Law School #1

Three or four weeks ago (I've lost track) I intended to write here weekly about the goings on, personal experiences, and thoughts surrounding my entrance and immersion into law school at Ohio Northern University.  Well, clearly, that hasn't happened.  I could get into all the various whys and wherefores, but I can't imagine anyone would really care to read that.  So the shortest of it: it boils down to the fact that I really just don't need the blog right now.  That, and I'm so totally fried once and if I actually do have time to write something for myself that I can't manage it.  Yesterday, however, there was quite a convergence of my past and present interests in three little moments: two while sitting in Property, one preparing for Torts.

We were discussing the right we have as property owners to exclude others from our stuff--land, things, home, whatever.  We went further--to the "outer reaches" of the privilege--to talk briefly and hypothetically about the supposed, and in fact very limited, right to destroy our property.  Interesting to note, and I think I'm grateful for it (though this is a fairly complicated mix-up of thoughts, opinions, and emotions, really), that a court will not generally back our actions if we gratuitously destroy, say, our house, at least not if we don't replace it with an improvement, for example.  It reminded me of some things I learned about Italian real estate (back when I subscribed to Architectural Digest), that even to make minor adjustments (and I'm talking about even just getting new windows or locks installed) to a home or piece of property over a certain age or in a certain location requires full authorization from the government, in the interest of preserving cultural interest in architectural heritage.  Further, courts will rarely support you in the destruction of artistic or literary works, even if they're yours and were never even published.  For example, Franz Kafka (if I'm remembering this correctly) requested that his many incomplete works be destroyed in the event of his death.  Aren't we all glad (well, okay, I'm glad!) the court did not enforce that request!

In torts Torts today, we will be discussing a case regarding an event that occurred in good ol' Saginaw, Michigan, outside a now-defunct department store called Arlan's (suspicion of shoplifting with pursuant accusations of slander and wrongful arrest).  I couldn't remember the name of the department store that is now the Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy, so I did a little digging.  I'm sure most of you will be little surprised to learn that I found a number of cases built upon events that happened to have occurred outside one Montgomery Ward not far from Arlan's.

So long for now.  I suppose I will write again eventually, if not soon.

My Law School Application "PERSONAL STATEMENT" -- requesting your input once again

A "personal statement" is required by all law schools and is intended to indicate who the applicant is--revelatory of personality, interests, writing ability, etcetera.  Basically, law schools need to find out if you're a fit for their program beyond what the numbers of test scores and GPAs can reveal.  Here's my third and most recent (and I think, best) attempt:

Joseph Center

LSAC#: **********

Personal Statement

My name is Joseph Center, and I was born to be a teacher.  Call it self-awareness; call it revelation from God; call it dumb, indecisive, undergraduate luck—whatever; it worked:  I am a teacher, and I am a good one.  At home in a classroom, before a body of students, teaching, managing, learning; the grade book a well-lit place, and lesson prep a natural extension of my regular thoughts, preoccupations, and academic appetites; I am a teacher.  Despite this there have been times when the working professional’s oldest devil, most effectually labeled “doubt,” has come after me, armed to the teeth with all my insecurities—future, money, education, fake-it-‘til-you-make-it, authority, maturity, etcetera—and all that stacked up against the true weight of a teacher’s responsibility.  He is a nasty beast, Doubt, but I was always able to shake him, at least until the great bureaucracy of public education, wittingly or no, came powerfully to his aid against me—a grim encounter, the result of which taught me more about myself and my abilities than any of the previous seven years’ experience.

At the time I was enjoying what I can comfortably call success in a smallish school for smart and artistic kids in the crook of Michigan’s thumb.  I had a full course load up and running, trips and guest speakers planned, fundraisers underway, and, best of all, a motley of talented students, willing and un-, already deep in the year’s most challenging material.  I loved my job, my students, and so they seemed to love me, too.  My third year had started peacefully.  Better yet, I felt the stride of the backstretch opening up now that I had two good years behind me.  I was comfortable.  All was well.  Little did I expect an over-large foot was about to stamp my breaks from the passenger seat.

It happened one Friday morning in October.  As always, I arrived at school shortly after six and checked my box.  I’d received a letter from the State Office of Education.  I opened it as I walked to my room.  I unlocked the door and sat at my desk.  I read the letter, which informed me that I had failed to take one of the two required certification tests needed to transfer my teaching license from Utah to Michigan and, until I took it, would be removed from the public classroom.

“Holy crap,” I said aloud and to absolutely no one.

My eyes bugged out, I slumped over a pile of ungraded poetry, and hardly moved until classes started.  I took Monday off to drive to Lansing, because no one at the state office would return the dozens of phone calls between classes, during lunch, and whenever I could manage it throughout the day Friday.  I arrived shortly after opening, slogged through the mire of red tape, got planted in a conference room and told to wait.  Nearly an hour passed before a little mustachioed man finally entered.  He had five pieces of information, four of which he checked off a list on his clipboard.  None were helpful:

One: The next proctoring of the required test would be held in three months.  (This, while frustrating, rankled less than learning that the most recent test had been given only two days earlier, which was the Saturday after I received the letter, which, of course, I would have been able to take, had I known about it, which information I could have gained if, and only if, someone—anyone—at the State Office had bothered to answer their phone on Friday.)

Two: My valid Utah teacher’s license (not to mention my previous seven years’ experience and my recently acquired and accepted-by-the-state master’s degree in education, much less the recommendation from faculty, students, parents, and community—I even had a Crystal Apple, after all) made no difference in the matter, nor did the fact that the piece of paper I received from the State upon my hire made no reference to the test I missed, but only the one test which I took, nor that I was told repeatedly upon my redundant inquiries during that first year that there was nothing left for me to do after taking that first and purportedly only test.

Three: The matter was black and white, and the State was not responsible for my lack of information, even though they were the source of the very misinformation that brought about the entire problem.

Four (not on his checklist): Even if I had recorded the names of those individuals who had so incorrectly confirmed my completion of all application measures and steps, it would make no difference, and those mistaken individuals would yet hold their employ at the State.

Five: The case was closed until I completed the test, and the gavel sounded: bang; its noise falling dead in the ill-lit, padded room, like a giant period.

The man left.  I remained a moment, stunned.  I got lost attempting to exit the building.

I drove straight back to school and sat with my principal.  Thankfully, she was kind and helpful, as well as a seasoned veteran of the bureaucratic battlefront.  She wielded her telephone like a shotgun.  Her targets, quite unlike mine, actually listened to her, and, lo and behold, were even helpful.  She didn’t call the State Office of Education.

I returned to my classroom to relieve my substitute teacher.

Any understanding gained from this moment through the weeks that followed came from two primary sources: my supporters and myself, the former of which, as it transpired, was a font whose depth I could never have guessed. 

Supporters first:

Thankfully, I wasn’t out of the classroom yet.  There was a grace period, as it turned out, so the school could find a suitable replacement for their endangered teacher.  Word spread quickly that the potential end of my position was imminent, and the support flooded in.  From students, parents, and community came personal notes and cards, copies of letters to State representatives, reports of circulating petitions vouching for my quality, and even dedicatory poetry; from fellow faculty members came listening ears, wisdom, and regret.  A day or two passed, and I was suddenly whisked from my classroom for an emergency school board meeting at the district office.  The entire board was there.  My principal sat next to me, my union rep, too, and there, directly across from me, was the assistant superintendent over students and faculty.  Their support was total.  “We’re not going to lose you,” said the super.

A plan was put in place against the powers of the State in order to, first, keep me in the classroom without disruption; two, place hold my position so it couldn’t be filled by some other full-time teacher seeking in-district transfer; three, provide me with at least some measured income against my loss.  As bolster to and evidence of her support, my principal actually offered to make up the balance of my lost salary just to prevent me from having to go elsewhere for employment.  (I humbly declined her staggering generosity, my parents having already agreed to help take care of my family.)

It is amazing and ironic that something that can make a body feel so crappy can simultaneously make him feel so good, and yet be nothing but utterly humbling. 

My learning that I was loved and appreciated, that people of authority recognized me as an excellent teacher, however, were not the biggest of the revelations.

The biggest revelation came from me.

I came to teaching an idealist.  I could no longer afford to maintain that kind of extravagance.  The whole reason we moved to Michigan from Utah in the first place (better teacher pay, cheaper cost of living) was a determination to keep my wife at home with our children, where we felt she was most needed and effectual.  We would make the necessary accommodations of lifestyle, and our kids would have their mother (and forever will—a decision as black and white as the gavel-pounding conclusion of the little man at the State Office); this foundation of family was now in jeopardy.  Its maintenance had been one of my greatest sources of personal pride. 

My biggest realization, hands down, was that I was entirely less worried and freaked out about not teaching than I was about my newly arrived inability to support my family.  Idealism, in the form of being a happy, make-a-difference teacher, had become fallacious frivolity; idealism, in the form of keeping my family emotionally, spiritually, and financially secure, rose to the exospheric top.

But I don’t want to be a lawyer just for the money.  The object of my decision to change careers came a lot like that of becoming a teacher.  First—and here comes my implacable idealism again—it just felt—and yet feels—right; and while such impressions are important to me, there has to be a level of pragmatism to them.  Once upon a time I said that money wasn’t important, that making a difference was.  While money is more important than it ever has been, so still is the need to make a difference, but less so for those around me than for my family.  I need to do something I enjoy and that I’m good at.  I need to work in a challenging atmosphere.  I need to contribute to something—a person, a school, a firm, a community, the world; something!  My greatest gifts are in the realms of words, public speaking, and performing.  All three, I believe, apply directly to a study and pursuit of law.  This is what I need to do.

I AM -- a SASA Tribute

(It's beginning to look like I should change the name from what it is to something more like "The Long Blog."  I had no intention to have such huge freaking entries!)

Anyway, for the weekend (and any time desired thereafter), here is the old I AM from my hectorjepsen days, now long gone.  Since joining facebook (and only augmented by the emotions that come with unemployment), I've really missed Saginaw and my SASA kids.  So, here's my tribute to SASA (and it's LONG):

1: I am a pair of pale green pants with nobody inside them.

2: I am the moths that chew up the pants and excrete the subsequent pale green frass into the dust of dark, neglected spaces.

3: I am the obsessive compulsive six-year-old who meticulously plucks the wings from the moths of dark places, which insects (so sad, so sad) subsequently die of shock, exposure, and starvation.

4: I am the alien nation that randomly abducts energetic terrestrial life for study and, both unwittingly and quite unfortunately, pairs the six-year-old with a Bengal tiger.

5: I am the mad scientist who created the black hole that devoured the alien nation.

—Chris Reuther, SASA ‘10 (syntax modified to adhere to I AM format)



6: I am the skin disease that ravaged the mad scientist—he with such low self-esteem—and his once-dashing good looks ‘til he no longer dared venture beyond his door or even communicate with another sentient being, [not even his loving house maid who, nevertheless, checked on him each starry night while he slept,] such that he finally starved to death, wallowing in his grief and pus.

—HJ (modified)



7: I am the sinister maid who pours bleach and battery acid on the diseased flesh of the scientist[, or what’s left of him, thereby eradicating any remaining contagion].

—Hannah Vitu, SASA ‘10 (modified to adhere to I AM format)



8: I am the mutant strain of fast-acting rabies, delivered just this morning from a panicked belfry bat to the scientist’s friendly terrier. Also, just this morning, the sinister maid, of course, discovered the ravaged body of the mad scientist in his lab (“It’s happened. It’s happened. After all these years!” she wept and wailed). She briefly mourned the loss of the mad man and their lovely relationship before sterilizing the scene (as said, with bleach and battery acid). (Any self-respecting, fully occupied mad scientist needs a similarly sinister maid, and, as so often happens, a trenchant, ill-advised, and affectionate coupling ensued between them.) In her distraction, caused perhaps from the affecting blend of fumes in the air, she failed to feed the dog, who nipped her ankle in friendly reminder, as she’d forgotten to fill its food dish in all the morning’s excitement. Shortly thereafter, the terrier died in spasms of foaming pain. The maid watched curiously. Then she, too, fingering the tiny puncture just above her Achilles tendon, went into clenching convulsions, her brain virtually dissolving within her skull, and, finally, her pulse stopped with a resigned wheeze of her lungs.

—HJ



9: I am the catholicon that renders harmless[the] rabies, [thereby] saving many lummoxes that otherwise would have contracted the disease.

—Sam Nolan, SASA ‘10



10: I am the quicksilver handled by the ingenious local monk who happens to be possessed of both an abiding interest in alchemy and the first known formula for the elusive and long sought panacea. As my handler investigates the infested remains of the mad scientist’s lab, its owner, the resident sinister maid, and all those bats, he is subsequently and vehemently determined to concoct a larger batch of the potion and altogether purge the area of rabies and other communicable diseases. Unfortunately, the monk misbalances my delicate proportions against the egg yolk and tamarind slurry and destroys the whole batch. It all goes up in smoke, both singeing his remaining hair and igniting his copious notes (he’s an inveterate note taker, as a result of both long and short term memory loss acquired from an early head-first drop from the monastery’s belfry (there are a lot of belfries in town)—a felonious monk did it). I destroy the catholicon and any hope of its recreation.

—HJ



11: I am [the] hypertrophic cardiomyopathy... [that] struck down the monk shortly after his failed attempt creating the slurry. The explosion caused his heart to go into V-fib, his limp body fell to the floor, spilling the quicksilver into the nearby drain, making it impossible to retrieve, for the drain leads to the sewers below [where the quicksilver is soon irreconcilably disaggregated].

—Chris Reuther, SASA ‘10 (shortened for content and adjusted to ensure the disaggregation of the previous culprit)



12: I am the accidentally injected air bubble (injected at the hands of a new ER nurse totally distracted by the odd ring of hair around the monk’s head, wondering if this might be “monk’s hood”(though, really it’s “monkshood,” but she wouldn’t know that, because she never was much for checking her sources, though, to her credit, she had read one of the Cadfael books, by Ellis Peters),which she vaguely remembers having been mentioned in a Harry Potter book (she has little recollection of the Cadfael story, having read it in a pinch and at a pinch from her grandfather) or an article about it or something, like about herbology or botany, she supposed it’s called in real life, but she couldn’t remember, and by that time, of course, it was too late) that lodges in the heart and ceasing its weakened pumping, happily negating the effects of and generally alleviating the heart of the conditions of the myopathy; sadly, the monk's already dead by this time, though the air bubble would have killed him anyway.

—HJ



13: I am the exequial pyre that consumed the gaseous vesicle in a feat of conflagrative thermogenesis hitherto impalpable in the demesne in contention, it's grandeur resultant of the lamentable cenobite's lionization by the local moppets, though he was fairly eremetic with more ripened hoi polloi. I should be accessibly garroted (metaphorically, of course).

—Devin Langham, SASA ‘08



14: I am the maleficent storm, accidentally created by the monk's forgotten alchemical experiments. I sweep across the land flooding the countryside and destroy crops and homes in my wake. I eventually pass over the exequial pyre, extinguishing all flame while dousing the cenobite and the moppets.

—Kiri Brasseur, SASA ‘10



15: I am the subordinal modicum of the pressure current glissading the last raindrops into the obscurity of agglomeration beneath the cauterized raft and ergo, obliteration via the diurnally coquettish propensities of Nature.

—Devin Langham, SASA ‘08



16: I am Superman’s emotional funk, rendering the poor being pointedly peevish at his express inability to mold and manage his emotions and mannerisms to match those of the woman he loves, thereby wooing her (really wooing, not just impressing or awing) and finally, finally, finally really hooking up (I swear, he is the most sexually frustrated individual on this rotten planet); alas, this would require lies—or, at least, prevarications or maybe even abjurations of truth—and this is against his nature. He can’t do it. And no woman wants a perfect man, and no woman really wants the truth—at least not the whole truth. We all see that every day. Crazy women.... And it’s just so ... he can’t even swear! “Argh!” he screams, shaking the Earth. And he blazes to the skies in an existential fury, circling the globe and knotting it with the moon and charging the sun and breathing fog and ice into its core, but he stops me. This would destroy all life on the planet. And the frustration builds, pullulating, as he rushes the Earth (even such a necessarily selfish abreaction is platonically interrupted by his wholesome nature) and plants his hands against a westerly wall of the Grand Canyon. He pushes. Just enough to stop the rotation and skew the axis of the cosmically runty sphere. And the frustration compounds: this work out isn’t doing a thing for my avatar’s emotions; what catharsis is there to exercise if there’s no diminution of energies, and, being a freaking alien, he doesn’t even have those blessed endorphins people talk so much about and herald. Stopping the planet, debilitating the majority of weather systems, and blacking out the antipode doesn’t even quell his emotions. “I am so frustrated!” he cries, and sits on a canyon outcrop and weeps. Finally—days later, his emotions only barely assuaged—he stands and sets the earth back into rotation, but not before even that subordinal modicum of glissading pressure fizzles, stagnated to naught but barometric and meteorological neutrality.

—HJ



17: I am Joe Shuster, artist for the Superman comics. After reading this storyline (below), I called a friend, pleading with her to meet Jerry Siegel, the writer for Superman. After telling her that the fate of Superman and the faith of thousands of 10-year-olds rested on her dating Jerry, I finally convinced her [to meet him]. In a matter of mere days, Jerry was more effervescent, having (or so it seemed) finally found his own Lois Lane, thus dispelling Superman's emotional funk.

—Kiri Brasseur, SASA ‘10



18: I am Barry Finklestein, and that was MY WOMAN what Jerry Siegel started dating. Him and that turd, Joe Shuster, deserved it: I killed ‘em both with my bare hands—my bleeding, bare hands, mind(Superman be damned—I’m REAL and I’m right here and I’ll take on anyone who says that girl ain’t mine)—and jumped out the window with my girl under my arm. Now I got my girl back (she ain’t never leaving that old warehouse again, I’ll tell you that!) and dead’s what her new man and compatriot are. Dead. Just like Superman, and I didn’t even need freakin’ kryptonite, and screw the 10-year-olds.

—HJ



19: I am the new red washing machine that killed Barry Finklestein: I got fed up with him making me wash his nasty underwear, so I walked upstairs and sat on him. I’d like to see him try to get that stain out. Hee, hee.

—Kandi Crockett, SASA ‘10



20: I am the Kool-Aid stained shirt with a front pocket that just so happens to have a right red crayon in it; when washed I turn everything red and cause everyone to curse the new red washing machine and beat it with machine-shaped pieces of wood.

—Sam Nolan, SASA ‘10



21: I am the Tide-to-Go stick which, thanks to mass marketing and highly plausible commercials, have led millions of Americans to purchase and use me when it comes to their such Kool-Aid stained shirts. Sadly, due in part to an unfortunate malfunction, the highly acidic chemical compounds that I'm composed of burn and disintegrate this particular shirt and damn the front pocket and its red crayon to the lowest depths of the neighborhood dump.

—Tyler Soule, SASA ‘09



22: I am the purse in which the Tide-to-Go stick resides, and, due to overstuffing, I have decided to downsize.
Shift a pen here.
A lipstick there.
Check book over there.
A small hole opens up as my seams reach their limit. Unable to resist, the Tide-to-Go pen, an abandoned key ring, and my owner's favorite pen are expelled into the street and smashed beyond recognition by the next onslaught of cars.

—Connie Podleski, SASA ‘08


23: I am the library's robot vacuum cleaner that mutilated the purse, for the owner stowed it under the computer desk. I found out later that she escaped the city after being accused of committing crime: she did not know that blinking was outlawed in this sector of the city. I, having only artificial intelligence, did not know that this purse not only contained her money, pictures from her honeymoon, or anything else material, it carried her memories. But I am just a robot. Blame the library for spending hoards of money on these new Japanese technologies.

—Theresa Mahan, SASA ‘10



24: I am the crazed laid off janitor. I came into that library, just to see how clean it was. No one can keep it as clean as I can. I figured it would be a pigsty by now, and they'd be begging me to come back. Well, I walked in there to see this metal monster. They fired me so they can use a robot? I think not! I showed them what for. Put my foot right through that thing, wires and metal and all. You should have heard how it screamed! I'll tell you, they'd better think before they try to replace me again!

—Kiri Brasseur, SASA ‘10



25: I am the angry student, enraged by the shriek of that metal abomination and the silly janitor that contributed to the production of that blood curdling sound (you are supposed to be silent in a library). Having jumped in surprise, I lost my place in East of Eden, by John Steinbeck (I can't find my place, and I still have over 20 pages to read). Try as I might, I am unable to bore a hole through his head with my eyes (due to my lack of superhuman capabilities). A whisper draws my attention for a brief moment; it came from the stapler (and I think, that janitor is lucky I'm distracted). Unfazed that I have indeed just been 'pst' by an inanimate object, I venture to its side to hear what it has to offer. (And I remember what page I am on now, but I’m still not happy.) No lips move, no eyes blink, but I know the main idea: that janitor will pay. I draw up the stapler, cold and heavy in my hand, and approach the man (he is shorter than I thought, now that I see him up close). And wallop (one)! Smash (two)! Bang (three)! Crack (four)! And I lose count as I bludgeon him to death. (Dang it, I got blood in my hair.)

—Connie Podleski, SASA ‘08



26: I am Arthur P. McDonald, a sometimes fixer, bookie, hitter for a certain none-too-well-known but plenty reputable (of course it's reputable) family of peaceable butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers. After a slight run in with Tony, the leader of the mob—head of the family, I mean (and I had no idea Tootsie was Tony’s girl, I swear), I was called upon to do a favor. Now I'm just an innocent bookie—book keeper, I mean—and I ain't tryin' to get knocked off or around or nothin’. I had to dispose of a certain janitor, poor sucker—whose mozzarella meatballs were running Tony’s motha’ outta business. That janitor was steppin' on a lotta toes, if you know what I mean, so Tony called on me to take care of it, the stipulation being, I was dead meat—just like the janitor—if I didn’t come back with the body just to prove I’d made good on the assignment. So I went over to the school where the janitor worked his day job and had a little stakeout. I was at a kiosk minding my own business, flippin’ through the National Geographic, waiting for a chance to strike. And it was supposed to be easy: bada bing, bada boom, you know. That’s when that little rat—that freakin’ chick at the desk—stood up, stormed over, and did the jiggered janitor in with a stapler. What’s her deal, yeah? Now I gotta big problem on my hands, and that big problem is Tony. Tony. And hey, if Tony was your problem, you woulda whacked the little twerp, too. Now look, I ain’t tryin’ to get locked up for doin’ no "disposal," so I made sure I took care of that little punk good. So, here’s what I did in bloody, glorious detail: first I bashed her head in with an encyclopedia (gross -- them things are heavy); then I twisted her fingers in the pencil sharpener (I didn’t want no prints, yeah);and finally, I took what was left and put it all in the paper end of the printer; and, I must confess, that’s when the evilness in me took over, and I pushed the print button and watched the poor chickadee slide out with some sucker’s book report all on her face. I hid the body back behind non-fiction, grabbed the janitor’s sorry carcass, and ditched the scene.

—Tyler Soule, SASA ’09; liberally edited by HJ, because he felt like it—no offense to or encroachment meant upon Tyler’s epitomic style and wit



27: I am one of millions of mass-produced lollipops—those giant, megamouth lollies—imprinted with the face of a rat—a rat commonly known as Mickey Mouse, and I find it difficult to be any kind of individual when shelved amongst hundreds of thousands of the same big eared, overly-endorsed rodents. Even once that one small child with her grubby little paws picked me up, it wasn’t without taking along a few others (I am always haunted by the company of my clones). Her mother told her we would make great souvenirs for the family back home. And that is what the world has been reduced to though, isn’t it? Mass-marketed items show how much a person cares for another. I sat around for a month—a whole month—while that devilish little boy I was eventually gifted to ate his way through mounds of other candy. The little butterball grew larger with each bite. My original plan was to put a stop to his horrendous eating habits. Plans change though. Plans change and life goes on. Well, sometimes life goes on. Whilst that rotund child carried me off to school, I was snatched from his hand. Tubby ran and cried all the way home. (At least he got some exercise.) I was now squeezed tightly in the hands of another—the thief: a big, beefy man. He spoke and bragged to himself about his theft being as easy as taking candy from a baby, like it was a great accomplishment on his part or at least hilariously ironic somehow. His appearance disgusted me as much as the child’s. I remembered my scuppered plans: but, I thought, if I can take care of one large boy, I could certainly take out this man. He talked for a longtime—found out his name was Arthur—as he peeled away my wrappings. It wouldn’t have taken him so long had he been paying attention, the big lummox. Deciding to show off to his boss after being commended on his recent hit, he finally put me in his mouth all at once. Even a little kid knows to either bite off apiece or lick away slowly; it isn’t like I am a little dum-dum pop. I’m a big, flattened half-the-size-of-your-face Mickey Mouse freaking lollipop! His mistake and cockiness worked well to my advantage. I wedged myself into his mouth compressing his tongue to cut off air. He thought he was smart when he began to breathe through his nose while motioning for help, I wiggled a bit and had his nasal passages incapacitated as well. His boss just stood there and watched as Arthur’s face turned blue, and eventually, his limp body collapsed to the ground. A kick to the side of his head let the boss know Arthur was definitely dead. He chuckled to himself at the prospect of a hit man being taken out by a lollipop.

—Connie Podleski, SASA ‘08



28: I am the inexplicably acidic and abundantly soggy sneeze of the stooping investigator who gazes, baffled, at the grotesque oral distortions brought on by such evident idiocy (he probes with a chewed ballpoint pen). The investigator wipes his nose and mouth, as my spray collects and pools across the victim’s face and throughout his open mouth. I rapaciously dissolve the Mickey Mouse lolli.

—HJ



29: I am the almighty wind, and with my swooshes, swishes, and zweeeeeeeeeeees I carry things into oblivion. Oh look! A poor man is suffering from an intolerable sneeze! I'll save you! I zoom down and swoosh into his throat stopping the diabolical sneeze in its tracks. The young detective gags as the sneeze retreats back down his esophagus, never seeing the light of day. Now let’s see Batman do that! I fly away with the fresh victory still in my mind.

—Tyler Soule, SASA ’09



30: I am Lord Dark Helmet, and transform my ship, the Spaceball 1, into a giant maid. Using the ship's giant space vacuum, I vacuum out all the air, thus eliminating that almighty wind.

—Ben Platko, SASA ’09



31: I am Lord Dark Helmet (I found need for a second introduction), and I am bewildered. Did anyone else know I was played by that jackass, Rick Moranis! Oh my gosh, I had no idea. Well, I'm pretty much drowning in an overwhelming depression right now. I'm going to go take a bath with my toaster. Farewell cruel world!

P.S Rick Moranis sucks eggs!

—Tyler Soule, SASA ’09



32: I am Recall Man, able to spy defects in a single glance! That toaster of Dark Helmet's was from China and was riddled with lead. I leapt to the ship, crashed through the window, and instantly melted the toaster to a molten blob!

—Kiri Brasseur, SASA ‘10



33: I am Recall Man's pack rat brother. I watched him melt the toaster; the blob interested me, so I took it. Later that night, Recall Man stopped by to take a look at my collection. He brushed the dust off the toaster blob and enough of that lead puffed into the air, entered his blood stream via his lungs and nasal lining, and killed him.

—Chris Reuther, SASA ‘10



34: I am Angry Biscuithead. I roast any syrup or jelly that gets in front of me with my evil Fart-Ray/Giggety-Goo-Goo Gun. So far every brand has tried to stop me, but they will never get me, for I am hiding in my Mr. Center costume. I look like a man, but I'm really a turtle. No one will never know my secret identity, not even the maple syrup. Since I have no one that can level up to me, I have decided to eat myself, become a chicken with three heads, and peck that pack rat brother of Recall Man to death. So I do.

—Travon Johnson, SASA ‘11



35: I am Colonel Sanders, and *YUMMMMY* them biscuits sure is lookin’ some good eatin'. I saw that ol' angry Biscuithead and shoved him straight into the oven, yee haw—goin' to cooks him up good with some of my gravy.

—Tyler Soule, SASA ’09



36: I am a slew of angry chickens. The Colonel had it coming after killing our fathers, and their fathers, and their second cousins’ fathers. We pecked out his eyes and deep fried his brain, which was good chopped up into one of his Famous Bowls.

—Chris Reuther, SASA ‘10



37: I am the SUV. Stupid chickens, they never learn. They tried to cross the street again, and they got in my way. Stupid birds. How am I supposed to get the stains off my tires?

—Kiri Brasseur, SASA ‘10



38: I am a very inconveniently placed (for the SUV) thumbtack, that just happens to be upright and consequently pops the front right tire. The resulting crash becomes a horrific 13-car pileup. The SUV is sorrowfully totaled.

—Mitchell Mauricio, SASA ‘11



39: I am the depressed runaway child that just happens to find the unfortunately placed thumbtack in the right tire of the SUV. I picked it up and sketched my life story (in novel form) on the street where the 13-car pileup took place. After scribbling my 11-year narration, the point was dulled and became of no use to me. I threw it to a couple of sheep in the zoo hoping they would choke and die.

—David Brown, SASA, '11



40: I am the printed page of the I AM game. Seeing his name on the paper, the depressed runaway child went berserk. In manic desperation he quickly swallowed me in an attempt to destroy the evidence, but I was having none of that. I puffed myself up in his throat just beyond the reach of his desperate fingers. My survival meant that the child lost his life. His fault for trying to eat me.

—Kiri Brasseur, SASA ‘10



41: I am Chuck Norris. I was casually reading a humorless article from over a boy's shoulder when the little turd ate it. I was angered into action and immediately turned my phaser to DEAD. As my graceful foot majestically, powerfully, eloquently struck the turd's head it simply vaporized. From the puddle of mess splattered across the zoo mulch and pulled the printed page of the I AM game, now entirely illegible and soggy. I ripped the paper to shreds, hysterical with anger, because, as you should know, ANGER + CHUCK’s FOOT = DEAD. Chuck's will be done.

—Mitchell Mauricio, SASA ‘11



42: I am 42, the answer to Life, The Universe and Everything. There is no place for the senseless violence evinced by the Chuck Norrises and their ilk. Returning to an earlier time, I have caused the Earth to be demolished to make way for a hyperspace bypass, so the Earth Mark 2 may propose the Great Question that brought Me into existence in the first place. There is no Chuck Norris, Colonel Sanders, Rick Moranis….

There must be, however, somewhere in a universe of infinite possibilities: a pair of pale green pants with nobody inside them....

—Alex Mitchell, Merewether High (Newcastle, NSW, Australia) ‘10



43: I am....

Doubt

I watched a movie last night. Woo-hoo, right? Well, typically, upon finishing a book or movie—and I can’t say this is the case for just any book or movie, but one that HITS me—I like to write about it. I don’t like the word “review,” but I probably ought to call a spade a ... well, not a SPADE, because that’s simply not enough, and it’s so cliché. (the Greeks, from what I understand, call figs figs, but I think the OED sites the most appropriate for the day:) So I will call a spade a “bloody shovel,” because this is likely to be significantly more than a movie review.

In the past (and still), upon a great book/movie experience, I’ve emailed a fellow literary conspirator with my thoughts, or simply given expansion to a recommendation (I rarely “review” that which I don’t care for, mostly, because I rarely finish that which I don’t care for, and I’m not going to recommend a movie that I don’t— sorry, I’ll move on). When the show or book’s really good—or impacting, at least—I frequently wish I were back with my old kids at the Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy and that we might watch, appreciate, tear to pieces, and get it. Well, I don’t have SASA. Heck, I don’t have a school at all. OR students, for that matter. I do, however, have fellow literary conspirators, and that’s whom this is seeking.

Back to the lack of a school:

Every review or critique—mine, anyway—needs a context, else there’s no understanding for the nature of the impression, or, in this particular case, the CRATER. So, I’m couching this movie review in unemployment—and not because that’s the title of my freaking BLOG and that I’m particularly interested in maintaining a theme, but because my COUCH—the very one from which I watched the movie (or at least it’s pillows which supported my view from the floor, because my back was hurting) —IS unemployment. Or my glasses are, at least.

So I watched John Patrick Shanley’s Doubt. I loved it. Period. (DISCLAIMER: if you have any thoughts that my review might be anything more than totally subjective and if you might be offended thereby, then, please, stop reading.) So, yeah, it was great. Here’s what I think (excuse the general generic-ness of the beginnings):

The performances are wonderful. I’m a big fan of the accents, for one thing. And Philip Seymour Hoffman—man! —really dug into his Father Flynn sermons. When it comes to it, and despite how great the interactions between him and his co-stars might be, these sermons were the highlight. I particularly enjoyed how each (four, I think, altogether, and two significantly better than the others) seemed to usher in the next act, which, of course, makes sense, as it was adapted from Shanley’s own stage play. (I’d love to see that.) More on the sermons later.

I appreciated Shanley’s selection for historical context. It would have been easy, and a copout, to put it all up in a more modern time, what with the Catholic church’s bad press with priests and scandals and stuff. What’s great about putting it so much earlier is he firmly points out that the movie’s not about the potential scandal (and this reinforced by the enacted, non-lexical iteration/rendering of the title in the abrupt and perfectly-placed End), but the swirls of leaves and feathers that surround it.

That being the case, I’m brought up to probably my biggest point of the movie (and thereby explain my general inability to write of the movie concisely and fluidly). But first, a word on art and poetry (please refrain from groaning):

For me—and I’ve tried to instill this in my students—art is, and should be, personal. Who cares how great a work or event or person is if it/he/she doesn’t mean something to you (case in indirect point: while I was amazed by Yann Martel’s most recent book, Beatrice and Virgil, I couldn’t understand why he—so not-a-Jew—should write such an evidently personal account of the Holocaust, and in such a way as to make it appear that the book was no more than a writing exercise designed to determine his ability at conveying a significant piece of history—it could have even been randomly selected, but I guess he was looking for audience—as artistic metaphor!)? It’s difficult for me to say exactly why any of my very favorite works are favorite. I can point out what I think makes them great or impressive, but the personal connection is the clincher. The emotional connection is what elevates the work to—another cliché—more than the sum of its constituent parts. That’s what’s happened with Doubt. Cinematography. Location. Season. Cast. Delivery. Pacing. Metaphor. Motif. Blah. Blah. Blah. Just pieces. Take the blinding old nun, for example, and her relationship with Sister Beauvier (Streep) Maybe it was just a tool, but were she not there, Beauvier would look like the dragon Hoffman’s Flynn labels her as from the beginning. But she’s not! She’s human! Though we very nearly in fact and indeed see her in no more human capacity than a great fire-breathing lizard. And her relationship with Amy Adam’s character, Sister James. This woman—Streep’s—is a good person, trying to do what’s right, but she screws up. She points the finger (echoing, conversely, the great God-finger from the gossip sermon) at Flynn.

So back to the sermons. The two strongest are the first, regarding the general issue of doubt, and later—the second? —about gossip (this one because it was just amazingly-well presented by Hoffman—yes, AMAZING). Obviously, that first sermon sets up the premise for the whole movie, and how it permeates so much of everything—like those scattered feathers of gossip do—throughout every little nook and cranny of the plot, its characters, and into the very fabric of the whole construct. Really, it’s a very small movie, technically speaking. A Hulme or Pound compared to the epoch operatics of a Tolkein or Steinbeck. But, and just like “Town Sky-Line” or “The Garrett,” it’s SO * MUCH * MORE.

So what?

(This isn’t changing the subject. Really.)

While I served my LDS mission in Italy, many of the other missionaries and I collected quotations and anecdotes from and about big members of the church, generally and particularly regarding Joseph Smith. My favorite of these, likely apocryphal, and not about Smith, regarded a current member of the Church’s Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Dallin H Oaks:

Oaks had just been called to the Quorum of the Twelve and, as such, delivered his first General Conference talk. He stepped into an elevator soon thereafter and was joined by President Kimball, who congratulated him on Oaks’ address. Oaks was gratified and smiled. “Thank you very much,” he said. President Kimball then said, rather abruptly, “Therefore what?” “Pardon me?” Oaks asked. “Therefore what?” Kimball repeated. “It was a wonderful talk, but therefore what?”

The point, which I took when I heard the story and hold still is this: it doesn’t matter how eloquent or scholarly or humorous or whatever a presentation or work may be if it doesn’t ask anything of the audience (sort of takes down to nothing—if we apply this to the act of creating art—making art for the sake of making art and doing it for self (though I’ve got opinions there, too—another time)). So, the movie, Doubt. Therefore what? Well, here it is. Doubt. That’s the answer—the therefore-what: DOUBT. Duh—which is nearly as universally applicable as is my blog title, only less generic, as it turns out.

So why “doubt,” if this is such a personal work for me? And that first sermon of Father Flynn’s nails the big question. Is IT—doubt—a good thing, an endowment from our Maker—forcing us into care and caution? Is it the divining force toward humility, wariness, gratitude? The problem with this is that, from my understanding, caution is the opposite of impetuousness, and shouldn’t we, as testifying Christians (I speak of me, here), heedlessly/impetuously do whatever is right—black and white—and right now?

Sheesh. What does that even mean?

If I were impetuously GOOD, would I have stayed with Bud or left anyway? ...I have my doubts.... (ha!) (And, I swear, I will only permit myself two more entries that even mention the man; I’ve had other jobs, after all.)

Let’s look at it—Stay versus Go Anyway. And it really only amounts to a bunch of questions—all ultimately pointless, because I’ve already resigned! 

• WAS HE A BAD DUDE?
• WAS HE A GOOD DUDE?
• DOES HIS GOOD OR BAD DUDE-NESS EVEN MATTER (IT WAS A GOOD ENDEAVOR, REGARDLESS)?
• SHOULD I HAVE FOLLOWED MY MOTHER-IN-LAW’S ADVICE ALL ALONG AND BEEN SHOT OF IT TWO YEARS AGO?  

Further: doubt regarding—

• how I discipline my children,
• working for Bud,
• joining Facebook,
• leaving public education,
• leaving Michigan?
• Is Father Flynn’s “wind” blowing at my back as well? And if so, is it destiny or suggestion? 

So I finished the movie. I already mentioned this, but here it is again: The ENDING is perfect in timing and significance—perfect. Perhaps less so because of itself and its location on the spectrum of PERFECTION, than for the subjectivity of my viewing, and it hit me, less perhaps because it was a great movie than because it was so stinking applicable. Unemployment lends doubt, man!

*

So this was not an unbiased or objective critique. I apologize. I warned you. But watch the movie. We’ve all got our doubts.