I Am Sick to Death of:

1. people who assume no responsibility for their actions
2. those who laugh at others’ pain
3. the hopelessly self-absorbed, to whom much has been given, but who appreciate none of it
4. people who can’t be bothered to care about anyone else unless something is in it for them
5. repeatedly trying to see the best in numbers 1-4, then constantly getting smoked for it

Of course, and thank the gods, there are exceptions to the above. That’s why I heart you. And I’m not so foolish as to think I’ve never been guilty in some measure of 1, 3 and 4 at one time or another in my past (though not #2, I’m glad to say — sociopathy is, thankfully, not on my character trait list). I just hope I’ve learned from the experiences. Sadly, some people never do.

… just for good measure.

Sometimes, when my high school choir has exasperated me to the point of utter despair, I tell them, “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you. Please tell me you’re doing this to me on purpose.” I get blank stares, revealing nothing. And life goes on, inside my little Hitchcock movie.

Since high school students are on exam schedules this week, I don’t see them. But hey, I still have grades 5-8. They have apparently assured the high school students that they’ve got the insanity quotient covered in their absence. They are on my everlast nerve.

What is it about “Bring a pencil to choir every day” that makes kids give me a worried look and a non-answer when I ask about it? In a class with no homework, no tests, and no midterm or final exams, they can’t quite wrap their brains around the “bring a pencil” concept. And these are smart kids, fiends. As most music teachers know, secondary performance ensembles usually get a large section of the more successful, “together” students. They can solve multi-level math problems, write research papers, and spew the scientific names for every muscle and tendon on a dead cat’s butt — yet they can’t circle a half rest when I ask them to. What gives? Am I mental for expecting more than this?

At first glance, it’s a little thing. Multiplied by 250 kids — not so little. And to be fair, not everyone forgets a pencil or chooses not to engage his/her brain. It just seems like the ones who do forget disengage the loudest.

This is usually the place in a rant post where I say, “But I have lots of good things happening in my life, too…” Mehhhhh I’m not sayin’ it. Although I do not plan to take out my anger on anyone today, sometimes it’s good to feel the burn in your brain, ya know? Exercise the “get fired up” muscle. That’s gotta be good for something.

And the guy who keeps sending emails out with the signature line, “You win with people.” — Woody Hayes, gets a boot to the head. What does that even mean? It’s bad enough that Woody Hayes said it, but cripes…

Personally, I’d rather win with pickle beets. Or perhaps blast furnaces, rocker arms, hoary bats, or knights who say Ni.

*kA-BLaM*

Take a hundred-fifty 10- through 14-year-olds and put on a fun, uplifting and (if I do say so myself) quite musical performance, and all some folks can do is complain.

I felt bad for my superintendent last night. He couldn’t even watch the first choir because he was trapped out in the hallway, cornered by people who thought 7 p.m. was a great time to jaw about the lack of seating space in our phony little excuse for a theater. (Look up the word “cafetorium” or “auditeria.”)

“Why can’t she do concerts in the gym?”

Because, dear fiends, of little things like the repeated schlepping of sound and lighting equipment, the need for an acoustical shell to be set up/torn down every time, scheduling conflicts with athletics (because I’m not allowed to do concerts on Sundays), and a couple of other reasons. Ain’t nobody gettin’ paid enough for that noise. So there you have it. I’m going all diva and saying the unsayable: My students deserve better, and until they get it, we can just deal with things the way they are. I’m not above adjusting concert times and the like (though I am convinced you cannot please everyone, and the super will get even more phone calls and impromptu meetings in the hallway), but moving the venue? Uh-uh.

Of course, the opinions expressed above are that of Rat Fink, and not necessarily of anyone in my school district. So, um…please don’t call my superintendent. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear about the choirs for awhile.

But here’s a fun thing: the concerts went well and I’m DONE for another Christmas. Today, we start on spring music.

They love me, hahahaha

FO

Bang. It’s dead.

Few things annoy me more than car alarms. (Can you tell?) And I got my reasons. Behold:

1. They’re loud. Have you ever been in a parking lot when someone clickety-clicks the remote and the horn blasts right in your face when you’re not expecting it? Now I’m not a violent person, but believe me when I tell you that when it happens to me, I see red. I have to resist the knee-jerk urge to exact immediate revenge. Maybe get one of those cans of air-horn and sneak up behind Miss Clickety-Click. Zing! Like in the old cartoons, when someone scares the snot out of a cat and it ends up hanging from the ceiling by its claws. That’ll do the deed for ya.

2. They’re trigger-happy. Car alarms have cried “Wolf” so many times, they’re considered by many to be little more than noise polluters that go on tirades every time a bird flies overhead. Honestly, if you’re in a store or church or the bank and you hear a car alarm, do you run out and see whose automobile might be getting stolen — even if it might be YOURS? No. Everybody knows the blaring, hair-trigger alarms go off all the time without reason. It’s ridiculous to be at a concert or other public venue and watch a dozen people fumble for their key fobs when the stupid things go off.

3. They don’t deter theft. From an article about a study done by New York-based public transit advocate Transportation Alternatives: “Organized professionals now account for 80% of stolen cars, and alarms don’t deter them at all.” In fact, a 1997 study of 73 million auto theft insurance claims revealed that cars with alarms showed “no overall reduction in theft losses” than those without. GM and Ford have begun to phase them out of factory installation altogether.

I do apologize to my fiends who adore their chirp-chirp-beep devices. Different strokes and all that. But why can’t people just press the power lock when they get out of the car (if you’re lucky enough to have power locks)? Then the doors will be locked, and your garden variety thief will be deterred. Case in point: I never used to lock my car doors when I’d park in my garage for the night. [I live in a 94-year-old house, whose stand-alone garage was built in 1937. It's not a secure building by any means.] I came out one morning to go to school and discovered that a thief had tried to remove my CD player. Apparently, something spooked him off (maybe a barking dog or a neighbor who’d heard something) and my CD unit was left dangling from its cubby hole. That learned me right quick. Now I lock my car doors, and nothing’s ever been stolen.

The bottom line: if a pro thief wants your car, he’ll probably get it. And all the screaming, yammering honking in the world won’t deter him. It will, however,  make your neighbors want to choke the life out of you.

1. Miley Cyrus’s faux smooch. Please. Spare me the righteous indignation. Think about all the sexual crap we’re bombarded with every day on television, and tell me this little flap is more serious than all of that. If she’d kissed a boy dancer, it wouldn’t have even been mentioned. Get over it.

2. LeBron James’s “I Love Me” Tour. I’m done caring about this boy. He thinks he’s the savior of the entire league, but one who will only offer his services to the highest bidder — even though he’s never won anything except MVP (huh?). I mean, we’re going to lose him anyway one day, either to contract negs or injury or retirement, so let’s just get on with it. I agree with commish David Stern, who said the other day that players like LeBron should spend less time on self-aggrandizing marketing and more time watching the NBA finals, so they can see how championship teams play. I feel bad for the Cavaliers and the city of Cleveland. Ferry just resigned…seems like everyone’s jumping ship.

3. Spray-on tans gone wild. Honestly. I have no problem with a little color (even though I have none…think Bella Swan on her worst day, seriously), but come on, Kelly.

4. Thunderstorms on the day we’re keeping the Most Amazing Toddlers in the World for the weekend. Not fair.

5. Doorways. Remember yesterday, when I said I was going to ask the Thriller to switch out all the furniture? Yeah, well…he would have had to take apart the entire bed, because assembled, it won’t fit through the door. Innat great? (I wouldn’t let him do it, even though he did say he would, sweety that he is. Smoochy.)

And that is all for this day. The good part — Grammie’s boys arrive in 3 hours! Yippy and yay and I can’t wait.

Fink, blessed after all

So I have a shiny, new, fresh list of aversions this day. I haven’t hated since January, so I’m entitled. Behold:

I Hate…

1. late May. Our bosses tell us, “School is still going on; education still needs to happen,” but I think sometimes they forget what it was like to have 90% of your students mentally check out three weeks ago.
2. giving the annual award for my department, because there is always more than one worthy candidate. Splitting hairs: seems like it’s all I do lately, and I will do more tomorrow at auditions for next fall’s musical.
3. when I try to make a serious point to one of my choirs and end up saying something really stupid and inappropriate (I swear, it was an accident yesterday — it just came out really wrong).
4. taking my students’ actions personally.
5. politics — of all kinds.
6. having control of all facets of my life, except that one.
7. that LOST ended just when I was starting to get into it.
8. the twelve hours leading up to a performance.
9. knowing I’ve forgotten something, but not knowing what.
10. feeling there are things I did not accomplish this year.

But tomorrow’s list is going to include things I love, so no worries. Yin and yang are in balance; feng shui is preserved. The wish is granted. Long live Jambi.

Speaking of happy notes: there were none yesterday during my rehearsals. They were all sad, unfortunate, lonely, out-of-tune, uninspiring, boring, joyless, harmful and suspect notes, completely devoid of technique, passion, discipline and musicianship. Other than that, it was fantastic. We have one more rehearsal on Monday — that should clean up everything, ja?

Lil story here…

I was a beta tester for Gmail. I got an invitation back in 2004, when the users numbered in probably the hundreds of thousands, as opposed to the hundreds of millions today. Therefore, I got a great username: simply my first and last name together.

Now those of you who know my first and last name know that both are quite common. In fact, according to the last Census, there are 3,952 people in America who have my name. In the UK, there are 676 of me — and that makes only two of the 58 countries where English is the official language, or widely spoken. I’ll take a little leap here and say it’s likely that these ladies are mostly — if not all — adults, because of the general unpopularity of my first name nowadays. (It was, however, the third most popular name of the year I was born.)  So that’s a lot of people who want to include their name in an email address, making it basically unsurprising that I’ve received some weird emails over the last 6 years:

• Somebody once wrote to me on the assumption of my being the mayor of a city in Canada. So I did a search, and sure enough, there she was. Even the middle initial is the same — freakish.
• Probably twice a week, I get a notification from Gmail that someone is trying to reset my password.
• I got a mail (should’ve saved it, dangit) from a man who wanted to know if I’d be willing to give my username to his wife for her birthday. I said sure, and quoted him a six-figure sum. He never wrote back.
• I receive a ton of emails from the UK. Many of them are responses to requests for information, where the requestor has mistakenly given my address instead of including the numbers or extra words in her own username. I got this one this morning, from the “Over 55″ people. *sigh*
• Sometimes I receive mails of an extremely personal nature. Yikes. Then I don’t know what to do, because if I respond, they’ll know I read it…awwwwwkwaaaaaaard. Other times, I’ll read on and on about how Charles missed seeing James and me at the lawn bowling party or how much they’re looking forward to chatting with me at the next church lady get-together.
• I’ve received confirmations of purchases and reservations — mostly from the UK — for rental cars, bungalows at the beach, estimates on draperies, etc. Some have contained personal information that I wouldn’t want to have circulating around to strangers.

Many times, I’ll send a short note of correction, and almost every instance brings a response of thanks (especially from Britain, where politeness is more of a priority). But come on already. Most online forms make you enter your email address twice. What gives here? Folks can’t remember their addresses? Hmmm. Guess they just wants to be the Fink.

But what’s the good part to offset the rant?

1. My singers will do their best and be wonderful and sound glorious, and their parents will hopefully be proud.
2. I have only six more days of actual classes.
3. Today is Justin’s first birthday party. Yay!

Have a great Satlurday.

FO

WAIT – DON’T SAY THAT!

~

Of course she did, dear.

And so it goes: another pro athlete arrested for stupid behavior that threatens an otherwise entitled and charmed life. Some people can’t see how fortunate they are. The man is blessed with tackling talent that eventually gives him an embarrassment of riches. After retirement from the NFL, he is paid handsomely to hang around the sidelines and give his opinion on stuff. Difficult job.

It’s a cruel statement, “You can take the boy out of the ghetto, but you can’t take the ghetto out of the boy.” Yet it’s been proven over and over again in pro sports — especially the NBA and NFL. Fortunately, these jokers seem to be in the minority; most pro athletes make it through their careers without spending a single night in jail. Imagine that.

And then there’s the ubiquitous shirking of any blame whatsoever. Why do they do this so consistently? Because they get away with it so frequently. Why take the blame when you can successfully point the finger at someone or something else? Sapp will plead innocent, even if they send him to jail (which they won’t). It’s *always* somebody else’s fault. And even though the truth — either hard or circumstantial — will stare the judges right in the face, they will slap little Warren with an earth-shattering punishment by fining him and sending him back to his “job” on the NFL network for seven figures, so, you know, we can repeat this scenario in five years or so and go through the same process with the same result.

And the sad part is, it’s not limited to pro sports. But don’t get me started on that. I’m actually in a good mood today.

Fink….quit whining.

OK.

*kicking stuff*

So why is the Fink hatin’ on things? I know not. Yet I still offer the list.

Still More Things I Hate (in addition to these and these)

1. That American Idol is one of the top-rated shows in America.
2. Bossy, controlling personalities, shielded behind the paper-thin veil of wanting to be “helpful.”
3. Being told to “relax,” or to “calm down.” I mean it. I will roll you up and smoke you like an old Laredo.
4. Not knowing.
5. Knowing, but not being able to do anything about it.
6. Politics, and the discussion of same at social gatherings, because A) it always seems to turn into a fight, which automatically ruins any magic, and B) minds are rarely changed.
7. That 5 a.m. turns to 6 a.m. so quickly every day.
8. My infuriating proclivity for procrastination where choreography is concerned.
9. My infuriating proclivity for freaking out before a freakout is warranted.
10. My infuriating proclivities in general.

Sounds to me like you’re due for a list yourself, if for no other reason than you pity me, and misery loves company. And I know that my life is great and I have a fantastic family and I love my job and my students and I am blessed with amazing fiends. But…yeah. We all got our days.

Glurge.

FO

Seems some people are braying like donkeys about Jasper Schuringa (the guy who saved a bunch of collective hind-ends on that Northwest flight from Amsterdam to Detroit on Christmas Day) wanting compensation for his interviews on the news networks.

Oh, get off it.

Pot-and-kettle-ism. Do the networks not cash in on freely-gotten news, and do the anchors not get paid handsomely for reading it off a Teleprompter? Why should Schuringa not get his for talking about the time he saved 300+ people from meeting their maker (a service for which, by the way, he does not seem to be charging the other passengers)? FOX, CNN, the Big 3…just shut up and pay up. He deserves it, fuh cripesake.

What they really should focus on is the fact that Abdulmutallab ever got on a plane in the first place with a bomb in his skivvies.

==============

Then some idiot stick tells Demi Moore she looks old. HAA. What I wouldn’t give to look that old, right? Although I will go to the mat against her denials of ever having plastic surgery. I mean, I remember watching her every day on General Hospital back in the early 80s, and she didn’t look as good at 23 as she does now at 47. Oh, get off it. Who cares, and why hide it? Sure, it’s nobody’s business, but not everyone is a dumb sheep. It’s nothing to be ashamed or secretive of, if for no other reason than people will be able to tell you’ve had something done. If/when the time comes, blepharoplasty is definitely in my future, and I won’t bat my baby grays at people who obviously know I’ve had a procedure as if I have no earthly clue what they could possibly be thinking.

My mother always said, “Ladies don’t tell their age.” I can agree with that to an extent; I don’t shout it from the mountaintops. But there is an explicit strangeness — a quiet taboo on that subject — in the education world. *gasp* Don’t tell your kids how old you are!!! Whatev. My students know I have a 29-year-old son and two grandchildren. Why should my age be such a mystery? I am who and what I am. I think I have my students’ respect; I don’t think I’ll lose it if they know I’m 50.

==============

I have no choreography done. But at least I get to spend some time with Jake & Justin this morning. A good day for sure.

Happy Tuesday, fiends.

Rather, I’m talking about professional sports in Cleveland. This article is disturbing. Yet another house-cleaning seems imminent for the Browns. I’m no doom-and-gloom Bratty McSourpuss (like SOME PEOPLE), but it seems that we’re on a collision course with another dismal waste of draft picks. How many do we get this time, eleven? Wonder how many will leave fans scratching and shaking their heads.

And so what if the Cavs are clinging to first place? Delonte West is doing his best to divert attention to his felonious behavior. A pro athlete in trouble with the law again. Who knew? Seriously, who needs to carry a gun and a 9-inch Bowie knife in his car? From which planet do these people come?

[this section of rant deleted in the interest of the common good] I’m fixin’ to cuss: Geezly Crow!

And so, what was going to be an excited, forward-looking post to opening night tonight has degenerated into so much acrimonious spew. Nice.

I think I need to retire. Or at least go get more coffee.

Fink, straightening skirt and hair

1. Why do people turn nouns into verbs? On Facebook this morning, I noticed someone was “homeworking,” which didn’t bother me, by the way. But it brought to mind a misdirected noun from my graduate work that does. It is the one word that the Rat Fink simply cannot bear to hear. PK knows. I can barely type it. OK, I will, just this once. Musicking — as in the act of making music. I plan to shoot the man who made it up. Music. Is. Not. A. Verb. I know there are those who don’t care about this, but…yeah. You know the drill.
2. Why does talking about critical pedagogy bother me? I really, really get itchy about it. It’s the poster child for the selfish, crybaby, “gimme what she has” generation of public education. *scratching head really fast* I dunno. I just hate it. Moving on.
3. Why does a person write a bomb threat note and leave it in the men’s room at school? (Especially when kids have to sign out to go to the rest room, and there are cameras in the hallways?) Hmmm. Anyway, it was a terrible way for everyone to spend most of their day: evacuated and locked up in the middle school gym.
4. Why does time fly when you’re having fun, and drag when you’re not?
5. Why are my keys always in the other pocket?
6. Why do people insist on self-destructive behaviors? (I myself am guilty of this at times.)
7. Why are some people unkind? I’ll never get it.

Answer me these questions…um, seven.

FO

I wish I could remember what I was reading yesterday morning. It was an interview with a military officer or university official or something…blah, I can’t recall. Anyway, I was reading through his comments, and stopped dead when I read, “And all the sudden…”

After that, I lost interest. Does that make me a bad person? I honestly don’t think I suffer from elitism here. I just mourn the death of our national grammatical conscience is all. Doesn’t anyone care anymore? Does no one care that horrible grammar makes one sound stupid? *sNiFfLE*

Then I had a thought (sometimes I do that). There are movements and causes everywhere. We are a nation of causes. Save the Whales. Save the Donkeys. Save the Butterflies. Save Route 66 (yay!).  Save the Old Jail downtown. Save the Outer Mongolian Tree Spider. TWITTER, fuh cripesake (aka Save the Random, Inconsequential Thoughts).

Well then, how about:

I mean, really. What defines a nation *first*? Its language; its primary form of communication. I know of no other language that is so routinely and indiscriminately mangled. Yes, yes, we’re a melting pot — a tossed salad — e pluribus unum, blah, blah. No excuse, sorry. Especially for native speakers. And I’m not talking about slang, or accents and regional idiosyncrasies (for instance, in Milwaukee, where I went to elementary and middle school, a water fountain was called a “bubbler”). Those are fine, and in many cases, interesting and fun.

RtB fiends know what I mean. I won’t go into it at 5:58 a.m. But listen. If we’re going to champion this cause (notice I’ve dragged you all into this), we need a way better slogan. I love the “Bad Grammar Destroys Nations” thing — but I can’t steal someone else’s gray matter.

So come on. What can fit on the front of a t-shirt? Certainly not the above logo, which I slapped together in 45 seconds. I promise to come up with something better. I’m willing to throw money at this, swear.

Sixth grade choir had better be fabulous first thing this morning…

Fink, in a mood