed." Why didn't they go with that in the first place?

Fifteen steps to insanity

1. I planned on purchasing tickets to the Wolves-Bulls game that takes place in March.
2. We needed--yes, needed--frozen pizzas.
3. The market had coupons glued to one of its freezer doors, stating that the purchase of two Green Mill pizzas would yield two tickets to any Timberwolves home game.
4. Green Mill pizzas are not very good, and they're definitely not worth $7 a pop.
5. But two tickets and two pizzas for $14? I figured, why not.
6. Here's what the T-Wolves front office needed in exchange for the tickets: the coupon from the market, a copy of my receipt, proofs of purchase from each pizza box, a form stating to which game I'd like tickets.
7. I was surprised they didn't ask for video of me eating the pizza to ensure that I didn't just throw it away.
8. I almost took care of sending in all the necessary documentation right away, but to do so I would have had to scan said documentation (for my own records).
9. Because I didn't feel like plugging my computer into the printer, the papers didn't get scanned and the request for tickets was not mailed.
10. Kate and I made and ate the pizzas over the next few days, and we confirmed that Green Mill pizzas are not very good.
11. But, hey. Even when pizza's not very good, it's still pizza.
12. At least, that's what I tell myself after eating mediocre pizza.
13. Today I realized that I forgot to remove the proofs of purchase from both of the Green Mill boxes.
14. The trashman picked up recycling on Thursday, so those boxes are long gone.
15. I'm debating whether or not it's worth buying two more pizzas (which would bring my total up to $28) for tickets that probably go for $10 a piece at face value.

Weirdest Conversation Ever: a fitting example as to why my dad should lay off the texting

This is an actual conversation between my dad and me that took place via text message just a short while ago. Most of my responses are just as confusing as his initial remarks because I was so taken aback by confusion that my mind stopped working correctly. Other than that, I really don't know what to say about it. Maybe someone can tell me what it means.

Dad: This is from a commercial why squirrels hate me.

Me: I don't understand the commercial/squirrel thing.

Dad: The director is filming a commercial.

Me: What director?

Dad: The director is filming a commercial featuring a squirrel who won't cooperate.

Me: Okay. But who is this director you're talking about?

Dad: I had a call and pressed the wrong button.

Me: Buttons too small?

Dad: I was making a joke referencing a TV commercial. You had to see it.

Me: I guess so.

Dad: Love you.

Me: Love you, too.

???

Grow Up

One of the reasons I love watching football is to hear the inadvertent sexual innuendo created by the play-by-play guys who are using terms relevant to the game. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m too immature, a child with his mind in the gutter, a pervert. Maybe I’m making comments sound dirtier than they really are. Next time you watch a game, really listen to what the announcers say. I might be on to something. You tell me.

Here are actual phrases and snippets from football commentators:

• The O-line prevents any further penetration
• He sneaks in unmolested
• Sack production numbers
• Ball’s loose, ball’s out, the ball’s been stripped—anything pertaining to the word “ball”
• Anytime you’ve got a red hot quarterback, you’ve gotta run that spread
• He fires one right in that hole
• The Packers take a pounding, The Packers are getting punished, The Packers, Packer fans—anything pertaining to the word “packers”

I rest my case.

Four plus months in south Minnie

When we first moved to south Minneapolis, Kate and I asked our landlord what the neighborhood was like. He told us that it’s nice, but that five years ago it was a different story. For example, residents got mugged walking through Powderhorn Park (about five blocks away), and the convenience store two blocks from our apartment would get robbed on a daily basis. These things still happen, just not with the frequency with which they occurred in the past. Still, some even hairier shit has taken place in our neighborhood over the last month.

There have been nights we’ve heard what sounds like the crack of gunfire. We’ve passed it off as fireworks, mainly because police sirens never follow. One night, I heard three quick pops in the distance. They were too quick in procession and sounded too tinny to be M-80s or Black Cats. But again, sirens didn’t follow. So I passed it off as nothing.

The next day, a story ran in the Strib about a drive-by, six blocks away. A 12 year-old girl was shot in the neck outside of her house. She’s now paralyzed, and the outlook of her ever walking again looks grim. The reported time of the drive-by matched the time I heard those pops.

Then, while my mom was in town for Thanksgiving, news broke that four teens sexually assaulted a 45 year-old woman in front of her two children in Powderhorn Park. Afterward, three of the teens forced two teenage girls into a garage a few blocks away from the first incident and unsuccessfully attempted to rape them.

The bad news didn’t stop there. Days later, there was a story about a standoff nearby, where a man held a woman hostage for hours. Sixty police, SWAT, and EMT responded. And then US Marshalls tracked down an Iowa murder suspect to a residence in south Minneapolis. They found him hiding in a closet within the apartment.

Despite the fact that these stories make our neighborhood seem dangerous, I don't feel unsafe. I know, you're probably thinking: a man pushing six-two, two-forty shouldn't be scared. Well, let me tell you, I'm no man. And I'm a very soft two-forty.

Walking around the area, I've never gotten the sense that any moment someone's going to jump out and attack me or Kate. Plus, Kate's tough. She's a biker (of the cycling variety), which means she's got some powerful legs. And she carries a switchblade: so watch your balls, would-be attackers!

I guess there are certain times I wouldn't want to go venturing into Powderhorn Park; but for the most part, it's a very scenic place where parents bring their children to play. Which made news of the assault there so alarming to the neighborhood's residents. It was an isolated incident, and the response to the attacks turned out to be a reclamation of a park by its community. With the exception of the drive-by, all of the suspects in each respective story have been arrested. Maybe that's one of the reasons I'm not fearful for Kate's or my safety.

Here's what I do worry about:

• Kate riding her bike in the street. Not because I don't trust her ability, but because I don't trust the asshole drivers or the condition of some roads that make up her routes to and from work.
• Pitbulls. In this area there are a lot of pitbull owners, some of whom don't own big enough fences to contain their dogs. In one case, I walked by this dude's house in the middle of the afternoon to see him watching over five of these beasts. The perimeter of his yard was lined by small trees--which were bare because of the season, allowing enough of a gap for even the biggest pitbull to fit through. Four of the dogs were free to roam the yard; only one was on a leash. They all eyed me and licked their chops as I passed by, none more viciously than the one in restraint.

Why was only that one on a leash!?! Freaked me out, man.

A Little Late in My Rememberance

My dad would take me along to his best friend Steve's for Monday Night Football. I couldn't tell you what year(s) this occurred, or my age--old enough to remember images, too young to know that what the adults were smoking wasn't tobacco. I couldn't even tell you what games we watched, the teams that played. I don't remember all the names of Steve's friends who'd stop over briefly during a game. Except, of course, the regulars like Glenn, Mike, Big Boy (whose real name was also Glenn), and Stoner.

But I do remember some things clearly: sitting on the sofa behind the two recliners, which were spaced far enough to either side of the room so there was a clear view of the TV from where I sat. Nate--Steve's son who my dad told us was "special," though he always called him "goofy"--would sit next to me, unable to sit still, keep quiet, or refrain from trying to put things up his dog's butt. He'd ask me if I wanted to see him make his Hot Wheels disappear, then lift up Fifi's tail and laugh maniacally.

I often wondered about the appropriateness of Nate's suggestions. They didn't seem on the level and since Steve or my dad rarely turned around to say something--at the time, I figured they were too consumed by the game--I assumed Nate's frequent indecencies were comparable to the act of an edgy comedian. So, more often than not, I'd laugh right along with him. Sometimes that would bring about a glance back from my dad, followed by a joking remark: Hey, no laughing allowed! Then he'd pass back to Steve a medical clamp, the smoking remains of a roach pinched between its jaws.

At Halftime, Steve would break out the Nintendo and get in a quick round of Conflict or Silent Service before the game resumed. My dad never played video games. Instead, he'd roll another "cigarette" to be savored during the third quarter. Some games ended sooner than others, meaning that the outcome was decided well before the end of regulation. But whenever it was clear as to who the winner would be, my dad would stand and sing, "Turn out the liiiiiights, the party's over."

This signaled it was time to go home.

I didn't know who wrote that song; I figured my dad had made it up. But whenever I watched football from then on, I would think of those lyrics while the final seconds wound down. I'd be taken back to Steve's living room, see the woodcut of M.C. Escher's "Reptiles" that hung over the TV, and smell the burning sage scent of a lit joint.

Until 2002, I hadn't heard of Don Meredith. That's when a made for cable movie about Monday Night Football first aired; that's when I found out the connection between football and a Willie Nelson song. When I heard Don Meredith died on Sunday, I wanted to go back home and watch football with my dad. I wanted to hear him sing that song again.

Comcast Blows Goats

Last night, I couldn't get on the internet. It freaked me out. All of my cables and whatnot were hooked up properly, my computer settings were golden, and when I ran diagnostics the troubleshooting "wizard" told me that I was, in fact, connected to the internet. Says the Wiz: Your computer seems to be working, check to make sure you haven't misspelled the web address www.mnsu.edu. Go fuck yourself, Wiz. Despite receiving the everything-seems-to-be-okay message from network diagnostics, I still couldn't get online.

I complained, I fumed, I threw a tantrum. There were other things I needed to do--namely, grade twenty-some portfolio projects--but I wasn't ready to knock those out yet. I wanted to check the Blackhawks score, I wanted to post another commercial on the goat blog, I wanted to check the daily stats for the goat blog: I wanted to do anything other than grading, and I needed the internet to do that.

So I called Comcast to see what was up, and an automated message told me that they were experiencing technical difficulties, "Please call later." Really!?! That's all you've got? No, "We're aware of a problem, and we're working to fix it," some sort of reassurance that help is on the way? Basically, they we're telling us we were on our own.

Moments like these make me realize how dependent I am on the internet, a realization that doesn't occur until I don't have internet access at a time when I absolutely want it. It's like when you forget your cellphone at home and feel as if you've gone off the grid. Then I begin to wonder how we ever survived without some of our modern technological conveniences.

Here's one way: in Junior High, when my sisters and I needed rides home from school, we'd call my mom collect from a pay phone. When the automated operator would pause, allowing us to state our name, we would quickly tell my mom to pick us up and at which entrance. That way she wouldn't have to accept the charges, and she'd know where to come get us. Did not always work. Especially those times she wasn't able to pick us up and we had hung up prematurely.

After I came to terms with the fact that there'd be no solution any time soon, that I'd have to wait it out, I started grading projects at the dining room table. Kate popped in a movie and I asked her to turn it up so I could listen. Five projects in, I ditched out on grading and joined her. It had been about four hours since the internet went kaput, and Kate decided to give her computer another shot. What do know? she was able to get online from her computer. It would take me another ten to fifteen minutes to be so lucky; the signal was too weak to say the internet was back in full force.

When we verified that it had returned at full strength, Kate and I became glued to our respective screens, the movie still playing in the background. That's when I came across this article. The Strib didn't identify the outage's cause, but it did provide tips on how to reconfigure your browser settings--a helpful little tip for remaining connected through outages, so long as your not currently experiencing an outage. Anger levels began to rise.

This morning I was expecting to open my email and find an explanation for the outage, or at least an apology from Comcast for the inconvenience. No dice. The only article I could find today was this one, and it still doesn't offer an explanation. It does, however, throw a few jabs at Comast. Kinda nice.

What pisses me off is that there's no accountability for Comcast's poor service. What if I were teaching an online course--which very well could be the case next semester when I start at Rasmussen--and this happened? There's no way to be sure that it won't with this shoddy company. And my options here are pretty limited because Comcast has a monopoly in Minneapolis. Don't believe me? Check out the city's website.

At one point this morning, I imagined being interviewed on a late night talk show and that I used this platform simply for the purposes of decrying the atrocity of Comcast's "services." Since that won't happen any time soon--though I swear if I'm fortunate enough to ever be a guest on a talk show, I'll blast Comcast--all I can do is add to the complaints on Comcast's customer service line and look in to the public wi-fi option, here. Maybe I'll look into getting some rabbit ears for the TV.

Comcast, if you're listening, I'd like to dedicate this song to you:

Community

The concept of community bathrooms, it’s just very unsettling to me. I know that logistically they make sense: you have hundreds of people in one building—say, at a university—you need to have enough toilets to facilitate those people. I get it. That doesn’t mean I have to like or use them, though.

Is that the reason we have community bathrooms, anyway? Did the institutionalization of many toilets, one room begin when cities started to form? Because, to me, it seems like the antithesis of civility. You think when cavemen were out on the hunt and needed to drop some heat they squatted behind adjacent bushes? I doubt it.

If one dude followed his comrade to the trees for taking care of business, I’m sure the first guy would’ve turned to his buddy and said, “Uh, Larry; where do you think you’re going?”

And Larry would’ve replied, “Well, Glenn, I figure we could contain that which emerges from our hindquarters to one area of the hunting grounds. It’ll greatly reduce the chance of us stepping in our own messes, possibly tracking it through our respective caves. I think having this designated area will alleviate an unnecessary stress trigger.”

“I’m not stressed about it. Does it bother you? Is that why you’ve been a little off today?”

“We’re stalking saber-toothed tigers, here, and our only line of defense is a fragment of shale tied to a tree branch with twine. You never know what’s going to be the tipping point.”

“Ah, man. Can’t you wait your turn?”

“No, this is happening now.”

“Larry, you make a good point about designating an area for taking care of that which emerges from our hindquarters. But let’s look at the facts: we’ve got land as far as the eye can see to do our business, and it’s just you and me. There’s no need to make this awkward. These next five minutes, I believe it’s some well-deserved Me Time.”

“Don’t leave me alone, Glenn.”

“I’m sorry, Larry. This is the way of the caveman.”

See, kids. That’s what grandmas and grandpas are talking about when they refer to the “good old days.” Due to overpopulation and an irrational dependence on community, the era of shitting in peace has done the way of the dinosaur.

Sometimes I have to bite the bullet and find myself in one of the world’s many public bathrooms. When this happens at school, I turn to any one of my approved men’s rooms, which I call, “safe potties.” I’m not telling you where they are for one of two reasons: you’ll either have no idea where they’re located because you’ve never been to MSU, or the next time you see me on campus walking toward one of them, you’ll know what I’m about to do. No dice. These are my on-campus sanctuaries.

My most recent go-to restroom is private; there’s only one stall. That way, when someone feels the urge to “follow me behind the bushes” after I’ve already established my place atop the throne, they’re shit out of luck. It’s kind of nice to hear someone enter then quickly leave, knowing that you can finish in peace.

What I’ve found most disturbing about this particular men’s room, though, is the graffiti inside the stall. It’s typical bathroom humor—vulgar non-sequiturs, the kind of comments that one would only make under the veil of anonymity (much like Internet comments on news websites). The alarming part is the poor execution of grammar and mechanics by the authors.

Whenever I’m in this stall, I just want to grab a pen and start marking up the walls’ sentences. Sometimes trying to turn off the editor in your brain is impossible (unless I’m blogging or updating Facebook). I don’t go through with these edits because it would probably invite even more lewd graffiti. And since I’m on campus at the same time the custodial staff cleans the bathrooms, I fear that I’d get caught in the act and the janitor would blame me for all of the wall scribblings. Especially the misspelled and improperly punctuated ones. And that would be more awkward than taking a dump next to someone who’s also taking a dump.

Follow the Cop

Last night, while driving back to the Cities, I got to play one of my favorite road games: follow the police car. The rules are simple. First you find a police car on the road. Then you move over to its lane, remembering not to pass the officer—doing so can result in a deduction of up to one hundred and fifty points, along with what the county defines as “a moving violation.”

Once you’ve secured a safe position behind the police car in question, it’s time to move on to the final stage of the game: you follow it. And that’s pretty much it. You don’t want to follow it too closely because, again, there’s the whole point deduction thing.

The game never lasts too long on the highway. The reasons being that the cop either speeds away, making it impossible to keep up without receiving a citation, or the cop pulls a U-ie through the median in an attempt to snag a speeder driving the opposite direction. Occasionally the game ends because the cop slows to the shoulder to assist a stranded motorist.

Which is why allowing a cushion between your vehicle and the officer’s is a must in this game. When the cop car slows, you slow. There’s no need to get cute, here; shit can get real in a flash.

Last night’s game ended five minutes after it started. The cop had to have hit the mid-eighties on his speedometer and got too far ahead of me to even consider trying to keep up. But this brief round of “Follow the Police Car” allowed me to drive 75 for a nice stretch, and how often can you speed in the midst of the law?

Which is the main reason I play the game. I figure as long as I’m not driving too much faster than the posted limit, and the cop is in front of me, I won’t get pulled over for speeding. If I did—whether it’s by the cop ahead of me, or one hiding in the median—my defense would be that the cop I was following should’ve abided by the speed limit, too; my pursuit of the aforementioned officer would have resulted in a citizen’s arrest had I not been pulled over.

Now, I’m well aware of how invalid my reasoning sounds, and that’s because it’s quite fallacious. This “game” is something I used to play in my younger, more reckless days when I drove too fast and played out would-be confrontations with police officers in the event of a traffic stop. Sadly, I didn’t always make myself out to be victorious and after getting pulled over a few times in reality, I decided it was time to take it easy while on the road.

The closest call I ever experienced occurred back home (at least five years ago), when I went out of my way to follow a Glen Ellyn cop car. Having been tailed many times—about 95% of which result in not being stopped—I thought following the cop would make him know what it was like to have that uneasy, powerless feeling. This particular cruiser had been travelling north on Park toward downtown. When he hung a right on Duane, I flipped on my signal and allowed a little breathing room between our cars. When we reached Taylor, he put on his right turn signal and I followed suit. That’s when, it seemed, the cop got suspicious.

Instead of continuing through the stop sign, he stopped in the intersection. Which prompted me to stop on a dime and flip on my left turn signal. My legs and arms started shaking, and I definitely wasn’t prepared to explain myself. The cop completed his turn and drove north on Taylor.

I’m not sure he stopped mid-turn because of me, but the experience did prove how much of a pussy I was in the face of a potential traffic stop. Going out of your way to play the game, it’s just not worth it. And for the most part, I’ve somewhat retired from this “game.”

Last night, when the needle on my speedometer hit 75, a tiny rush prickled my arms. I thought about trying to keep up with the cop, to see how far the game could be played, my official Last Hurrah. But I didn’t. It wasn’t the thought of my close encounter that stopped me from speeding up; I backed off because my Driver’s License says I live in Mankato (not even the most recent former address), my plates are from Illinois, and I didn’t want to explain why neither of these items matches my current address. It was really cold outside, and I was exhausted from making the drive down to Mankato earlier in the day. I wasn’t afraid to get pulled over; I just didn’t want to go through the headache of talking to cop. They’re conversations are one-sided, they feel interrogating, and they don’t have that entertaining feel of a real game.

It's like giving someone a gift that's really for you

I decided to treat my students to a movie tonight. They had been so good the last three weeks—two of which were dedicated to workshops—and since they were turning in final projects tonight, I felt a well-deserved break was in order. (The fact that this movie showing fell on the same night that I’d be administering student evaluations is completely coincidental.)

It’s a good thing I didn’t tell them the movie I brought in was some sort of reward for good behavior. That is because they did not share my enthusiasm for this particular motion picture. The movie I’m talking about is called Repo Man. If you’ve never seen it, you’re only hurting yourself. Maybe Emilio Estevez, too.

The only thing I told my students before showing them this movie was that it defied most, if not all, of the rules/guidelines to writing fiction. Here was an example of someone breaking rules, yet still creating a compelling story (at least, in my opinion it does). A sad attempt at justifying me showing the movie, I know.

While we watched Repo Man, I kept an eye on my students for their reactions to plot holes, cheesy lines of dialog, and extreme moments of convenience. This is what I got: blank faces, looks of confusion, one girl shaking her head in disbelief. My students hated the movie. Instead of rewarding them, I put them through a traumatic ordeal—one that’ll require years of therapy and soul-searching in order to grasp its reason for occurring.

Think I’m joking?

After the movie, the class was completely silent. Everyone got up, quietly, and started to leave the room. No one answered me when I said, “Any questions about the Final next week?” One of my students passed by and said, “Where do you find these movies?” with a level of incredulity reserved for the truly disturbed. Another student said she didn’t feel like she was on still on this planet. Then she said, “I can’t process what just happened.” Which sounded like a pretty alarming response.

Next week, when they come to class for their Final, I’m going to have Peanut Butter Cup chocolate chip cookies for my students. It seems like the right thing to do.