Pest Control Technician
Really. No, I'm not kidding--I just see you as someone who could make a career at this. Let's face it, kid--what have you done that makes you think medical schools will all be throwing open their doors to welcome you? Your marks aren't great, and really, you have the social skills of... Well, never mind that--just hear me out.
First of all, you're not going to need eight or more years of school for this. You just need to get to know the guy who owns the business. Chances are, he drinks a fair bit, probably by himself or a few of his employees. Find out where, and get to know him--buy him a drink and explain how you think pest control is so important and fascinating. Then ask how to get into the business--chances are he's looking to replace one of the many itinerant losers that are working for him, and your brown-nosing makes you an instant candidate.
You'll job shadow for a few weeks, and learn the basics: How to tent a house, drill down the termite poison, and lie to the neighbors when they see you carrying your equipment from the unmarked van. Tell them it's something routine like a septic problem--never admit you're there because your client is a filthy swine whose disgusting personal habits have made his home an ideal residence for all manner of plagues and pestilence.
Fact is, the world is going down the tubes, and people aren't going to be building a lot of new houses--they'll have to live in what they can afford in a crappy economy. That means old wood, old foundations and plenty of termites, ants and rats. You'll be good at it before long--you'll know how long you can expose yourself to the various toxins you work with before your lose your lunch, and you'll make sure to check the kitchen for anything good you can grab before filling the tent with the gas--after all, they'd just have to chuck it anyway.
You'll make a decent living--after a decade of loneliness--face it, your job won't bring in the babes--you'll send away for one of those mail-order brides. Take my advice--experience has taught me not to trust the pictures in those catalogues--it ain't cheap, but get a flight to Manila and check out the merchandise first hand--seriously. But, I digress.
A decent gas mask, the occasional tetanus shot, and a general disregard for social standing will make this a very successful career for you. You'll thank me one day, I guarantee it.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Friday, December 17, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as an
Art Critic
Yes, I heard you say "artist". Just listen--you're going to make a very good art critic one day, and you won't be eating out of dumpsters.
I've seen your application to art school, but I've seen a lot of others as well. That guy with the dreads who works in the video store across the road from the school--he's been to art school. The woman who fills the vending machines--same with her. It doesn't have to be that way with you, though. It could go like this:
You'll arrive at art school idealistic--you are going to be the refreshing breath of life that will excite both your teachers and fellow students alike--you're sure of it. The first few weeks challenge your perception of your own superiority, and you notice that other students don't hear the professor's criticism as often as you do. Soon you're doubting your most basic of instincts, struggling to choose the medium that suits your vision, and trying to find the most inconspicous work space in the classroom. Other students occasionally invite you to join their group for a drink after class, but you stay to work on your "exciting new idea". You almost don't notice them catch each others' eyes and smirk as they walk away.
The first semester ends and you are called into the advisement office, where two of your instructors explain that maybe you aren't quite suited to a life of art. You blink back the tears as they try to soften the impact of their words. You realize, for the first time in your life, that at that moment you could take the life of another human being--two, in fact--in a fit of rage. But you push the feeling back inside long enough to actually shake their hands and stagger out into the unfriendly world.
You take a job at the coffee shop across the road from the art college. It seems crazy to the other students--so close to your shame--yet in the back of your mind, you realize the damage a rifle pointed out the coffee shop's supply room window could do to the pretentious crowd of successful students whose art the teachers didn't hate.
While you plan your blood-soaked revenge, you take a college extension writing course, and are almost shocked to discover that your teacher sees 'great potential' in your writing. For extra credit, you agree to help out with the college newspaper, and in a fortuitous turn of events, you end up taking over the column of the paper's arts critic when she graduates. You struggle but manage to write meaningful commentary on local movie festivals, plays, or indie rock acts, but your words flow effortlessly when you get the chance to attend the regular art shows staged to display the talents of your former rivals back at the art school. At first, you try to be cautious in your criticism--poke tiny holes in the egos of your enemies so you won't seem so transparent in your hatred--but you soon realize that success lies in the occasional annihilation of some young hopeful. You give the occasional positive review--but save them for the quiet ones who didn't snicker at your "Self-Portrait in Cheese".
Your column gets noticed. It's flattering when the local newspaper picks it up for their weekend arts section, and not long after come offers, attractive ones, to go to a bigger paper in a bigger city. You turn it down. You need to be where you can do the most damage. You bide your time, and then it comes. Your first art college instructor, a middle-aged painter whose nervous breakdown ten years earlier put his own art career on hiatus, has ventured back into his first love--oil painting. A local gallery is the the site of your revenge. You actually park your car across from his house and wait until you see him go to the gallery so he can witness your visit to his collection. You pause at different works, sigh, cluck and make scribbled notes to yourself. You see him looking worried out of the corner of your eye--twice he moves to approach you, but stops.
The review is your most talked about ever--not just because you cut him to pieces with the very words he used to describe your work--"shallow", "derivative", "cheesy"--but because of his overdose the day after the paper hit the newstands.
Two weeks later you are working for a national paper and driving your first Lexus.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Yes, I heard you say "artist". Just listen--you're going to make a very good art critic one day, and you won't be eating out of dumpsters.
I've seen your application to art school, but I've seen a lot of others as well. That guy with the dreads who works in the video store across the road from the school--he's been to art school. The woman who fills the vending machines--same with her. It doesn't have to be that way with you, though. It could go like this:
You'll arrive at art school idealistic--you are going to be the refreshing breath of life that will excite both your teachers and fellow students alike--you're sure of it. The first few weeks challenge your perception of your own superiority, and you notice that other students don't hear the professor's criticism as often as you do. Soon you're doubting your most basic of instincts, struggling to choose the medium that suits your vision, and trying to find the most inconspicous work space in the classroom. Other students occasionally invite you to join their group for a drink after class, but you stay to work on your "exciting new idea". You almost don't notice them catch each others' eyes and smirk as they walk away.
The first semester ends and you are called into the advisement office, where two of your instructors explain that maybe you aren't quite suited to a life of art. You blink back the tears as they try to soften the impact of their words. You realize, for the first time in your life, that at that moment you could take the life of another human being--two, in fact--in a fit of rage. But you push the feeling back inside long enough to actually shake their hands and stagger out into the unfriendly world.
You take a job at the coffee shop across the road from the art college. It seems crazy to the other students--so close to your shame--yet in the back of your mind, you realize the damage a rifle pointed out the coffee shop's supply room window could do to the pretentious crowd of successful students whose art the teachers didn't hate.
While you plan your blood-soaked revenge, you take a college extension writing course, and are almost shocked to discover that your teacher sees 'great potential' in your writing. For extra credit, you agree to help out with the college newspaper, and in a fortuitous turn of events, you end up taking over the column of the paper's arts critic when she graduates. You struggle but manage to write meaningful commentary on local movie festivals, plays, or indie rock acts, but your words flow effortlessly when you get the chance to attend the regular art shows staged to display the talents of your former rivals back at the art school. At first, you try to be cautious in your criticism--poke tiny holes in the egos of your enemies so you won't seem so transparent in your hatred--but you soon realize that success lies in the occasional annihilation of some young hopeful. You give the occasional positive review--but save them for the quiet ones who didn't snicker at your "Self-Portrait in Cheese".
Your column gets noticed. It's flattering when the local newspaper picks it up for their weekend arts section, and not long after come offers, attractive ones, to go to a bigger paper in a bigger city. You turn it down. You need to be where you can do the most damage. You bide your time, and then it comes. Your first art college instructor, a middle-aged painter whose nervous breakdown ten years earlier put his own art career on hiatus, has ventured back into his first love--oil painting. A local gallery is the the site of your revenge. You actually park your car across from his house and wait until you see him go to the gallery so he can witness your visit to his collection. You pause at different works, sigh, cluck and make scribbled notes to yourself. You see him looking worried out of the corner of your eye--twice he moves to approach you, but stops.
The review is your most talked about ever--not just because you cut him to pieces with the very words he used to describe your work--"shallow", "derivative", "cheesy"--but because of his overdose the day after the paper hit the newstands.
Two weeks later you are working for a national paper and driving your first Lexus.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Profiles in Greatness: Ilsa the Costco Girl
(Note: My daughter made me go to Costco on Friday night. I am somewhat ashamed we even have a membership. That, combined with a bit of boredom, led to this little story)
She sat on her grandfather's knee as a girl, hearing stories of the old days. Stalin was misunderstood, he told her, and ten years later, she wept with him the night the wall came down. She hated the slide into greed, consumption and decadence that reunification brought. She finished university with honours, and was courted by many employers, but wandered unfulfilled from one elite private academy to another, looking for the discipline that seemed to have disappeared forever.
She decided to confront the mecca of decadence and decay--she would go to the west, face the evil heart of capitalism, and then decide if she needed to come home and join a terrorist cell--perhaps the Red Army Brigade, or Baader Meinhof had openings... She blended in easily in North America, travelling from city to city, hiding her disgust at the filth and chaos--the disorganized scramble to grab more and more wealth without discipline or hard work. She was ready to return home and commit her life to the west's destruction when suddenly, she found it. She couldn't believe it at first, but there it was--Costco.
Amid the undisciplined, shiny commercialized insanity, there it was, its employees in their standard apron--red, how comforting--and checking laminated identification cards before allowing customers to enter the store. She begged an employee to let her inside, and was astounded at the concrete drabness and sterility--not one pyramid of canned goods, nary a bright poster or streamer to be found. It took her back to the GUM store her grandfather had taken her to as a little girl on their one visit to Russia--only the party elite were allowed inside.
Ilsa was still entranced when she found the manager. She begged him for a job, but her credentials intimidated him--she spoke five languages fluently, had several graduate degrees, and was strikingly attractive--nervously he dialed a number, spoke a few words, then, hanging up the phone, whispered for her to come closer.
"Our regional manager is upstairs--in the office--he'll see you." He looked frightened as he led Ilsa up the stairs, knocked on an unmarked door, and quickly retreated.
"Come in." The voice was quiet, but more authoritative than any she had heard. She could hardly control her excitement. A well-dressed, powerful man stood up from behind his desk. He did not offer to shake her hand, but simply motioned her to a chair. "You may call me O'Brien, if you wish." She sat, shaking, not so much with nervousness but anticipation.
"I would like to work at this place very much," she said softly. O'Brien didn't reply at first, but just stared at her with his piercing, disconcerting eyes. She shifted uncomfortably, waiting.
"Yes, I suppose you would. Ilsa, isn't it?" She nodded. Somehow it seemed right that he would know her name. She believed that somehow he knew everything about her. "You crave something you haven't found yet, don't you, Ilsa?" She nodded again, afraid to speak. "Let me show you something." He took a remote control off his desk, and turned on a television monitor mounted on the wall. It showed a grainy black and white image--a closed circuit feed from within the store. He switched from feed to feed, finally settling on a fairly close view of a check stand.
"I don't mind paper or plastic bags," a customer stammered.
"Nein! There are no bags. You will take the boxes. There are only boxes!" The checkout woman looked vaguely familiar--Ilsa recognized her as Frau Muller, the one who had turned in many of their neighbours to the secret police when Ilsa was a girl. Frau Muller had disappeared after reunification. There she was, throwing a tiny, inadequate box at a whimpering customer.
Then the picture changed--sample tables, giving away tiny bites of crackers. A smiling hostess stood by graciously, then suddenly, a teenage boy tried to grab a second sample, and her clawlike hand immediately latched onto his arm. She muttered some quick, harsh words--the camera did not pick them up properly--and the boy ran away. For a moment Ilsa recognized the look in her eyes--it was the look Ilsa's grade 2 teacher gave her when she asked why people weren't allowed to go to visit West Germany. Ilsa couldn't sit down comfortably for two days after that, but she learned not to ask impertinent questions.
"But I don't understand," said Ilsa softly. "Everyone has abandoned this for the 'rights of the individual'--how is it that people put up with paying for identity cards, undecorated stores and all the rest?"
"Ahh--you see, most people, deep down, feel very insecure. Their lack of self esteem makes them feel it is somehow right when they are mistreated--why should their rights supercede the rights of the collective?" O'Brien flicked the remote again; a huge parking lot full of cars came into view. "Look at that--thousands each day flock here, yet we do not advertise. We don't send out flyers, we charge them to come into the store, and we actually have higher prices than most of our competition. Tell me Ilsa--why do you think they come?"
Ilsa thought for a moment. What had drawn her to this place? "They come because they crave the discipline of an ordered society?" she ventured.
"Very good. You will do well with us, Ilsa." He handed her an apron. Somehow it already had an I.D. card with her name and photo pinned to the front.
"What will I do?"
"With your qualities and training, you will go far, but I think I know what you want. No office for you--you will work at the exit. You will be the Exit Search Warden. You will have a clipboard, and you will be severe. They must fear you."
Ilsa could barely control her excitement. "Can I have a whistle?"
"It is not standard, but I think for you we could make an exception." O'Brien was almost smiling at her, but not quite
"What about a riding crop?" She regretted the words almost immediately after they escaped her mouth.
"Ilsa--this is still the west. Things take time. Be patient, child." Then he sat down and the desk and began looking over papers. Ilsa realized she was dismissed. She opened the door and began to step out of the office when he called her back.
"Ilsa," he said, without looking up, "You will have dinner with me tonight. At 8:00." Ilsa nodded. To be honest, her feelings about men had always been ambigious. But there was no question about O'Brien. No question at all...
She sat on her grandfather's knee as a girl, hearing stories of the old days. Stalin was misunderstood, he told her, and ten years later, she wept with him the night the wall came down. She hated the slide into greed, consumption and decadence that reunification brought. She finished university with honours, and was courted by many employers, but wandered unfulfilled from one elite private academy to another, looking for the discipline that seemed to have disappeared forever.
She decided to confront the mecca of decadence and decay--she would go to the west, face the evil heart of capitalism, and then decide if she needed to come home and join a terrorist cell--perhaps the Red Army Brigade, or Baader Meinhof had openings... She blended in easily in North America, travelling from city to city, hiding her disgust at the filth and chaos--the disorganized scramble to grab more and more wealth without discipline or hard work. She was ready to return home and commit her life to the west's destruction when suddenly, she found it. She couldn't believe it at first, but there it was--Costco.
Amid the undisciplined, shiny commercialized insanity, there it was, its employees in their standard apron--red, how comforting--and checking laminated identification cards before allowing customers to enter the store. She begged an employee to let her inside, and was astounded at the concrete drabness and sterility--not one pyramid of canned goods, nary a bright poster or streamer to be found. It took her back to the GUM store her grandfather had taken her to as a little girl on their one visit to Russia--only the party elite were allowed inside.
Ilsa was still entranced when she found the manager. She begged him for a job, but her credentials intimidated him--she spoke five languages fluently, had several graduate degrees, and was strikingly attractive--nervously he dialed a number, spoke a few words, then, hanging up the phone, whispered for her to come closer.
"Our regional manager is upstairs--in the office--he'll see you." He looked frightened as he led Ilsa up the stairs, knocked on an unmarked door, and quickly retreated.
"Come in." The voice was quiet, but more authoritative than any she had heard. She could hardly control her excitement. A well-dressed, powerful man stood up from behind his desk. He did not offer to shake her hand, but simply motioned her to a chair. "You may call me O'Brien, if you wish." She sat, shaking, not so much with nervousness but anticipation.
"I would like to work at this place very much," she said softly. O'Brien didn't reply at first, but just stared at her with his piercing, disconcerting eyes. She shifted uncomfortably, waiting.
"Yes, I suppose you would. Ilsa, isn't it?" She nodded. Somehow it seemed right that he would know her name. She believed that somehow he knew everything about her. "You crave something you haven't found yet, don't you, Ilsa?" She nodded again, afraid to speak. "Let me show you something." He took a remote control off his desk, and turned on a television monitor mounted on the wall. It showed a grainy black and white image--a closed circuit feed from within the store. He switched from feed to feed, finally settling on a fairly close view of a check stand.
"I don't mind paper or plastic bags," a customer stammered.
"Nein! There are no bags. You will take the boxes. There are only boxes!" The checkout woman looked vaguely familiar--Ilsa recognized her as Frau Muller, the one who had turned in many of their neighbours to the secret police when Ilsa was a girl. Frau Muller had disappeared after reunification. There she was, throwing a tiny, inadequate box at a whimpering customer.
Then the picture changed--sample tables, giving away tiny bites of crackers. A smiling hostess stood by graciously, then suddenly, a teenage boy tried to grab a second sample, and her clawlike hand immediately latched onto his arm. She muttered some quick, harsh words--the camera did not pick them up properly--and the boy ran away. For a moment Ilsa recognized the look in her eyes--it was the look Ilsa's grade 2 teacher gave her when she asked why people weren't allowed to go to visit West Germany. Ilsa couldn't sit down comfortably for two days after that, but she learned not to ask impertinent questions.
"But I don't understand," said Ilsa softly. "Everyone has abandoned this for the 'rights of the individual'--how is it that people put up with paying for identity cards, undecorated stores and all the rest?"
"Ahh--you see, most people, deep down, feel very insecure. Their lack of self esteem makes them feel it is somehow right when they are mistreated--why should their rights supercede the rights of the collective?" O'Brien flicked the remote again; a huge parking lot full of cars came into view. "Look at that--thousands each day flock here, yet we do not advertise. We don't send out flyers, we charge them to come into the store, and we actually have higher prices than most of our competition. Tell me Ilsa--why do you think they come?"
Ilsa thought for a moment. What had drawn her to this place? "They come because they crave the discipline of an ordered society?" she ventured.
"Very good. You will do well with us, Ilsa." He handed her an apron. Somehow it already had an I.D. card with her name and photo pinned to the front.
"What will I do?"
"With your qualities and training, you will go far, but I think I know what you want. No office for you--you will work at the exit. You will be the Exit Search Warden. You will have a clipboard, and you will be severe. They must fear you."
Ilsa could barely control her excitement. "Can I have a whistle?"
"It is not standard, but I think for you we could make an exception." O'Brien was almost smiling at her, but not quite
"What about a riding crop?" She regretted the words almost immediately after they escaped her mouth.
"Ilsa--this is still the west. Things take time. Be patient, child." Then he sat down and the desk and began looking over papers. Ilsa realized she was dismissed. She opened the door and began to step out of the office when he called her back.
"Ilsa," he said, without looking up, "You will have dinner with me tonight. At 8:00." Ilsa nodded. To be honest, her feelings about men had always been ambigious. But there was no question about O'Brien. No question at all...
Friday, December 03, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As a
Long Distance Trucker
Hi kid--so you want to drive the big rigs? I remember when I was in high school--there was this whole CB radio craze, and then this really cool movie "Convoy"--well, actually, it was kind of stupid, and then there was this Stephen King story that they made into a movie called "Duel", and that was... Oh, right.
So, you may want to finish high school--though it doesn't really matter. Don't tell anybody I said that though. You'll need to go to one of those truck driving schools--be prepared for lots of people honking and giving you the finger for a few weeks while you roll backwards at traffic lights--you may crush a car or two, but eventually you'll get the hang of it. Once you've got the air brakes ticket and the license, you're set to go. You could drive for someone else, or you could save up, borrow, and beg to buy your own truck.
Don't worry that it's got well over half a million miles on the engine--a Cummins diesel's good for at least a million, easy. You might as well live with the chrome mud flaps with the traditional naked chick on them--that plays well in the inbred small towns where you'll be parking to eat most of your fried chicken and hamburger meals that will give you your first heart attack before you're 40. You'll spend so many hours inside the cabover that the rank smell of your own sweat will be a welcome comfort as you settle down for a quick nap on the side of the highway. Eventually your loneliness will make you propose to the waitress from the cafe next to your truck company office after she tells you she's knocked up--which turns out to be a lie, you later discover.
You regret the marriage almost as soon as it happens, buy you've got the perfect job to escape it almost full time. When kids finally do come, you don't worry about the fact that neither of them resembles you in the slightest, and the math around the birthdays is a little sketchy... You're gonna keep sending home the paychecks either way--the cash you get for the overweight runs--you know how to avoid the scales--goes straight in your pocket, and Luellen's none the wiser.
Like all truckers, you rely on uppers to keep you awake on the long runs, and on downers to counter the uppers when you need to crash. Coupled with your greasy spoon diet, you've had three heart episodes before you decided to convert to a healthier lifestyle--you'll smoke when you get hungry to drop that extra 30 pounds that's hanging over your belt. That way everyone can see the belt better--it's one of those beauts with a six inch buckle showing a 1967 Kenworth leaving all others in the dust...
In spite of yourself, soon you know the words to every Willie Nelson song ever written, and while you try listening to books on tape, only country music can sing the pain in your lonely, truck-drivin' soul. You've flattened more racoons at 70 mph than you ever dreamed you would, but you'll never retire, because there just ain't a pension plan for the long-haulers. Don't worry, though, with your heart--you'll be lucky to see 60. Have fun...
More Career Advice Here...
Hi kid--so you want to drive the big rigs? I remember when I was in high school--there was this whole CB radio craze, and then this really cool movie "Convoy"--well, actually, it was kind of stupid, and then there was this Stephen King story that they made into a movie called "Duel", and that was... Oh, right.
So, you may want to finish high school--though it doesn't really matter. Don't tell anybody I said that though. You'll need to go to one of those truck driving schools--be prepared for lots of people honking and giving you the finger for a few weeks while you roll backwards at traffic lights--you may crush a car or two, but eventually you'll get the hang of it. Once you've got the air brakes ticket and the license, you're set to go. You could drive for someone else, or you could save up, borrow, and beg to buy your own truck.
Don't worry that it's got well over half a million miles on the engine--a Cummins diesel's good for at least a million, easy. You might as well live with the chrome mud flaps with the traditional naked chick on them--that plays well in the inbred small towns where you'll be parking to eat most of your fried chicken and hamburger meals that will give you your first heart attack before you're 40. You'll spend so many hours inside the cabover that the rank smell of your own sweat will be a welcome comfort as you settle down for a quick nap on the side of the highway. Eventually your loneliness will make you propose to the waitress from the cafe next to your truck company office after she tells you she's knocked up--which turns out to be a lie, you later discover.
You regret the marriage almost as soon as it happens, buy you've got the perfect job to escape it almost full time. When kids finally do come, you don't worry about the fact that neither of them resembles you in the slightest, and the math around the birthdays is a little sketchy... You're gonna keep sending home the paychecks either way--the cash you get for the overweight runs--you know how to avoid the scales--goes straight in your pocket, and Luellen's none the wiser.
Like all truckers, you rely on uppers to keep you awake on the long runs, and on downers to counter the uppers when you need to crash. Coupled with your greasy spoon diet, you've had three heart episodes before you decided to convert to a healthier lifestyle--you'll smoke when you get hungry to drop that extra 30 pounds that's hanging over your belt. That way everyone can see the belt better--it's one of those beauts with a six inch buckle showing a 1967 Kenworth leaving all others in the dust...
In spite of yourself, soon you know the words to every Willie Nelson song ever written, and while you try listening to books on tape, only country music can sing the pain in your lonely, truck-drivin' soul. You've flattened more racoons at 70 mph than you ever dreamed you would, but you'll never retire, because there just ain't a pension plan for the long-haulers. Don't worry, though, with your heart--you'll be lucky to see 60. Have fun...
More Career Advice Here...
Friday, November 19, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as
A Dancer
So kid, you want to be a dancer. Hmm--to do this, I'm going to have to start in your past--don't need to be a psychic to guess how that story goes...
You're the princess, right? Only child--or only daughter. There are photo albums full of you in little pink party dresses--applause for everything you ever did. You so wanted to be a dancer, so your parents put you in, even though most of the girls were a little older than you. You loved it--instantly. You loved the grace, the moves, the costumes, the music--you didn't even mind it when Olga snapped at you--called you a graceless cow, and said you were pathetic--what does a 7 year old know?
Time passed, and you got better--but so did the competition. You weren't expecting the back-biting and gossip to be so vicious--girls from better neighborhoods mocking your family station wagon, and wondering why you weren't going to the dance camp in France with the others.... Soon you noticed that the mean girls with the money were getting the best solos--the most time in front of the audience, yet you knew you were as good if not better than they were--but your dad didn't own a business that gave the dance company thousands of dollars worth of donations each year.
Fast forward a few years--you're one of the unlucky ones--puberty comes a little early to you, and you're carrying a little more weight--perfectly healthy, normal weight anywhere else--but it isn't good in a dance company. You probably grew a little taller than the other girls too--what are you now--five-nine? No matter, you were determined not to let it get in your way--no Olga's, or any of the other sadistic eastern european "teachers" who belittled your weight, your form, and your family's "dedication"--meaning you couldn't afford the extra classes and the summer camps--none of that was going to stop you, was it.
So here you sit--in my office, wondering if you need to go purge before that half-bagel your mother watched you eat in the car on the way here starts to digest--but that will have to wait--you need to know what's coming next.
You'll keep on dancing for another year, two tops, and then you'll attempt suicide after you don't make the company--you just don't have the body for it--even though everyone outside of dance tells you that you look great, but maybe a little thin--you go through a series of prescribed antidepressants with varying degrees of success--you try yoga, meditation, tai chi--but you're still laying awake at night hearing Olga call you a cow, over and over. Eventually you get healthy enough to go to night school to finish your high school equivalency, and you decide that if ballet wasn't for you, maybe you can still make a living with dance--you go audition for shows with cruise lines, kids travelling story theatres, and more--but you just never really developed much stage presence in all those years of prancing about on your toes and listening to abuse--you've hidden your pain and emotion for so long now you need to show them you can't.
Eventually you head to Las Vegas--you've got the looks to be a showgirl, and you tell yourself that topless doesn't cheapen you--it's just french beach attire, but somehow a bit more of your already limited self-respect is destroyed. You never quite have what it takes to make it as a front line dancer there, and varying diets and plastic surgeries just distract you from the dead end your career is heading towards. You finally wake up one day and realize that you haven't danced on a stage without a pole for three years, and the offer from "executive escorts" is beginning to sound like a viable option...
You snap out of it, pack up, and head for home. You're done with letting other people judge you, and you're going to take control of your life, and start with a symbolic action--you head back to your dance company--you're going to give Olga a piece of your mind for the hell she put you through. Problem is, you're a month too late--Olga's dead, but the company manager remembers you, and ends up offering you a teaching job--you'll work with the novice ballerinas group. You're thrilled--you can help end the cycle of self loathing among young dancers...
Unfortunately, your programming goes deeper than you ever realized--who is that chubby girl in the back row? Doesn't she realize that her thumping about on stage is distracting the real talents in the group? What are her parents thinking--they should put her in Irish dancing--they like a heavy step. You find yourself singling the girl out for criticism, along with others like her, and you sleep fine at night...
Others might not understand, but you know that somewhere, somehow, Olga is finally smiling at you, and that's all that matters.
So kid, you want to be a dancer. Hmm--to do this, I'm going to have to start in your past--don't need to be a psychic to guess how that story goes...
You're the princess, right? Only child--or only daughter. There are photo albums full of you in little pink party dresses--applause for everything you ever did. You so wanted to be a dancer, so your parents put you in, even though most of the girls were a little older than you. You loved it--instantly. You loved the grace, the moves, the costumes, the music--you didn't even mind it when Olga snapped at you--called you a graceless cow, and said you were pathetic--what does a 7 year old know?
Time passed, and you got better--but so did the competition. You weren't expecting the back-biting and gossip to be so vicious--girls from better neighborhoods mocking your family station wagon, and wondering why you weren't going to the dance camp in France with the others.... Soon you noticed that the mean girls with the money were getting the best solos--the most time in front of the audience, yet you knew you were as good if not better than they were--but your dad didn't own a business that gave the dance company thousands of dollars worth of donations each year.
Fast forward a few years--you're one of the unlucky ones--puberty comes a little early to you, and you're carrying a little more weight--perfectly healthy, normal weight anywhere else--but it isn't good in a dance company. You probably grew a little taller than the other girls too--what are you now--five-nine? No matter, you were determined not to let it get in your way--no Olga's, or any of the other sadistic eastern european "teachers" who belittled your weight, your form, and your family's "dedication"--meaning you couldn't afford the extra classes and the summer camps--none of that was going to stop you, was it.
So here you sit--in my office, wondering if you need to go purge before that half-bagel your mother watched you eat in the car on the way here starts to digest--but that will have to wait--you need to know what's coming next.
You'll keep on dancing for another year, two tops, and then you'll attempt suicide after you don't make the company--you just don't have the body for it--even though everyone outside of dance tells you that you look great, but maybe a little thin--you go through a series of prescribed antidepressants with varying degrees of success--you try yoga, meditation, tai chi--but you're still laying awake at night hearing Olga call you a cow, over and over. Eventually you get healthy enough to go to night school to finish your high school equivalency, and you decide that if ballet wasn't for you, maybe you can still make a living with dance--you go audition for shows with cruise lines, kids travelling story theatres, and more--but you just never really developed much stage presence in all those years of prancing about on your toes and listening to abuse--you've hidden your pain and emotion for so long now you need to show them you can't.
Eventually you head to Las Vegas--you've got the looks to be a showgirl, and you tell yourself that topless doesn't cheapen you--it's just french beach attire, but somehow a bit more of your already limited self-respect is destroyed. You never quite have what it takes to make it as a front line dancer there, and varying diets and plastic surgeries just distract you from the dead end your career is heading towards. You finally wake up one day and realize that you haven't danced on a stage without a pole for three years, and the offer from "executive escorts" is beginning to sound like a viable option...
You snap out of it, pack up, and head for home. You're done with letting other people judge you, and you're going to take control of your life, and start with a symbolic action--you head back to your dance company--you're going to give Olga a piece of your mind for the hell she put you through. Problem is, you're a month too late--Olga's dead, but the company manager remembers you, and ends up offering you a teaching job--you'll work with the novice ballerinas group. You're thrilled--you can help end the cycle of self loathing among young dancers...
Unfortunately, your programming goes deeper than you ever realized--who is that chubby girl in the back row? Doesn't she realize that her thumping about on stage is distracting the real talents in the group? What are her parents thinking--they should put her in Irish dancing--they like a heavy step. You find yourself singling the girl out for criticism, along with others like her, and you sleep fine at night...
Others might not understand, but you know that somewhere, somehow, Olga is finally smiling at you, and that's all that matters.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Farmer
What? Oh, yeah, my 2 o'clock. Sorry--I threw my back out last night and this medication I'm taking has messed me up--makes me all paranoid and... well, nevermind--let's get on with it. So, what's your big dream? A farmer? You kidding me? This isn't 1922, you know... All right, here's what I see:
You get a loan from a bank somehow--maybe your parents can cosign, I don't know, but eventually you find a farm you like and the price seems pretty good. You don't understand why the farmer keeps giggling and clicking his heels together as you sign the purchase agreement--or why there's all these other "for sale" signs on all the other farms.
Soon you're settled into your farmhouse. It's got character--which means the wiring is bad, and there's rats--everywhere. The barn needs a new roof, and ten thousand dollars later, you're getting a little stretched for cash. No worries--that crop will take care...wait a minute--crap, they don't have hailstones that big in the city--these things are like golf balls.
So your first year is a writeoff. You somehow get the bank to loan you more, and you decide to change crops--there's good money in Canola, you hear. Problem is, there's this big company named Monsanto, and they're kind of like the genetically-modified mafia, and anyone who wants to get the good seed has to go kiss their ring, and pay big bucks. So you do, and you make a small but encouraging profit. But then the big company says you have to pay a lot more for your seed the next year. You decide not to, and plant non-GM canola. Problem is, some of the old plants' seeds got mixed in, plus some of your neighbor's stuff blew onto your land and started growing.
Monsanto science goons in black cars and suits come and check--they threaten you with all kinds of evil repercussions for using their product illegally. Soon, you're noticing strange clicks on your phone lines. Your electricity goes off for no reason, and there are these strange crop circles. Soon one of your cattle tests positive for Mad Cow disease, and then there's a quarantine. Late at night, strange lights flash quickly over your fields, and the sheep start exhibiting signs of radiation sickness. Your cell phone and other electronics start picking up strange, garbled language--like nothing from this world.
You start having strange dreams--grey alien heads with huge eyes, leaning over you while you're strapped to a table. You go for a routine checkup to get some sleeping pills, and the doctor runs some tests and x-rays--really he's a vet; no doctor will work in this god-forsaken little hole of a farm town--and he informs you of the alarming fact that you no longer have an appendix or gall bladder, and you appear to have a cow's heart beating in your chest.
Meanwhile, Monsanto's lawyers have succeeded in getting a court order to seize everything on your farm, and by the end of your third year they've auctioned off your property, and you are in a mental institution for as long as it takes for you to realize that you shouldn't talk about your dreams....
Look kid, I gotta go home. I'm kinda freaked out right now. Can we finish this tomorrow? I need to go put some bigger locks on my doors...
What? Oh, yeah, my 2 o'clock. Sorry--I threw my back out last night and this medication I'm taking has messed me up--makes me all paranoid and... well, nevermind--let's get on with it. So, what's your big dream? A farmer? You kidding me? This isn't 1922, you know... All right, here's what I see:
You get a loan from a bank somehow--maybe your parents can cosign, I don't know, but eventually you find a farm you like and the price seems pretty good. You don't understand why the farmer keeps giggling and clicking his heels together as you sign the purchase agreement--or why there's all these other "for sale" signs on all the other farms.
Soon you're settled into your farmhouse. It's got character--which means the wiring is bad, and there's rats--everywhere. The barn needs a new roof, and ten thousand dollars later, you're getting a little stretched for cash. No worries--that crop will take care...wait a minute--crap, they don't have hailstones that big in the city--these things are like golf balls.
So your first year is a writeoff. You somehow get the bank to loan you more, and you decide to change crops--there's good money in Canola, you hear. Problem is, there's this big company named Monsanto, and they're kind of like the genetically-modified mafia, and anyone who wants to get the good seed has to go kiss their ring, and pay big bucks. So you do, and you make a small but encouraging profit. But then the big company says you have to pay a lot more for your seed the next year. You decide not to, and plant non-GM canola. Problem is, some of the old plants' seeds got mixed in, plus some of your neighbor's stuff blew onto your land and started growing.
Monsanto science goons in black cars and suits come and check--they threaten you with all kinds of evil repercussions for using their product illegally. Soon, you're noticing strange clicks on your phone lines. Your electricity goes off for no reason, and there are these strange crop circles. Soon one of your cattle tests positive for Mad Cow disease, and then there's a quarantine. Late at night, strange lights flash quickly over your fields, and the sheep start exhibiting signs of radiation sickness. Your cell phone and other electronics start picking up strange, garbled language--like nothing from this world.
You start having strange dreams--grey alien heads with huge eyes, leaning over you while you're strapped to a table. You go for a routine checkup to get some sleeping pills, and the doctor runs some tests and x-rays--really he's a vet; no doctor will work in this god-forsaken little hole of a farm town--and he informs you of the alarming fact that you no longer have an appendix or gall bladder, and you appear to have a cow's heart beating in your chest.
Meanwhile, Monsanto's lawyers have succeeded in getting a court order to seize everything on your farm, and by the end of your third year they've auctioned off your property, and you are in a mental institution for as long as it takes for you to realize that you shouldn't talk about your dreams....
Look kid, I gotta go home. I'm kinda freaked out right now. Can we finish this tomorrow? I need to go put some bigger locks on my doors...
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Take up our quarrel with the foe...
Really don't like Remembrance Day assemblies much. Hard to really explain why--the whole day is a rather awkward one--it puts me in an odd mood.
As a kid, we would sometimes go down to the cenotaph--the war memorial--for the annual Remembrance Day ceremony--I think my grandfather would be there--he fought in the first world war and was in the Legion, i recall. The main thing about the day was remembering, and in our family it was partly about my dad's brother, who I was named after. He was maybe year and a half older than my dad--he was the golden child, good looking, popular.
He was a runner--he ran the mile in under 4:10 when the world record was still over 4 minutes--and the army put him on their track team. He could've stayed at home--competing--but when his friends shipped overseas, he chose to go with them. He survived until near the end of the war--there were only a few weeks left in it when he was killed in Germany. He didn't have to be there; he had been wounded on an old knee injury and had been in hospital, but essentially checked himself out to rejoin his friends in the fighting. They didn't bury allied soldiers in Germany, so his grave is in Holland.
My dad, lying about his age, had also tried to enlist, but because of rheumatic fever was turned down. A few months after losing his only sibling, my dad's fiancée was holidaying in Wales when she was killed in a car accident. What began shortly afterwards was a journey--he left his home in Manitoba, stopping to work at various spots for a few months at a time--I think the longest he stayed in one place was maybe a year and a half. This migration steadily westward took a decade, and finally he ended up on the coast, where he settled and eventually married my mom in his mid-30s.
My mom had grown up in England--her war memories were of her brothers in the battles, and she and her family being evacuated when the Germans bombed them, coming out to see the devastation by day. Her older sister met and married a Canadian, and eventually she and two of her brothers also immigrated to Canada--where she met my dad--so, in a sense, the war also brought them together, only years later.
For my first few years teaching drama, the Remembrance Day assemblies automatically fell to me--and I created a variety of presentations; tasteful and generally short. It was only at my current school that I grew tired of the obligation--I didn't really like having to balance between those who wanted only a memorial service to honour a noble sacrifice, and those who'd have us preach the stupidity of all war and the futility of any war deaths. Plus, the very best that kids were to get as feedback from their audience was total silence.
I gave it up a few years ago, and I haven't regretted it. I'll be playing the piano for a soloist at tomorrow's assembly, and that's plenty for me. I still don't know how to feel about it all...
J.
As a kid, we would sometimes go down to the cenotaph--the war memorial--for the annual Remembrance Day ceremony--I think my grandfather would be there--he fought in the first world war and was in the Legion, i recall. The main thing about the day was remembering, and in our family it was partly about my dad's brother, who I was named after. He was maybe year and a half older than my dad--he was the golden child, good looking, popular.
He was a runner--he ran the mile in under 4:10 when the world record was still over 4 minutes--and the army put him on their track team. He could've stayed at home--competing--but when his friends shipped overseas, he chose to go with them. He survived until near the end of the war--there were only a few weeks left in it when he was killed in Germany. He didn't have to be there; he had been wounded on an old knee injury and had been in hospital, but essentially checked himself out to rejoin his friends in the fighting. They didn't bury allied soldiers in Germany, so his grave is in Holland.
My dad, lying about his age, had also tried to enlist, but because of rheumatic fever was turned down. A few months after losing his only sibling, my dad's fiancée was holidaying in Wales when she was killed in a car accident. What began shortly afterwards was a journey--he left his home in Manitoba, stopping to work at various spots for a few months at a time--I think the longest he stayed in one place was maybe a year and a half. This migration steadily westward took a decade, and finally he ended up on the coast, where he settled and eventually married my mom in his mid-30s.
My mom had grown up in England--her war memories were of her brothers in the battles, and she and her family being evacuated when the Germans bombed them, coming out to see the devastation by day. Her older sister met and married a Canadian, and eventually she and two of her brothers also immigrated to Canada--where she met my dad--so, in a sense, the war also brought them together, only years later.
For my first few years teaching drama, the Remembrance Day assemblies automatically fell to me--and I created a variety of presentations; tasteful and generally short. It was only at my current school that I grew tired of the obligation--I didn't really like having to balance between those who wanted only a memorial service to honour a noble sacrifice, and those who'd have us preach the stupidity of all war and the futility of any war deaths. Plus, the very best that kids were to get as feedback from their audience was total silence.
I gave it up a few years ago, and I haven't regretted it. I'll be playing the piano for a soloist at tomorrow's assembly, and that's plenty for me. I still don't know how to feel about it all...
J.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as
A Police Officer
Hey--you're the kid who won that "ride along" thing, aren't you? You must've really liked it. Okay, so you want to be a cop. Let me tell you about what you can expect.
First you'll have to decide if you want to be RCMP--which means you have to get a degree, be bilingual, and ready to move to the arctic on a moment's notice, or if you want to be a city cop, which means you get lower pay, less respect, and uglier uniforms.
I'm guessing you'll choose city cop--you don't want to live in Fly's Elbow, Saskatchewan--so you'll need to go to the justice institute--where you'll spend an inordinate amount of time learning how to shoot accurately and drive fast--things that will be an incredibly minor part of your day to day job... What they really should be spending time on is telling you how to find a good divorce lawyer, and what to do when you are falling asleep with boredom over the incredible volume of paperwork you have to complete every week--usually for things like traffic accidents and noise complaints.
Eventually you'll have the sort of action you crave, and the stress of watching a partner get wounded will haunt your nightmares for weeks. Your spouse will try to communicate with you, but you'll drift further and further apart, and your main solace will be the bottles of scotch you drain quicker and quicker, and begin to hide around the house.
When they're young, your kids will think you have the coolest job in the world, and you'll be the most popular visitor to the elementary classroom--whether it's for parent career day, where you let them see the lights and hear the siren, or if you're doing the bike safety course every spring. Unfortunately, by the time they're 14, you're an embarassment. Their friends don't want to come over to your house because they can't do things comfortably they do other places--to prove they're not "narcs", your kids go overboard proving their willingness to get into the drug/party scene, and you never get used to the embarassment of your coworkers bringing home your kids in a marked car.
You are divorced before they graduate, and they immediately bond with the new guy your wife quickly replaces you with. They grudgingly visit you at the prescribed times, and the interactions you have with them are awkward and uncomfortable. They hate the trashy cop fetishists that pursue you and you find easier to just hook up with rather than look for real relationships. You begin volunteering for overtime--working as much as you can to escape the hollowness of your life and the apathy of your children.
Eventually you make a mistake--you shoot an unarmed man in a domestic dispute. Media attention, public disgrace, and a temporary 'stress leave" end with you quietly taking early retirement--you spend your golden years as a shopping mall security guard--your kids send you a card every christmas...
Hey--you're the kid who won that "ride along" thing, aren't you? You must've really liked it. Okay, so you want to be a cop. Let me tell you about what you can expect.
First you'll have to decide if you want to be RCMP--which means you have to get a degree, be bilingual, and ready to move to the arctic on a moment's notice, or if you want to be a city cop, which means you get lower pay, less respect, and uglier uniforms.
I'm guessing you'll choose city cop--you don't want to live in Fly's Elbow, Saskatchewan--so you'll need to go to the justice institute--where you'll spend an inordinate amount of time learning how to shoot accurately and drive fast--things that will be an incredibly minor part of your day to day job... What they really should be spending time on is telling you how to find a good divorce lawyer, and what to do when you are falling asleep with boredom over the incredible volume of paperwork you have to complete every week--usually for things like traffic accidents and noise complaints.
Eventually you'll have the sort of action you crave, and the stress of watching a partner get wounded will haunt your nightmares for weeks. Your spouse will try to communicate with you, but you'll drift further and further apart, and your main solace will be the bottles of scotch you drain quicker and quicker, and begin to hide around the house.
When they're young, your kids will think you have the coolest job in the world, and you'll be the most popular visitor to the elementary classroom--whether it's for parent career day, where you let them see the lights and hear the siren, or if you're doing the bike safety course every spring. Unfortunately, by the time they're 14, you're an embarassment. Their friends don't want to come over to your house because they can't do things comfortably they do other places--to prove they're not "narcs", your kids go overboard proving their willingness to get into the drug/party scene, and you never get used to the embarassment of your coworkers bringing home your kids in a marked car.
You are divorced before they graduate, and they immediately bond with the new guy your wife quickly replaces you with. They grudgingly visit you at the prescribed times, and the interactions you have with them are awkward and uncomfortable. They hate the trashy cop fetishists that pursue you and you find easier to just hook up with rather than look for real relationships. You begin volunteering for overtime--working as much as you can to escape the hollowness of your life and the apathy of your children.
Eventually you make a mistake--you shoot an unarmed man in a domestic dispute. Media attention, public disgrace, and a temporary 'stress leave" end with you quietly taking early retirement--you spend your golden years as a shopping mall security guard--your kids send you a card every christmas...
Monday, November 01, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
An Architect
Hmm--nice dream, kid--you see that's what it is--a dream. You see yourself as the next Frank Lloyd Wright, but let me tell you how this will really turn out.
First of all, you'll go to school and fill your head with idealistic visions of great and inspiring creations--buildings that make urban blight a thing of the past--buildings with heart, passion. Then you'll get your first job. You won't get to actually design a building--someone else is in charge of that--you get to look after all the washrooms--34 of them--in an office building. No problem, you think--your creativity will shine even there. Then your boss explains that none of your fancy marble and brass will do--it's melamine counters, and vinyl-covered drywall. You bite your tongue and go along--something you'll get to be very good at.
Time passes--you don't get to do dream houses, urban renewal, or museums--but you do get to design your own projects--strip malls. You know, the little ones with the liquor store, the 99-cent store, a payday-loan place and some no-name coffee place. Maybe a sub stop and a pet store if you're lucky--
You dream of making a difference, but there's no money in that--besides, your take on basic bland is popular. You try to sneak in your artistry and creativity--but the project managers explain that your venetian tiling is too expensive, or the engineers point out that your fancy clock tower doesn't conform to new earthquake safety standards.
Eventually you hate leaving your home, because everywhere you go your mediocre buildings mock your dreams. More and more of your clients have home drafting/design software packages and bring their ill-informed and irrelvant ideas to you--you are barely able to restrain your desire to throttle them with your bare hands...
You finally save enough money to realize your dream of designing and building your ideal home--but then your boss--who is hinting that you will be a full partner in the company if you continue to impress him--explains that his present to you for your loyal service to to bring all of his years of architectural genius and experience to the job of creating your dream home. You struggle to take control, but he won't take no for an answer. To hold on to a job you secretly despise, you end up letting him design an abomination--it gets a few curious and unenthusiastic reviews in some architectural journals, and though you loathe it, you can never move--unless you want to give up your job security, and you've invested too much in that to let it go.
The worst part is that everyone who visits your home immediately decides you could never design anything for them....
Hmm--nice dream, kid--you see that's what it is--a dream. You see yourself as the next Frank Lloyd Wright, but let me tell you how this will really turn out.
First of all, you'll go to school and fill your head with idealistic visions of great and inspiring creations--buildings that make urban blight a thing of the past--buildings with heart, passion. Then you'll get your first job. You won't get to actually design a building--someone else is in charge of that--you get to look after all the washrooms--34 of them--in an office building. No problem, you think--your creativity will shine even there. Then your boss explains that none of your fancy marble and brass will do--it's melamine counters, and vinyl-covered drywall. You bite your tongue and go along--something you'll get to be very good at.
Time passes--you don't get to do dream houses, urban renewal, or museums--but you do get to design your own projects--strip malls. You know, the little ones with the liquor store, the 99-cent store, a payday-loan place and some no-name coffee place. Maybe a sub stop and a pet store if you're lucky--
You dream of making a difference, but there's no money in that--besides, your take on basic bland is popular. You try to sneak in your artistry and creativity--but the project managers explain that your venetian tiling is too expensive, or the engineers point out that your fancy clock tower doesn't conform to new earthquake safety standards.
Eventually you hate leaving your home, because everywhere you go your mediocre buildings mock your dreams. More and more of your clients have home drafting/design software packages and bring their ill-informed and irrelvant ideas to you--you are barely able to restrain your desire to throttle them with your bare hands...
You finally save enough money to realize your dream of designing and building your ideal home--but then your boss--who is hinting that you will be a full partner in the company if you continue to impress him--explains that his present to you for your loyal service to to bring all of his years of architectural genius and experience to the job of creating your dream home. You struggle to take control, but he won't take no for an answer. To hold on to a job you secretly despise, you end up letting him design an abomination--it gets a few curious and unenthusiastic reviews in some architectural journals, and though you loathe it, you can never move--unless you want to give up your job security, and you've invested too much in that to let it go.
The worst part is that everyone who visits your home immediately decides you could never design anything for them....
Thursday, October 28, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as
An Archaeologist
Oh hey, kid--what? Archaeologist? Oh right, that Indiana Jones marathon was on this weekend, wasn't it? Okay--first of all, you'll be confused. If you're in the states, they'll spell your job without the middle "a"--so you've got to decide if you'll spell it British and look pretentious in the U.S., or spell it American, and look ignorant in the U.K.--depends which foundations you're sucking up to for grant money--I'd go with pretentious.
So, the whole "saving the world by stealing the ark from the nazis" thing isn't your standard archaeologist's day's work. Neither is having coed's write messages on their eyelashes to you--though I must admit--that was cool...
Anyway--you'll travel to dusty, out of the way places which are either too damn hot, too cold, or just too dangerous--either filled with every tropical disease known to man, overrun with poisonous insects and reptiles, or simply governed by evil, corrupt military juntas who see archaeologists as useful only as bribe providers. If you end up in a fundamentalist Islamic regime, you'll likely be one of the kidnap victims pleading for your life on video.
But if you avoid that, it's just the mind-numbing drudgery of picking through inch after inch of clay, dust or rock--what's that? an arrowhead? No, it's only another damned rock. At night you'll drink whatever cheap hooch you scrounged at the little supply store 50 miles away. You get a real shower about once a month when you head back for supplies and the occasional drinking binge.
You form short-term relationships with idealistic archaeology students on work terms, only to feel empty and alone when they go back to their ivy league colleges. Of course, there's always more sifting through dust to distract you from the heartbreak.
There's no pension in your pay picture--the grant money is not reliable--and you spend as much time writing grant requests as you do searching for your little arrowheads. After a while, you get tired of living off the good will of foundations and research councils, and you take a spot at a university.
Then of course--people disdain you because you don't work "in the field" much anymore...
You retire a sellout--but at least you have a pension...
Oh hey, kid--what? Archaeologist? Oh right, that Indiana Jones marathon was on this weekend, wasn't it? Okay--first of all, you'll be confused. If you're in the states, they'll spell your job without the middle "a"--so you've got to decide if you'll spell it British and look pretentious in the U.S., or spell it American, and look ignorant in the U.K.--depends which foundations you're sucking up to for grant money--I'd go with pretentious.
So, the whole "saving the world by stealing the ark from the nazis" thing isn't your standard archaeologist's day's work. Neither is having coed's write messages on their eyelashes to you--though I must admit--that was cool...
Anyway--you'll travel to dusty, out of the way places which are either too damn hot, too cold, or just too dangerous--either filled with every tropical disease known to man, overrun with poisonous insects and reptiles, or simply governed by evil, corrupt military juntas who see archaeologists as useful only as bribe providers. If you end up in a fundamentalist Islamic regime, you'll likely be one of the kidnap victims pleading for your life on video.
But if you avoid that, it's just the mind-numbing drudgery of picking through inch after inch of clay, dust or rock--what's that? an arrowhead? No, it's only another damned rock. At night you'll drink whatever cheap hooch you scrounged at the little supply store 50 miles away. You get a real shower about once a month when you head back for supplies and the occasional drinking binge.
You form short-term relationships with idealistic archaeology students on work terms, only to feel empty and alone when they go back to their ivy league colleges. Of course, there's always more sifting through dust to distract you from the heartbreak.
There's no pension in your pay picture--the grant money is not reliable--and you spend as much time writing grant requests as you do searching for your little arrowheads. After a while, you get tired of living off the good will of foundations and research councils, and you take a spot at a university.
Then of course--people disdain you because you don't work "in the field" much anymore...
You retire a sellout--but at least you have a pension...
Sunday, October 24, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Bartender
"School of Mixology"--that's rich kid. Yeah, and podiatrists are "doctors"--oh sorry, didn't mean to poke you in the eye with my air quotes. Well, your bartending career will go pretty much like this:
You'll go to the bartending institute and learn the difference between shaken and stirred, a bunch of different drinks, how to do the flaming ones without burning yourself, and then you're off to find your $12 per hour job--if you're lucky. You start as the bartender at a chain restaurant, where the manager--same age as you but with a pissy attitude--rides your ass day in and day out that you're putting too much actual booze in the drinks--truth is, you're "comping" your buddies on staff and some of the cuter waitresses.
Eventually, you decide to leave before you say something to lose your reference, and you go to work at a nightclub. It's way more fun--energetic and social--problem is, the few cute women who chat you up at the bar end up leaving with other guys because you don't get off work until 2 a.m.--plus, everything begins to look sad as you see the same people getting hammered, week in and week out. Soon you're an invaluable resource to the players of the club--you warn them which prospects have herpes, crazy ex's or three kids. They take care of you with good tips, but you don't get enough of those, and the waitresses don't share theirs like they should.
You begin drinking after work more and more, and eventually get an impaired charge. In the court-mandated alcohol counselling you meet a girl and the two of you get serious quickly and decide to get married. Problem is--she IS an alcoholic, and your only marketable skill is pouring booze. You're out late nights, and you worry that home alone, or out with her friends, she'll start drinking again.
She does, and when she does, she starts accusing you of messing around with the girls you work with--soon you're volunteering for extra shifts and doing weddings on the side just to stay away. She eventually leaves, but then dries out and comes back and you agree to work on things. This cycle continues for the next seven years of your marriage, during which time you add two kids to the mess.
The club you work at decides to go for the "coyote ugly" girls thing, and you're unemployed. At this point, you're not really young enough to get hired on at any more dance clubs, so you go to work for a low-key, lower paying neighborhood pub. The staff is fine, there's decent food at your breaks, and you get home earlier. Of course, you see the same sad old drunks night in and night out, and the three karaoke nights per week are your own small embodiment of hell. You finally pull the pin on bartending at age 45, and work in one of those horrible moneymart places until a holdup man kills you when you're 52.
What's the matter kid? Are you okay? Come back...
"School of Mixology"--that's rich kid. Yeah, and podiatrists are "doctors"--oh sorry, didn't mean to poke you in the eye with my air quotes. Well, your bartending career will go pretty much like this:
You'll go to the bartending institute and learn the difference between shaken and stirred, a bunch of different drinks, how to do the flaming ones without burning yourself, and then you're off to find your $12 per hour job--if you're lucky. You start as the bartender at a chain restaurant, where the manager--same age as you but with a pissy attitude--rides your ass day in and day out that you're putting too much actual booze in the drinks--truth is, you're "comping" your buddies on staff and some of the cuter waitresses.
Eventually, you decide to leave before you say something to lose your reference, and you go to work at a nightclub. It's way more fun--energetic and social--problem is, the few cute women who chat you up at the bar end up leaving with other guys because you don't get off work until 2 a.m.--plus, everything begins to look sad as you see the same people getting hammered, week in and week out. Soon you're an invaluable resource to the players of the club--you warn them which prospects have herpes, crazy ex's or three kids. They take care of you with good tips, but you don't get enough of those, and the waitresses don't share theirs like they should.
You begin drinking after work more and more, and eventually get an impaired charge. In the court-mandated alcohol counselling you meet a girl and the two of you get serious quickly and decide to get married. Problem is--she IS an alcoholic, and your only marketable skill is pouring booze. You're out late nights, and you worry that home alone, or out with her friends, she'll start drinking again.
She does, and when she does, she starts accusing you of messing around with the girls you work with--soon you're volunteering for extra shifts and doing weddings on the side just to stay away. She eventually leaves, but then dries out and comes back and you agree to work on things. This cycle continues for the next seven years of your marriage, during which time you add two kids to the mess.
The club you work at decides to go for the "coyote ugly" girls thing, and you're unemployed. At this point, you're not really young enough to get hired on at any more dance clubs, so you go to work for a low-key, lower paying neighborhood pub. The staff is fine, there's decent food at your breaks, and you get home earlier. Of course, you see the same sad old drunks night in and night out, and the three karaoke nights per week are your own small embodiment of hell. You finally pull the pin on bartending at age 45, and work in one of those horrible moneymart places until a holdup man kills you when you're 52.
What's the matter kid? Are you okay? Come back...
Thursday, October 21, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Othello
So there's this Othello dude, and he's like, an English African-American or something so that so Shakespeare can say "yeah I'm no racist so forget about Shylock" and stuff and Othello tells a bunch of stories to this chick Desdemona and they run away and her dad's all pissy about the Vegas wedding and they have this court thing but too bad for Desdemona's dad cause the wedding stands.
Anyway, this talking parrot named Iago hates this Cassio guy (not the lean and hungry guy from JC) and he figures out a plan to diss Casssio to Othello by saying that Desdemona's having a little Cassio-roll on the side, if you get my meaning. He also tells him they were making "the beast with two backs", which mighta been that "pushme-pullyou" thing, but I think it had two fronts--or maybe one of them freaky-ass siamese twin turtle things--whatever it was, it got Othello all jealous and stuff.
Then Iago steals this handkerchief, uses to rub some magic lamp, and there's this genie and then Othello says "where's the handkerchief, yo" and then he tells her the handkerchief was all magic, but it was really the lamp, and Iago says she gave it to Cassio, so Othello decides to off her and at the end he finds out it was all Iago so he offs the parrot and then himself and Cassio kills Jafar and they live happily ever.
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If you want more insights from The Kid Who Sits Behind You, go here.
So there's this Othello dude, and he's like, an English African-American or something so that so Shakespeare can say "yeah I'm no racist so forget about Shylock" and stuff and Othello tells a bunch of stories to this chick Desdemona and they run away and her dad's all pissy about the Vegas wedding and they have this court thing but too bad for Desdemona's dad cause the wedding stands.
Anyway, this talking parrot named Iago hates this Cassio guy (not the lean and hungry guy from JC) and he figures out a plan to diss Casssio to Othello by saying that Desdemona's having a little Cassio-roll on the side, if you get my meaning. He also tells him they were making "the beast with two backs", which mighta been that "pushme-pullyou" thing, but I think it had two fronts--or maybe one of them freaky-ass siamese twin turtle things--whatever it was, it got Othello all jealous and stuff.
Then Iago steals this handkerchief, uses to rub some magic lamp, and there's this genie and then Othello says "where's the handkerchief, yo" and then he tells her the handkerchief was all magic, but it was really the lamp, and Iago says she gave it to Cassio, so Othello decides to off her and at the end he finds out it was all Iago so he offs the parrot and then himself and Cassio kills Jafar and they live happily ever.
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If you want more insights from The Kid Who Sits Behind You, go here.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Corporate Lawyer
Hi--good to see you--don't mind the mess, let me move that... this office is so small, here, let me open a window, it's kind of stale in here...I shouldn't had chili for lunch, if you know...oh, okay. So you wanna be what? A corporate lawyer--really? A pretty girl like you? You could be like a model or something... okay. Here goes:
You'll do an undergraduate degree in Political Science, or Economics--actually, you look like an honours English girl--maybe with a minor in the classics. Your profs--the ones who aren't gay--will hit on you, and you'll get good grades because you're smart and you don't mind who knows it. You'll write the LSAT in 3rd year, but your boyfriend will have broken up with you the night before and you'll bomb--so you'll pay to do it again later.
This time you do well, and combined with your grades and some killer references from your profs, you get offered a chance to go to some of the top law schools in the country. Eventually you choose Queens--it's in Ontario, and that's where you want to eventually practice.
You have no life in law school, and when you do have any spare time you have to do volunteer work at a legal aid clinic telling drunks how to get off impaired charges and worse--you hate them all, and discover the hard way that you need to get an unlisted phone number. Eventually the hellish grind pays off and you're offered a position articling at a top Bay Street firm. You get invited on more lunches with partners than most articling students, but you convince yourself it's not because of how you look. One balding, paunchy would-be Romeo after another invites you along to weekend legal conferences, or to go interview witnesses with him an Atlanta, or New Orleans... eventually, after tiring of fending off the advances of these creeps who think their money and power make them desirable, you quite accepting trips and start coming in early to avoid running into them.
The stress of the job, the pace and the harassment begins to take its toll. You develop a variety of minor ailments, and start taking diet pills to keep yourself alert. Eventually you finish the year and are offered an entry position at the firm. You take it. Your fellow articling students are convinced you slept your way into the position, and don't make a secret of it.
Three years later you marry a guy who works as a graphic designer--you tell yourself you don't care if he earns 1/3 of what you do. Two years later, just as you're about to be offered an associate's position, you get pregnant. Artist boy is just "breaking through" to a new level with his career, so you agree to take mat. leave. It destroys your chance of a promotion, and your staff begin calling you "mommy", and other lawyer's eyes glaze over when you talk about your kid and show them baby pictures and you can't find a good babysitter for the times you have to work late to rebuild your career...
Your husband resents the time you're devoting to work and starts teaching an evening art class where he meets a 19 year old who dotes on his every word... In divorce court the colleague you trusted to protect your interests blows it, reminding you on the way out of the court you once turned down his offer of a weekend conference--the result is that 1/2 your income is going to your deadbeat ex husband, who gets primary custody of your child because you are "excessively devoted to your job".
You begin having anxiety attacks and one day one of the partners finds you in a break room weeping... They send you to a shrink the company has on retainer, and quietly arrange to have you transferred to Calgary, where you finish your career representing various cattlemen and land developers in their petty battles over property rights that involve the smell of manure devaluing prime real estate developments. Your child thinks you cold and unfeeling, but manages to call you everytime a cash handout is needed. You never remarry, but drift through a series of unsatisfying relationships.
So, if you come back tomorrow I could get you some brochures about law schools. No? okay--do you need a ride home?
Hi--good to see you--don't mind the mess, let me move that... this office is so small, here, let me open a window, it's kind of stale in here...I shouldn't had chili for lunch, if you know...oh, okay. So you wanna be what? A corporate lawyer--really? A pretty girl like you? You could be like a model or something... okay. Here goes:
You'll do an undergraduate degree in Political Science, or Economics--actually, you look like an honours English girl--maybe with a minor in the classics. Your profs--the ones who aren't gay--will hit on you, and you'll get good grades because you're smart and you don't mind who knows it. You'll write the LSAT in 3rd year, but your boyfriend will have broken up with you the night before and you'll bomb--so you'll pay to do it again later.
This time you do well, and combined with your grades and some killer references from your profs, you get offered a chance to go to some of the top law schools in the country. Eventually you choose Queens--it's in Ontario, and that's where you want to eventually practice.
You have no life in law school, and when you do have any spare time you have to do volunteer work at a legal aid clinic telling drunks how to get off impaired charges and worse--you hate them all, and discover the hard way that you need to get an unlisted phone number. Eventually the hellish grind pays off and you're offered a position articling at a top Bay Street firm. You get invited on more lunches with partners than most articling students, but you convince yourself it's not because of how you look. One balding, paunchy would-be Romeo after another invites you along to weekend legal conferences, or to go interview witnesses with him an Atlanta, or New Orleans... eventually, after tiring of fending off the advances of these creeps who think their money and power make them desirable, you quite accepting trips and start coming in early to avoid running into them.
The stress of the job, the pace and the harassment begins to take its toll. You develop a variety of minor ailments, and start taking diet pills to keep yourself alert. Eventually you finish the year and are offered an entry position at the firm. You take it. Your fellow articling students are convinced you slept your way into the position, and don't make a secret of it.
Three years later you marry a guy who works as a graphic designer--you tell yourself you don't care if he earns 1/3 of what you do. Two years later, just as you're about to be offered an associate's position, you get pregnant. Artist boy is just "breaking through" to a new level with his career, so you agree to take mat. leave. It destroys your chance of a promotion, and your staff begin calling you "mommy", and other lawyer's eyes glaze over when you talk about your kid and show them baby pictures and you can't find a good babysitter for the times you have to work late to rebuild your career...
Your husband resents the time you're devoting to work and starts teaching an evening art class where he meets a 19 year old who dotes on his every word... In divorce court the colleague you trusted to protect your interests blows it, reminding you on the way out of the court you once turned down his offer of a weekend conference--the result is that 1/2 your income is going to your deadbeat ex husband, who gets primary custody of your child because you are "excessively devoted to your job".
You begin having anxiety attacks and one day one of the partners finds you in a break room weeping... They send you to a shrink the company has on retainer, and quietly arrange to have you transferred to Calgary, where you finish your career representing various cattlemen and land developers in their petty battles over property rights that involve the smell of manure devaluing prime real estate developments. Your child thinks you cold and unfeeling, but manages to call you everytime a cash handout is needed. You never remarry, but drift through a series of unsatisfying relationships.
So, if you come back tomorrow I could get you some brochures about law schools. No? okay--do you need a ride home?
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
The French Revolution
So the French government was like all "go America--kick British butt" in 1776 but then their people wanted bread and Mary Antonio said Let em eat cake but everybody wanted french bread but who ever heard of French cake? I like Black Forest cake, but that's in Germany. Anyway, the French rich people were all "look at our fruity wigs" and "we don't bathe 'cause we spray toilet water on ourselves" (which is, to be frenchified "trey grosse") and the pheasants all were revolting and some dude named Rob Spierre set up a big cutty thing called a Gillotine and he chopped off everybody's head and burned the fruity wigs and then there was a Rain of Terror for a while until Napoleon showed up and they only chopped off his hand so he kept it in his coat but everybody thought he was reaching for a gat, so they were all "don't shoot anybody, dude, we'll let you be emperor". So he married this Josephine chick and won a bunch of wars then they put him on an island and said don't come back and somebody poisoned him real slow and then they dug him up after he croaked to look for arsenic or old lace or something.
Oh, and they sent the Statute of Libertines to America.
So the French government was like all "go America--kick British butt" in 1776 but then their people wanted bread and Mary Antonio said Let em eat cake but everybody wanted french bread but who ever heard of French cake? I like Black Forest cake, but that's in Germany. Anyway, the French rich people were all "look at our fruity wigs" and "we don't bathe 'cause we spray toilet water on ourselves" (which is, to be frenchified "trey grosse") and the pheasants all were revolting and some dude named Rob Spierre set up a big cutty thing called a Gillotine and he chopped off everybody's head and burned the fruity wigs and then there was a Rain of Terror for a while until Napoleon showed up and they only chopped off his hand so he kept it in his coat but everybody thought he was reaching for a gat, so they were all "don't shoot anybody, dude, we'll let you be emperor". So he married this Josephine chick and won a bunch of wars then they put him on an island and said don't come back and somebody poisoned him real slow and then they dug him up after he croaked to look for arsenic or old lace or something.
Oh, and they sent the Statute of Libertines to America.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Moby Dick
So there's this Ishmael dude and he's all like "I need to find my fortune" and he ends up going whale hunting with this weird Ahab dude who's all racist against non-white whales and has this grudge against this one whale named Moby Dick but like how he knew its name is kinda weird. Anyway, there's this headhunter dude who throws bones around and then a storm and stuff and then the whale kills everyone cause it hated Ahab like that shark in Jaws and then Ishmael is in the water and the whale swallows him and he wishes he had stayed at home with Gipetto, and then he lights a fire and the whale spits him out and he goes home and becomes a real boy and writes this hella long book that our teacher honestly thought we would all read.
So there's this Ishmael dude and he's all like "I need to find my fortune" and he ends up going whale hunting with this weird Ahab dude who's all racist against non-white whales and has this grudge against this one whale named Moby Dick but like how he knew its name is kinda weird. Anyway, there's this headhunter dude who throws bones around and then a storm and stuff and then the whale kills everyone cause it hated Ahab like that shark in Jaws and then Ishmael is in the water and the whale swallows him and he wishes he had stayed at home with Gipetto, and then he lights a fire and the whale spits him out and he goes home and becomes a real boy and writes this hella long book that our teacher honestly thought we would all read.
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Take me to your Tractor Pull...
We're weak, tired and vulnerable to bad television. Case in point--Fox TV's "Unexplained Mysteries". Came to one inescapable conclusion: Aliens like mullets. Everybody who sees the unexplained lights, or hears the noises that no one else does is pretty much a poster child for "when brothers and sisters interbreed". Hmmm...
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Real Estate Agent
Really kid--I thought you were smarter than... Never mind. Let's see--if you become a real estate agent you'll have to take some classes and you'll have to go a year without any other job besides real estate to get your license. Problem is, it will be you and a bunch of middle aged housewives who are doing it because they're bored. Your friends are kids your age--they don't have houses to sell, and they don't have money to buy houses. The middle aged housewives will go to tea with their friends and listings will fall into their fat, overprivileged laps.
First you'll work for some dick of a boss who'll make sure you get all the crappiest listings in the bad part of town. Eventually, when you get a little better at it, you'll start to schmooze with all the professionals--you'll join the golf club you can't afford, and buy a car beyond your budget. Your wife will want designer clothes and a new SUV and to send your kids to private school. You'll start playing golf more during the day and drinking three martinis with lunch. You'll hang around the golf clubhouse with doctors and lawyers, and pretend they think you're a professional just like they are. They don't--notice they don't invite you to parties at their houses.
Soon there's a cute young thing training in your agency--you agree to share listings with her, and to make sure you keep working to help her succeed, she flirts with you and before you know it, you're having an affair--it's easy because nobody knows where you're supposed to be at any time of the day. Your wife finds out, and divorces you--suing you so she can live in the custom she's used to--but you never could afford. Soon you're living in a trailer because all your commissions are being eaten up by alimony and you're drinking way too much and you have a heart attack because of stress and the young cute agent has a pile of her listings she's keeps getting because her picture on the ads looks way more appealing than yours.
Your kids are embarassed by you and your drunkard's face and your pathetic trailer. They avoid you. Eventually you start messing up deals and lose your license and desperate for cash, you start schilling for shady Mexican timeshare deals. You either die of a heart attack or put a gun in your mouth by the time you're 55.
By the way, did I ever tell you I tried my hand at real estate when I was younger...?
Really kid--I thought you were smarter than... Never mind. Let's see--if you become a real estate agent you'll have to take some classes and you'll have to go a year without any other job besides real estate to get your license. Problem is, it will be you and a bunch of middle aged housewives who are doing it because they're bored. Your friends are kids your age--they don't have houses to sell, and they don't have money to buy houses. The middle aged housewives will go to tea with their friends and listings will fall into their fat, overprivileged laps.
First you'll work for some dick of a boss who'll make sure you get all the crappiest listings in the bad part of town. Eventually, when you get a little better at it, you'll start to schmooze with all the professionals--you'll join the golf club you can't afford, and buy a car beyond your budget. Your wife will want designer clothes and a new SUV and to send your kids to private school. You'll start playing golf more during the day and drinking three martinis with lunch. You'll hang around the golf clubhouse with doctors and lawyers, and pretend they think you're a professional just like they are. They don't--notice they don't invite you to parties at their houses.
Soon there's a cute young thing training in your agency--you agree to share listings with her, and to make sure you keep working to help her succeed, she flirts with you and before you know it, you're having an affair--it's easy because nobody knows where you're supposed to be at any time of the day. Your wife finds out, and divorces you--suing you so she can live in the custom she's used to--but you never could afford. Soon you're living in a trailer because all your commissions are being eaten up by alimony and you're drinking way too much and you have a heart attack because of stress and the young cute agent has a pile of her listings she's keeps getting because her picture on the ads looks way more appealing than yours.
Your kids are embarassed by you and your drunkard's face and your pathetic trailer. They avoid you. Eventually you start messing up deals and lose your license and desperate for cash, you start schilling for shady Mexican timeshare deals. You either die of a heart attack or put a gun in your mouth by the time you're 55.
By the way, did I ever tell you I tried my hand at real estate when I was younger...?
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Medical Lab Technician
You wanna do what? Oh, sure kid. Two years at BCIT and you get to work in a little room with samples. Pass me that lighter, will ya? So, it's like this: in the real world if somebody if some stranger puts some baby batter in a cup and gives it to you, you call the police. If somebody pisses in a jar or saves their feces to give you, it's police or psych ward--your call. But no--you see, you'll give the guy the little cup and he'll go off and after a quick date with Mr. Hand you get to take the deposit. Is this what you want to go to college for? Is shaking up a test tube with somebody's crap in it a daily routine you want to take part in? If you get on the bus and some loser is pulling off a bandage to expose oozing pus, most people move as far away as possible--but not you--you get to collect that pus--what fun. And don't give me the "urine is sterile" garbage either--not the stuff from the infected scuzzballs whose pee you'll be playing with, I guarantee it. But hey--it's adventurous--think of the eve-present possibility of exposing yourself to some life-threatening disease. Oops, sorry--I should clean out that damn ashtray.
You wanna do what? Oh, sure kid. Two years at BCIT and you get to work in a little room with samples. Pass me that lighter, will ya? So, it's like this: in the real world if somebody if some stranger puts some baby batter in a cup and gives it to you, you call the police. If somebody pisses in a jar or saves their feces to give you, it's police or psych ward--your call. But no--you see, you'll give the guy the little cup and he'll go off and after a quick date with Mr. Hand you get to take the deposit. Is this what you want to go to college for? Is shaking up a test tube with somebody's crap in it a daily routine you want to take part in? If you get on the bus and some loser is pulling off a bandage to expose oozing pus, most people move as far away as possible--but not you--you get to collect that pus--what fun. And don't give me the "urine is sterile" garbage either--not the stuff from the infected scuzzballs whose pee you'll be playing with, I guarantee it. But hey--it's adventurous--think of the eve-present possibility of exposing yourself to some life-threatening disease. Oops, sorry--I should clean out that damn ashtray.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Julius Caesar
So there's this general named Caesar and he's all "I conquered the Gauls--go me" and the senators get all panicky, especially Cassius, 'cause he's all lean and hungry and he gets Brutus all paranoid that Caesar's gonna be king so they decide to off Caesar at the office and Caesar's wife is all "I had a bad dream and you should stay home" and Caesar's all "yeah, okay" and then some senators come and say "Is you whipped? You're stayin' home on account a what some chick said?" and Caesar's all "Damn woman--where's my robe--I'm outta here" and then it's all stabby stabby and then they decide to have a funeral cause people are like, way pissed at the senators.
So they let Marc Anthony (not THAT guy--a Roman dude) talk at the funeral, and it's all like he's Puff Daddy/P. Diddy and Caesar was all Notorious B.I.G./Biggy Small and the funeral speech is all "Every Breath You Take"/"Friends, Romans Countrymen Lend Me Your Ears" and just like P. Diddy it was the best career move Marc Anthony ever made--and he got to be co-king with Lepidoptera and Octopussy Caesar and then he went to Egypt, got it on with Cleopatra, and lost a war. Oh, and Brutus and Cassius offed themselves and Brutus's wife Porche swallowed barbecue coals after she stabbed herself in the thigh cause she was kinda into pain, if you know what I mean.
So there's this general named Caesar and he's all "I conquered the Gauls--go me" and the senators get all panicky, especially Cassius, 'cause he's all lean and hungry and he gets Brutus all paranoid that Caesar's gonna be king so they decide to off Caesar at the office and Caesar's wife is all "I had a bad dream and you should stay home" and Caesar's all "yeah, okay" and then some senators come and say "Is you whipped? You're stayin' home on account a what some chick said?" and Caesar's all "Damn woman--where's my robe--I'm outta here" and then it's all stabby stabby and then they decide to have a funeral cause people are like, way pissed at the senators.
So they let Marc Anthony (not THAT guy--a Roman dude) talk at the funeral, and it's all like he's Puff Daddy/P. Diddy and Caesar was all Notorious B.I.G./Biggy Small and the funeral speech is all "Every Breath You Take"/"Friends, Romans Countrymen Lend Me Your Ears" and just like P. Diddy it was the best career move Marc Anthony ever made--and he got to be co-king with Lepidoptera and Octopussy Caesar and then he went to Egypt, got it on with Cleopatra, and lost a war. Oh, and Brutus and Cassius offed themselves and Brutus's wife Porche swallowed barbecue coals after she stabbed herself in the thigh cause she was kinda into pain, if you know what I mean.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Another day, another genre
So, following the rules established below (see my previous post)
I offer this next installment.
Genre: Existential Drama
NED: What was that sound?
JULIA: I'm not sure...
NED: I've heard it before...
JULIA: Yes.
NED: Perhaps there's some... purpose.
JULIA: To the sound?
NED: To... everything.
JULIA: You bore me. Living bores me.
NED: I hate you. I hate me more.
JULIA: Can we leave now?
NED: If only I cared enough... to leave. (pause) There's that sound again.
JULIA: Perhaps it's... despair?
NED: Yes. We must embrace it. (stands. shoots her. lights a cigarette. shoots self.)
(BLACKOUT)
Yes, I suppose it crosses the line from existentialism to absurdism or even nihilism, but until any of you self-righteous bastards shows one little spark of creativity you can't mock my foibles. I'll be in my trailer if anyone wants me...
I offer this next installment.
Genre: Existential Drama
NED: What was that sound?
JULIA: I'm not sure...
NED: I've heard it before...
JULIA: Yes.
NED: Perhaps there's some... purpose.
JULIA: To the sound?
NED: To... everything.
JULIA: You bore me. Living bores me.
NED: I hate you. I hate me more.
JULIA: Can we leave now?
NED: If only I cared enough... to leave. (pause) There's that sound again.
JULIA: Perhaps it's... despair?
NED: Yes. We must embrace it. (stands. shoots her. lights a cigarette. shoots self.)
(BLACKOUT)
Yes, I suppose it crosses the line from existentialism to absurdism or even nihilism, but until any of you self-righteous bastards shows one little spark of creativity you can't mock my foibles. I'll be in my trailer if anyone wants me...
Sunday, October 03, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Hamlet
So Hamlet was this Danish prince--unlike the prince of danishes, which is this bakery I once saw, and he's off studying in some place in Germany and his uncle offs his dad, also named Hamlet, so you have to call him Old Hamlet--kinda like Archie and Little Archie except they're not the same guy--and so Hamlet gets home and his mom's all like "your dad died so I married your uncle" and he's all "mom you whore" and then he starts gettin' it on with Ophelia. Ophelia is this chick whose dad is a stupid know-it-all like my friend Brad's dad except Brad's dad got hit in the head with a two by four at work, so Hamlet starts messin' with everybody's mind and he's pretending to be nuts but maybe he really is. Then his old buddies Rosenstall and Guildenhutz try to get him offed in England but he fools them and then Ophelia is all "have some flowers and herbs" cause she was probly knocked up and then she drowns herself and then Hamlet fights her brother after he killed her dad and then the queen dies and so does the king and so does Hamlet. Then the Norweyans come--they're kinda like Norwegians--and take over cause on account of these Danish people are all f'ed up in the head.
So Hamlet was this Danish prince--unlike the prince of danishes, which is this bakery I once saw, and he's off studying in some place in Germany and his uncle offs his dad, also named Hamlet, so you have to call him Old Hamlet--kinda like Archie and Little Archie except they're not the same guy--and so Hamlet gets home and his mom's all like "your dad died so I married your uncle" and he's all "mom you whore" and then he starts gettin' it on with Ophelia. Ophelia is this chick whose dad is a stupid know-it-all like my friend Brad's dad except Brad's dad got hit in the head with a two by four at work, so Hamlet starts messin' with everybody's mind and he's pretending to be nuts but maybe he really is. Then his old buddies Rosenstall and Guildenhutz try to get him offed in England but he fools them and then Ophelia is all "have some flowers and herbs" cause she was probly knocked up and then she drowns herself and then Hamlet fights her brother after he killed her dad and then the queen dies and so does the king and so does Hamlet. Then the Norweyans come--they're kinda like Norwegians--and take over cause on account of these Danish people are all f'ed up in the head.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Wanted: Original Works--No Compensation Offered
Here's the plan. I will give an opening line, then ask anyone who chooses to begin a script (use the comment option if you dare) along the lines of a particular genre. Some genres I would suggest are: romantic comedy, gothic thriller, absurdist/existential commentary, political satire, children's fantasy, drawing-room comedy, Elizabethan tragedy, feminist agitprop, experimental arthouse play, educational "message" play...
The opening:
NED: What was that sound?
JULIA: I'm not sure...
There-that's your start. There are quite a few people now dropping in on this blog--the counter ranges from a dozen to more than fifty hits on a typical day--so don't be scared. Nothing is too awful, and it needn't be long. Here--I'll start it off.
Genre: Ribald Farce
NED: What was that sound?
JULIA: I'm not sure...
NED: I think it came from your knickers.
JULIA: Oh Neddy, you are awful...
NED: You haven't called me Neddy since the divorce. Would you care for a sherry?
JULIA: You aren't trying to get me tipsy, are you Neddy?
(Enter THE MAJOR, Julia's much older third husband)
THE MAJOR: What did I just hear?
JULIA: Tipsy, darling--honestly, you're such a prig sometimes.
THE MAJOR: Don't think I don't know what's going on here. (uncomfortable pause)
NED: Er, I'm not sure...
JULIA: I, uhm...
THE MAJOR: See, your faces give you away. You're both as guilty as sin. How could you think I didn't know you were planning a surprise birthday party for me?
NED: (relieved) Ah, yes--well, we certainly can't put anything past you, can we. (quickly picks JULIA'S bra off of sofa and stuffs it into his jacket pocket)
And so on...
j.
The opening:
NED: What was that sound?
JULIA: I'm not sure...
There-that's your start. There are quite a few people now dropping in on this blog--the counter ranges from a dozen to more than fifty hits on a typical day--so don't be scared. Nothing is too awful, and it needn't be long. Here--I'll start it off.
Genre: Ribald Farce
NED: What was that sound?
JULIA: I'm not sure...
NED: I think it came from your knickers.
JULIA: Oh Neddy, you are awful...
NED: You haven't called me Neddy since the divorce. Would you care for a sherry?
JULIA: You aren't trying to get me tipsy, are you Neddy?
(Enter THE MAJOR, Julia's much older third husband)
THE MAJOR: What did I just hear?
JULIA: Tipsy, darling--honestly, you're such a prig sometimes.
THE MAJOR: Don't think I don't know what's going on here. (uncomfortable pause)
NED: Er, I'm not sure...
JULIA: I, uhm...
THE MAJOR: See, your faces give you away. You're both as guilty as sin. How could you think I didn't know you were planning a surprise birthday party for me?
NED: (relieved) Ah, yes--well, we certainly can't put anything past you, can we. (quickly picks JULIA'S bra off of sofa and stuffs it into his jacket pocket)
And so on...
j.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Brave New World
So there's this Bernard guy who lives in this like, engineered society and they're all "my mother was a test tube" and they make people for the jobs so the smart people like being smart and the rest all want to work in the restroom at mcdonalds and Bernard wants to hook up with this Lenina chick who's hot and they all just hook up whenever with whoever and go to movies and get wasted on soma, which is kinda like ecstasy. There's this guy John who's some kind of a savage on account of he likes Shakespeare, beating himself and thinks sex is nasty. His mother is all fat and they all think she's gross and John becomes kind of a Tarzan "look at the savage" guy but he can't talk to animals. The thing is, Aldous Huxley wrote this book in the 1930s and it's all party, sleep around, watch videos and do drugs. It's kinda like he saw the future and it was like Paris Hilton's bedroom or a rave or something. Eerie. (the scary kind, not the lake kind)
So there's this Bernard guy who lives in this like, engineered society and they're all "my mother was a test tube" and they make people for the jobs so the smart people like being smart and the rest all want to work in the restroom at mcdonalds and Bernard wants to hook up with this Lenina chick who's hot and they all just hook up whenever with whoever and go to movies and get wasted on soma, which is kinda like ecstasy. There's this guy John who's some kind of a savage on account of he likes Shakespeare, beating himself and thinks sex is nasty. His mother is all fat and they all think she's gross and John becomes kind of a Tarzan "look at the savage" guy but he can't talk to animals. The thing is, Aldous Huxley wrote this book in the 1930s and it's all party, sleep around, watch videos and do drugs. It's kinda like he saw the future and it was like Paris Hilton's bedroom or a rave or something. Eerie. (the scary kind, not the lake kind)
Sunday, September 26, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Animal Farm
(uh, before we start, you should know I took some heavy duty, uh, cold medication tonight.)
So, there's this guy George Orwell--only his real name's Eric--and he's all "I'm a socialist and I'm going to fight in the Spanish Civil War" but his side, like, sucked cause the other side had all the weapons and shit and then he got all pissed at Stalin cause on account of Orwell liked Trotsky and thought that Stalin had betrayed Lenin's vision after he married Yoko Ono so he wrote Animal Farm, and in case that was too subtle he threw in 1984 as well. (see previous entry) In Animal Farm, the humans are like, the bourgeoise and the animals are getting beat down and there's this pig Old Major who's all "the workers should control the means of production" and then Snowball and Napoleon take over but then Napoleon gets all Al Capone and Snowball's toast but Boxer this big stupid horse is all "Napoleon is my friend" and "I like rabbits, George". Then Napoleon gets them all to say "4 legs good but 2 legs are damn hot sometimes" and then he and the other pigs get like humans and wear clothes and soon it's all the same as before except nobody's eatin' bacon for breakfast.
(uh, before we start, you should know I took some heavy duty, uh, cold medication tonight.)
So, there's this guy George Orwell--only his real name's Eric--and he's all "I'm a socialist and I'm going to fight in the Spanish Civil War" but his side, like, sucked cause the other side had all the weapons and shit and then he got all pissed at Stalin cause on account of Orwell liked Trotsky and thought that Stalin had betrayed Lenin's vision after he married Yoko Ono so he wrote Animal Farm, and in case that was too subtle he threw in 1984 as well. (see previous entry) In Animal Farm, the humans are like, the bourgeoise and the animals are getting beat down and there's this pig Old Major who's all "the workers should control the means of production" and then Snowball and Napoleon take over but then Napoleon gets all Al Capone and Snowball's toast but Boxer this big stupid horse is all "Napoleon is my friend" and "I like rabbits, George". Then Napoleon gets them all to say "4 legs good but 2 legs are damn hot sometimes" and then he and the other pigs get like humans and wear clothes and soon it's all the same as before except nobody's eatin' bacon for breakfast.
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
The Hobbit
So there's this wizard guy named Gandalf who's kinda like Merlin and he gets this Bilbo guy to take a job from these 12 dwarves--Oin, Bloin, Groin, Marvin, Garvin, Happy, Sneezy, Doc, and I forget the rest--and he's like a burglar but then he meets up with this Gollum guy who's all "I live in a cave and tell me some riddles" with a speech impediment and then he gets this ring to get all invisible and he goes to some stinky dragon cave to get riches and the dragon's all pissed but then this talking donkey comes and the dragon's all "How YOU doin'" and then Shrek marries the princess and she's really an ogre and the dwarves get their riches and Bilbo goes home until his nephew Frodo shows up and makes Shrek II.
So there's this wizard guy named Gandalf who's kinda like Merlin and he gets this Bilbo guy to take a job from these 12 dwarves--Oin, Bloin, Groin, Marvin, Garvin, Happy, Sneezy, Doc, and I forget the rest--and he's like a burglar but then he meets up with this Gollum guy who's all "I live in a cave and tell me some riddles" with a speech impediment and then he gets this ring to get all invisible and he goes to some stinky dragon cave to get riches and the dragon's all pissed but then this talking donkey comes and the dragon's all "How YOU doin'" and then Shrek marries the princess and she's really an ogre and the dwarves get their riches and Bilbo goes home until his nephew Frodo shows up and makes Shrek II.
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
The Canadian Parliamentary System
A bunch of people get together at a party, and build a big platform, and choose Canadadates. These Canadadates try to get people to cast their ballads for them, so they can go the House of Commotions, in Ottawa. There, the speaker has a can of Mace that he uses to control them, with the help of the party whip. They take votes and pay many bills and make laws and spend lots of money--well not all of them, only as many as can fit inside a cabinet. Oh, yeah, and some of them speak French, and sometimes the Governor General is a chick.
(Editor's note--The Kid Who Sits Behind You thanks all of those who read his contributions, but, in answer to several angry emails, he is not responsible for the marks that uninformed teachers might give you when you rely on his tutorials. If you wish to request he address a specific topic, please do so in the comment area of his tutorials blog entries. He specializes in high school literature, but is willing to make available his wisdom on a wide range of topics. If he doesn't get to your request, feel free to post a reminder, as over the years, his short and long term memory have suffered from his, er, recreational activies.)
A bunch of people get together at a party, and build a big platform, and choose Canadadates. These Canadadates try to get people to cast their ballads for them, so they can go the House of Commotions, in Ottawa. There, the speaker has a can of Mace that he uses to control them, with the help of the party whip. They take votes and pay many bills and make laws and spend lots of money--well not all of them, only as many as can fit inside a cabinet. Oh, yeah, and some of them speak French, and sometimes the Governor General is a chick.
(Editor's note--The Kid Who Sits Behind You thanks all of those who read his contributions, but, in answer to several angry emails, he is not responsible for the marks that uninformed teachers might give you when you rely on his tutorials. If you wish to request he address a specific topic, please do so in the comment area of his tutorials blog entries. He specializes in high school literature, but is willing to make available his wisdom on a wide range of topics. If he doesn't get to your request, feel free to post a reminder, as over the years, his short and long term memory have suffered from his, er, recreational activies.)
Saturday, September 25, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Wuthering Heights
So there's this old guy named Earnshaw who goes to Liverpool and brings home this gypsy kid named Heathcliff so he wouldn't just grow up to be another soccer hooligan and Earnshaw's own son pummels him and Heathcliff hates him and plays with the daughter and the old guy croaks and life sucks for Heathcliff but then he goes away and comes back and owns Wuthering Heights and too bad cause Catherine's married but then everyone marries everyone else who they're sort of related to and it's hella confusing cause everybody's named either Linton, Earnshaw or Heathcliff and there's two Catherine's and at the end Heathcliff digs up the old Catherine's dead body cause he's like all necro and then he croaks and the younger Catherine marries her cousin so there's a real bright future for these two incestuous abuse victims to turn their lives around and be great parents some day. Yah right.
So there's this old guy named Earnshaw who goes to Liverpool and brings home this gypsy kid named Heathcliff so he wouldn't just grow up to be another soccer hooligan and Earnshaw's own son pummels him and Heathcliff hates him and plays with the daughter and the old guy croaks and life sucks for Heathcliff but then he goes away and comes back and owns Wuthering Heights and too bad cause Catherine's married but then everyone marries everyone else who they're sort of related to and it's hella confusing cause everybody's named either Linton, Earnshaw or Heathcliff and there's two Catherine's and at the end Heathcliff digs up the old Catherine's dead body cause he's like all necro and then he croaks and the younger Catherine marries her cousin so there's a real bright future for these two incestuous abuse victims to turn their lives around and be great parents some day. Yah right.
It's Saturday Morning and the Lawnmowers are Deafening
Things you'd rather not hear:
You got the prettiest face of any guy in this prison.
Now that my wife's left me, all I have to think about is your audit.
Oh, I'm sorry, I thought the woman you were here with last night was your wife.
Just before you go under, are your next of kin likely to be home this afternoon?
Who told you it was a costume party?
j.
You got the prettiest face of any guy in this prison.
Now that my wife's left me, all I have to think about is your audit.
Oh, I'm sorry, I thought the woman you were here with last night was your wife.
Just before you go under, are your next of kin likely to be home this afternoon?
Who told you it was a costume party?
j.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Macbeth
So there's this guy Macbeth whose slicin' and dicin' on the battlefield and then he meets these three real ugly chicks and they're all "You're gonna be king" and he's all "no way, there's a king already" and then he writes Lady Macbeth and she's all "off the king" but she may be a guy cause she keeps saying "unsex me" and stuff and then Macbeth offs the king and a bunch of other people but he and Lady Mac can't have kids (duh--see cross dresser comments above) so he's all pissed off and then the forest starts running around (like in Lord of the Flies) and then Macduff is born by a Julius Caesar and he chops off Macbeth's head and everybody's happy except Lady Mac cause she offed herself first. Then Simba got to be king and everybody was happy.
So there's this guy Macbeth whose slicin' and dicin' on the battlefield and then he meets these three real ugly chicks and they're all "You're gonna be king" and he's all "no way, there's a king already" and then he writes Lady Macbeth and she's all "off the king" but she may be a guy cause she keeps saying "unsex me" and stuff and then Macbeth offs the king and a bunch of other people but he and Lady Mac can't have kids (duh--see cross dresser comments above) so he's all pissed off and then the forest starts running around (like in Lord of the Flies) and then Macduff is born by a Julius Caesar and he chops off Macbeth's head and everybody's happy except Lady Mac cause she offed herself first. Then Simba got to be king and everybody was happy.
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
The Chrysalids
There are these Amish-type people all living strict-like and these kids who get all mutated but then their dad puts up a "Beware of the Mutants" sign so nobody will bother them, but he should've just started a freak show and then this Rosalind chick gets these weird messages from New Zealand and there's this kid with six fingers who killed Inego Montoya's father but as she prepares to die these goodyear blimps come and shoot spiderwebs on everyone and kill all the non-mutants so the last laugh goes to the freaks.
There are these Amish-type people all living strict-like and these kids who get all mutated but then their dad puts up a "Beware of the Mutants" sign so nobody will bother them, but he should've just started a freak show and then this Rosalind chick gets these weird messages from New Zealand and there's this kid with six fingers who killed Inego Montoya's father but as she prepares to die these goodyear blimps come and shoot spiderwebs on everyone and kill all the non-mutants so the last laugh goes to the freaks.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
1984
There's this Winston Smith guy whose clock is broken cause it struck 13 and he works as a minister telling people about the truth until he meets this Julia chick who's all "sex is bad" but then they hook up and she's all "just kidding" and he shouldn't be messing around with her because he's a truth minister and all and then this helicopter flies into their bedroom and Winston is all "damn" and "don't put the rats on me" and then this guy from the Big Brothers comes and Winston loves him on account of I guess he didn't have a dad of his own which is why you should give money to Big Brothers (or you can donate clothes, I think).
There's this Winston Smith guy whose clock is broken cause it struck 13 and he works as a minister telling people about the truth until he meets this Julia chick who's all "sex is bad" but then they hook up and she's all "just kidding" and he shouldn't be messing around with her because he's a truth minister and all and then this helicopter flies into their bedroom and Winston is all "damn" and "don't put the rats on me" and then this guy from the Big Brothers comes and Winston loves him on account of I guess he didn't have a dad of his own which is why you should give money to Big Brothers (or you can donate clothes, I think).
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
The Lord of the Flies
This is the story of an island. And Ralph. And Jack. And Piggy. They are all flies--giant talking flies. (Kind of like that Animal Farm story that I'll tell you about another time, but without pigs.) These flies get trapped on an island--or maybe in a big jar--and they have to survive so they need to build homes and hunt for other bugs to eat. Then they discover this dead pilot with smaller flies all over it and he tells them to go to Middle Earth where they find Simon, a gollum, with a conch shell he calls "My Precious". Then Jack and a bunch of hunters fight with Boromir and Piggy starts a fire with his glasses and Ralph is elected king and he gets to marry Arwen and they are rescued by a big ship and they all live happily except Piggy who is squished like a bug. (cause he is a bug).
This is the story of an island. And Ralph. And Jack. And Piggy. They are all flies--giant talking flies. (Kind of like that Animal Farm story that I'll tell you about another time, but without pigs.) These flies get trapped on an island--or maybe in a big jar--and they have to survive so they need to build homes and hunt for other bugs to eat. Then they discover this dead pilot with smaller flies all over it and he tells them to go to Middle Earth where they find Simon, a gollum, with a conch shell he calls "My Precious". Then Jack and a bunch of hunters fight with Boromir and Piggy starts a fire with his glasses and Ralph is elected king and he gets to marry Arwen and they are rescued by a big ship and they all live happily except Piggy who is squished like a bug. (cause he is a bug).
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
The Catcher in the Rye
There's this kid named Holden Caufield and he's all upset on account of he's got two last names and no first names and he goes into the city and stays in a skanky hotel and gets drunk on rye whisky with the catcher from the New York Yankees and he messes around with this hooker chick but nothing really happens on account of he's probably gay and then he wants to hide in this big field of rye and grab little kids--which is kinda creepy if you ask me.
There's this kid named Holden Caufield and he's all upset on account of he's got two last names and no first names and he goes into the city and stays in a skanky hotel and gets drunk on rye whisky with the catcher from the New York Yankees and he messes around with this hooker chick but nothing really happens on account of he's probably gay and then he wants to hide in this big field of rye and grab little kids--which is kinda creepy if you ask me.
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
The Outsiders
So like there's this kid who's like half boy-half-pony--I think that's a Cenetaur--and he wanted to be in a gang like his brother who was a tough guy in the T-Birds and they used to drag race down the aquaduct but then there was this big gang fight and his brother got killed and this chick named Maria was all crying about it and then Ponyboy went into the Olympics on account of he was like half-horse so he could run fast and all the rest of the T-Birds watched him and cheered "Go for gold, Ponyboy! Go for gold!"
So like there's this kid who's like half boy-half-pony--I think that's a Cenetaur--and he wanted to be in a gang like his brother who was a tough guy in the T-Birds and they used to drag race down the aquaduct but then there was this big gang fight and his brother got killed and this chick named Maria was all crying about it and then Ponyboy went into the Olympics on account of he was like half-horse so he could run fast and all the rest of the T-Birds watched him and cheered "Go for gold, Ponyboy! Go for gold!"
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains...
To Kill a Mockingbird
Basically this mockingbird who lives with this kid named Scout--who may be a girl who thinks she's a boy or vice versa--is a real badass and keeps attacking people. He kills this other kind of bird called a finch who was named Atticus. (I think it lived in an attic). So the people have to figure out how to kill this bird and some ghost named Boo Ratley gives them the answer and they "lynch" it, which I think means they cooked it up southern style.
Basically this mockingbird who lives with this kid named Scout--who may be a girl who thinks she's a boy or vice versa--is a real badass and keeps attacking people. He kills this other kind of bird called a finch who was named Atticus. (I think it lived in an attic). So the people have to figure out how to kill this bird and some ghost named Boo Ratley gives them the answer and they "lynch" it, which I think means they cooked it up southern style.
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