Person of the Shut the Hell Up

Nice job, Time Magazine, way to perpetuate the moronic nature that is our contemporary culture.

You had a 14 year old Pakistani girl who knowingly put herself in danger, was shot in the head, survived, and has only gained momentum for her cause--you know, wanting an education--and you go with the guy who got reelected as POTUS. I don't get it. I really don't.

Barack Obama: Person of the Year. Give me a break. I even voted for the guy. And, while I am a cynic who completely subscribes to the idea that Democrats and Republicans are the same damn thing and none of this matters (to an extent--read a previous post "Cynic Idealist"), I like a lot of things about Barack, and his administration, and his presidency.

HOWEVER.

Malala Yousafzai is effectually the face of change for the socio-political (and even religious) landscape of Pakistan. What the hell is wrong with you? I could not give less of a damn what your criteria or reasoning is for selecting Obama as your Person of the Year. You cannot possibly legitimate this choice outside of being completely ignorant to anything that matters in the entire world.

Yes, I am sticking by what sounds like hyperbole and meaning it literally. You've done this to me, world, and you can deal with the consequences via my prose. I know. You're terrified.

I cannot comprehend this total oversight. And, I'm not saying Time Magazine's Person of the Year matters. It doesn't. But, symbolically as a reflection of our societal values, this couldn't be more of a disappointment.

Like so many things, sometimes you just need a little boost, some hope, a reminder that people can be not only good, but smart, even wise. This is a total misstep. And, you know, I've changed my mind. It does matter. Now, more than ever.

breakin' the rules

I am pretty sure I am not supposed to accept Facebook Friend requests from students. Oops, my bad.

In honor of this glorious occasion, I might as well post a piece that no student should ever know I wrote. I will qualify this, however, by making it known that I wrote this piece last semester when I really did hate teaching. Somehow this semester, Shannon was blessed by the student fairy and I can sincerely say that there is not one student I have this semester who is a waste of my time. I pretty much look forward to walking into that classroom every single week.

But, regardless of the present, my outright bitterness towards the undergraduate student body last semester sparked what I hope will be a serious piece of academic work at some point in the future. (You know, the point when I can quit focusing on meaningless busywork that does not interest me and only hinders education. In other words, after I graduate.)

Creating Identities out of Shit: Our Newest Generation’s Spin on American Consumer Culture

I came up with the idea for this panel, for this paper, one day while sitting in the 500 person undergraduate lecture for the class I TA for. Staring at the students, just hating them, I thought of the people in other parts of this world, neigh, even in this country, who would give literally anything for an opportunity to attain this level of education. Hell, what they wouldn’t give for one of my undergrad’s generic brand t-shirts. And I watched them, staring at their palms with thumbs going a mile a minute texting—not typing—letters that stood for words in some lame and lazy new symbolic language created by the technology pushers. They were no doubt practicing to write me some nonsensical, misdirected email about a paper assignment that they couldn’t even find because following printed directions that don’t use the letters “c” and “u” in place of the words “see” and “you” are apparently too complicated to follow now. And as I zoned out watching them zone out, a buzz word caught my ear and brought me back to our lecture hall. “Culture” was being discussed. I thought to myself, “how ironic,” but then allowed my cynicism to dissolve so that I could follow my thought pattern racing through cognitive schemata, trying to make meaning of a god term like “culture.” I settled down into a question that sparked my interest: What contribution would the folks in front of me be making to our understanding and conception, and yes, the very essence of what is American culture? And right here it came to me. The title of the paper and theme of this panel. It is deeply interconnected with consumerism at large, but I feel that this next generation will be leaving a fingerprint much more original, precise, and scary than merely a new chapter in the live to shop—or is it shop to live—existence. Theirs, though entrenched in buy, buy, buy (N*SYNC merely had the spelling wrong), splits off into a new direction that not only embraces, but is dependent upon, a seductive intermingling of technology, ignorance, and apathy.

“Creating Identities out of Shit: Our Newest Generation’s Spin on American Consumer Culture”

Did I mention that grad school is killing me?

Abercrombie Land

Oh the wonderful world of Boulder never ceases to amaze me. It has a new title now, as you may have picked up in the title: "Abercrombie Land." Because, really, it's like an Abercrombie & Fitch photo shot about my campus, not a place of learning (unless, of course, you're being schooled in the preppy-chic lifestyle).

I want to make clear that the tone of this post is not ranting, nor angry. Simply, I am marveled, and--actually--quite amused. I walk about my campus and find it challenging to locate a man with a shirt, or a classroom without a puppy. Skateboards are a legitimate mode of transportation, iPods abound, and don't get me started on those silly looking flat brim hats. P.S. when did guys start wearing capris? Ok, so I am usually all for the European influence, but for socialized medicine, not three-quarter length pants! Also, keep the boxers to yo'self.
Here's one of the little buggers now. I know that you are confusing this place with a tanning bed, or even a public park...but it's not. It's campus. So put your damn shirt on.

In other news: all guys having trouble getting laid should get a puppy. I really just think it would work for them. Here is me with Steve's puppy, Baily. Now, I'm not saying that there was any particular kind of attraction to this Steve character at all (or that there wasn't). That's irrelevant. The point is he and I talked for a great deal of time (with Julie, via phone...such a strange and enjoyable experience--see that's her there on my ear) whereas we never would have had it not been for the adorable Baily.

And, finally, I saw a speaker tonight, Dr. Philip Tompkins, who spoke on homelessness. Among many other interesting and moving pieces of information was this: a homeless man was murdered (decapitated, more specifically) in Denver and law enforcement officials wanted to make clear to the homeless shelter (where the man frequented) that the case would, in fact, be treated as a crime.

Chew on that.

Hot yoga, hot Shannon

Hot yoga: Yesterday my friend Jen, a PhD hopeful from my department, took me to her hot yoga class. 90 minutes of fairly intense yoga poses in a heated room. Sweat, baby, sweat. I absolutely adored it, and the instructor seemed quite impressed by my performance considering it had been a year since I had practiced any yoga at all, and had never set foot in a hot yoga studio. I went again today. I think I will be addicted. The studio is a bit out of the way--probably a half hour on bike. I'm not sure how I am going to get there when Jen's schedule doesn't coincide with mine.

The photo is me warming up in my living room before I went today.

Hot Shannon: Last night was somewhat of a bust. I went out with Amanda and her friend Erin. They were lovely and I had a nice time chatting and even dancing with my two companions. But then, something snapped in me. Somewhere between about 7 or 8 people stepping on me without so much as an acknowledgment of doing so, colliding with 'Barbara Streisand' as I turned a corner and being met with total disgust as if the entire incident were my fault, being grabbed and prodded by multiple males who had not even the decency (hell--the creativity) to try and talk to me before rubbing their zippers on my ass, and (and this one did me in) watching all the little Boulder white people be hard asses because they knew the words to "Can't Nobody Hold Me Down" I started to hate people--a lot of people. I couldn't explain my frustration to Amanda and Erin last night, and I struggle to find the words to do so now. There was just something so empty and shallow all around me that I pitied, then hated, then loathed. And I'm not talking about the club scene in general, or random hook-ups with strangers, or anything like that. No, I actually find a place for those things and can enjoy myself a lot in said shallow interactions. There was something more to last night. And the key, the element that reassures me that I am not simply getting too old to "go clubbin'," is this whole white people singing hip hop lyrics. It just got me. I looked around at all of these kids (cause, regardless of age, that's what they are) who had likely never read a damn thing about the Civil War or the Civil Rights Movement. Kids who see hip hop culture as a way to earn street cred, but who have no connections to the streets. I thought back to the Immortal Technique show, its whitewashed audience, and I wondered where all awareness was in this generation--if it was lost on them. Because we're all going to wake up 50 years from now and feel the cruel sting of a mindless, completely consumer driven society having been running things for a long time and we will know what its like to have nothing but meaningless, shallow liberal ideals that do nothing but slap a band aid on open heart surgery, and we will suffer those consequences. The ones who put us there won't. Like a drunk driving accident, the drunk always get up and walks away. Its my mom's wonderful and priceless best friend dating back to 7th grade, Rob, who lays in a coma for seven days until finally passing who pays for that mistake. And the enlightened ones will suffer too, will watch as those in power (or simply those in mass) throw away this gift called life, mock God, mock humanity. They will be neither the Christians nor the atheists. They will simply be the emptiness, because that is what they are in sum. Nothing but the things they have purchased, the irrelevant accomplishments they've achieved. And we will sit and watch them squander this world, its resources, their love, their spirit.

I fear we will be powerless.

Yesterday I made a claim that I would be posting the first of many scenes from a screenplay I had composed. Given the rant I went on, we will save that for another day.