First Class Fantasies (in a Crap Class Reality)

            I love to travel.  Sometimes I torment myself by dreamily creating summer-long holidays that cover entire continents (South and Central America, Africa, and South East Asia not included; void where prohibited by war, political unrest, abject poverty, and diseases that make projectile vomiting seem like a day at the park).  I long to fly first class and stay in posh hotels.  I fantasize about culinary delights at the most delectable dining establishments.

            Unfortunately—and to my intense bewilderment—the airlines, hotels, and restaurants routinely demand payment in exchange for services.  Bourgeois capitalists!

            I try and reason my way out of the luxury of first class.  “Even if I were wealthy,” I think to myself as I try to dislodge my neighbor’s foot from my ear, “I’d never fly first class.  I don’t want to be treated better simply because I have more money.  No!  I crave solidarity with my fellow cattle.  Moo!”

 

            I am, of course, a liar.

 

            I would much rather enjoy seats that tilt 180° than the company of my fellow travelers.  In fact, one of the nice things about first class is that I don’t have to put up with others.  Cocooned in my seat, I can enjoy the bliss that only money is able to buy.

            Emirates Airlines now has first class cabin suites.  You get your own little room with a massaging seat/flat bed (I guess it’s like a transformer?), giant TV, mini-bar, talking dog, your own personal slave (a coach passenger), they name a newly formed East European country after you, and—get this!—you get a coat closet.  Do you know what I got the last time I flew on an airplane?  I got to go from Point A to Point B without dying.

            The last hotel I stayed at after arriving at Point B was the Croydon Hilton.  It was nice enough, I suppose.  There was a bed and a bathroom and a floor and a ceiling.  It even had walls.  Unfortunately, the toilet took about ten tries to flush, the air conditioner didn’t work, our key cards often failed to open the door, and we had to share the room with an angry hobo.  I’m still waiting for an apology from Paris; for a hundred bucks per night, you’d think she would offer better services.

            Despite the drawbacks of Croydon’s premier hotel (which, if you’ve never been to Croydon, isn’t saying much), it was about as posh a hotel as I’ve ever been to.  Growing up, I thought a hotel was amazing if it had a swimming pool.  Clearly, my standards have since dropped; if a hotel has clean sheets, it deserves five stars.

            But I’ve heard of mythical hotels that have four-poster beds, gigantic marble bathtubs, fireplaces, something called “spas,” onsite prostitutes (only available in Thailand, Cambodia, and The Netherlands), clean sheets, and swimming pools.  Much like the Loch Ness monster and your girlfriend’s virginity, however, these claims cannot be verified (although I’ve seen pictures—of the hotel rooms, not your girlfriend—and they make the bedrooms in Versailles look Spartan by comparison).  I would love to stay in these hotels, but I don’t have an extra $37,200 lying around (per night, Hotel Martinez, Cannes, France).

            Let’s say, though, for the sake of argument and the preservation of my fantasy world, that I had $260,400 to blow (seven nights in Cannes or the cost of my house with an extra $153,400).  What would I do?  How would I spend my time?

            Well, I could look at the sea or watch movies on cable or play online poker (free WiFi; your gambling debt to Tommy “The Tourniquet” Ghirardelli not covered).  If I get hungry, I can eat at any of the five gourmet restaurants.  Their premier eatery, La Palme D’Or (The Palm of Or?), is pleased to serve la passeuse et la chandelle—leg of rabbit, accompanied by baby squid and egg plant. 

            Really, Hotel Martinez does have some fine facilities.  They have a “Kid’s Club,” where parents can get rid of their children for a few hours.  There’s a private beach, fitness center, and heated outdoor pool (in case the Mediterranean Sea isn’t enough).  But the place where I’d spend all of my time and money has to be the Givenchy Spa.

            Are you tired?  Achy?  Does your life as a globetrotting A-list mega star leave you needing your lymph nodes drained and your skin oxygenated?  Then come to the Givenchy Spa, where they will cover you in oils, rub hot stones into your flesh, and wrap you up in seaweed.  Do be careful, though; this was their same method for preparing the passeuse.  Or the chandelle.  I studied German.

 

            I doubt I’ll ever enjoy Emirates first class “suites” or the Hotel Martinez’s luxurious spa.  I darn well won’t be eating any rabbit’s legs or baby squid (freakin’ weirdo French).  But it isn’t the trip, right?  It’s the destination.  Actually, the destination—especially if it’s a hotel in Croydon—kinda sucks, too.

            Maybe I’ll just stay home and rent a video about Europe.  I understand The Seventh Seal and Das Boot are both good examples of life on the continent.

 

 

Note to all airlines, hoteliers, and restaurateurs:  I would be pleased to sacrifice my literary integrity as a way of thanking you for whatever gifts you might bestow on this humble writer.

Mink Overlords

 

 

            PETA.

            I hate PETA.

            Don’t get me wrong, I’m all in favor of the ethical treatment of animals.  I fed a balding squirrel today.  I pick worms up off the hot pavement and place them in the dirt.  In 2001, I carried a flea-infested baby squirrel from my German class to the university’s veterinary hospital so they could treat his closed-head injury (they made me take him back; yeah, that’s gonna cure a subdural hematoma).  Fur coats are only good for Eskimos and those 60-year-old Jewish women who stand around at the Estée Lauder counter and look as if they were attacked by a makeup-wielding maniac (hi, grandma!).  Along that vein, it is wrong to subject animals to testing for beauty products (don’t tell my grandma).

            But PETA makes me want to throw hard candy at vegetarians, whom I would normally leave in peace to enjoy their organic soy products.

            Take, for example, the organization’s request that Rodeo, California change its name to “Unity” to avoid conjuring thoughts of cowboys getting bucked off of highly enraged bulls (you’d be enraged, too, if someone tied a rope around your “flank”).  PETA even offered the city’s schools $20,000 in veggie burgers as some sort of insane compensation.  Well, if we’re going to follow this line of thinking, I have a few more changes in mind.  First, we’re going in the wrong direction; interesting names are better than boring names.  For example, how often to you get to say, “I © Blueballs (Pennsylvania)”?  Therefore, I suggest we rename San Francisco “Gayford Buttram” (Mr. Buttram is an actual resident of Montana).  As compensation, all residents will receive four veggie burgers and a seat in the House of Commons.

            Another issue I have with PETA is its use of print media.  According to the pamphlets Your Mommy Kills Animals and Your Daddy Kills Animals, both of my parents are sociopaths who go out of their ways to murder defenseless fish and bunnies.  First of all, my dad has been dead for nearly five years; he doesn’t do much fishing.  But even when he was living, the closest he came to gutting a fish was opening a can of tuna.  Secondly, my mother does not torture bunnies.  She tortures cats.

            Furthermore, PETA supports groups like the Animal Liberation Front (ALF?  Really?  Were you in a hurry to find a name?) that go around letting minks loose from fur farms, especially in northern Europe.  Unfortunately, the minks have not been educated on conservation and the effects of invasive species.  Once released, they run around and begin devouring native animals.  This escalates until, eventually, the minks band together and set up a fascist police state.  Plus, supporting firebombing isn’t really going to win you any friends, except for terrorists, maybe, and the firebomb industry.

            Plus, Ingrid Newkirk, the woman who started PETA and gives cancer to children, would rather scientists did not run laboratory tests on animals, even if it led to a cure for AIDS.  Y’know what?  I’d kill a monkey if it meant that another 25-million people wouldn’t die from AIDS.  I’d kill two monkeys.  And a hamster.

            My biggest problem with PETA, though, is their stance on meat.  Do not try to take away my meat.  I love meat.  I especially love beef.  And I am not going to give up my steak while you release 6,000 minks (Hampshire, 1998), which will promptly destroy every other animal in their path.  Instead, I’m going to drug you and put you in a pigpen, where you can experience the intelligence and intestines of our swine friends, you cheeky little vegan freaks.

            In conclusion, I hate PETA.

$43,000 in the Crapper

 

 

            After five years, fifty credit hours in the College of Education, $43,000 in student loans, and a year-long slave internship, it turns out that I hate teaching.  This is, perhaps, the most expensive conclusion I’ve ever come to.

            I don’t want to hate teaching.  People always respond so positively when I tell them I’m a teacher.

 

            Driving Instructor:  “Really?  That’s wonderful!  We sure do need good teachers—dedicated teachers.  It takes a special kind of person to be a teacher.  My niece is a kindergarten teacher.  Teacher, teacher, teacher.”

            Me:  “Shut-up!  Stop saying teacher!”

 

            My alma mater, Michigan State University, has one of the top colleges of education in the country, which is a fact they never fail to throw into a conversation.  (“My grandfather immolated himself yesterday, which is a pity because MSU’s college of education is top ranked in the country.”)

            But why are they so good?  What has catapulted MSU’s program above everyone else’s (I should clarify that, although MSU considers itself the Harvard of colleges of education, U.S. News and World Report only ranks their elementary education, secondary education, and “rehabilitation counseling” secondary programs as the best—and they have to share that last one with the University of Wisconsin at Madison because everybody felt bad that Wisconsin sucks so much).

            Anyway, why are MSU’s teachers so great?  Because they are obsessed with teaching.  It dominates every facet of their lives.  When they read books, they find ways to use them in the classroom.  A movie?  Use it as a teaching aid.  Your colonoscopy?  It must have some classroom applications!

            And they got so excited about the most mundane topics.  Quite a few of my classmates started a “Kiddie Lit Club.”  They enthusiastically shared upcoming activities with the rest of the class.  Others couldn’t wait to go to teacher conferences, where, for $40, you can listen to other teachers present their ideas.  In my opinion, the only good thing about conferences is that the little cups of juice offered during the keynote speaker’s address are occasionally fermented.  I might have gone more often if they’d also laced the Danishes with something interesting.

            Overall, there are some qualities that I find very common among teachers.  Many are sensitive, highly educated, hard working, and have no outstanding felony convictions.  Unfortunately, there are other traits I neither appreciate nor feel prepared to emulate.

 

1.      Teachers talk incessantly.  They are so accustomed to dominating a discussion that they would rather suffocate you into unconsciousness than let you get a word in.

2.      Teachers have loud, grating voices—the product of learning to be heard over thirty raucous students who each seems to have the same lung capacity as a Himalayan athlete.

3.      Teachers usually have high standards.  And I don’t.  The teachers I interned under really stressed the importance of preparing as far in advance as possible.  (I should probably note that both cooperating teachers are classic examples of firstborn child, Type A personalities.)  They often had their lessons planned and materials ready two weeks in advance.  I often had no idea what day it was.  And that works for me; I typically thrive under that pressure.

4.      Another skill my mentor teachers emphasized was omniscience.

Teacher:  “You need to know everything that’s going on in the room.”
Me:  “But that isn’t possible.  No human can do that.”
Teacher:  “And you need to start class sooner—get things going before the bell rings.  Also, when the students enter, make sure you pass back papers.  And take attendance.  And give yesterday’s assignments to students who were absent.”
Me:  “At what point in my education was I supposed to receive magical powers?”

 

5.      Teachers are liars.  I know this because my cooperating teachers told me to lie.  They encouraged me to feign exuberance for every topic and lesson, even when I thought it was stupid.  For example, I had to teach the five-paragraph essay, which is one of the most boring, tedious styles of writing to compose and to read (and grade).  I made the mistake of sharing this opinion and was promptly chastised for my foolishness.  Not only did I need to embrace this style of composition, but my students would enjoy it more if I displayed the same sort of excitement about the 5-P as I would for the second coming of Christ.

 

 

 

6.      Teachers are nitpicky.  My instructors at MSU often included numerous comments on my papers that asked questions for me to consider.  I once wrote “We also need to make certain that challenges don’t become frustrating (especially with low-level learners).”  Following, in lovely blue letters, my instructor asked, “and what it [sic] a low-level learner?  What does s/he look like?  How does s/he learn?”  Shall I draw a picture?  Eventually, I just started mindlessly writing papers for these teacher teachers.  I kept my views to myself and offered up pedantic garbage.  (Note:  I bet Dave Barry would really like “Pedantic Garbage” as a name for a band.)

 

            What saddens me the most is that I really enjoy interacting with students.  Usually teachers complain that learners are unruly, loud, poorly behaved little monsters.  But students are a lot like puppies; they just need patience, structure, consistency, and the occasional rolled up newspaper.  In the right environment, learner has his own personality and isn’t afraid to say the first thing that comes to his (fairly) open mind.  I talked with my students about books, television, movies, music, (their) parents, (their) personal conflicts, pets, writing, culture, school policies, video games—things I never broached with my colleagues, who took everything so seriously and wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.

            So, teaching isn’t for me.  I’ve learned a lot through the process of getting certified and I hope I can put it to use in a satisfying way.  I really hope some highly placed executives show up at my door and say, “Hey, you’re just the person we’re looking for who happens to have a teaching certificate.  Come creatively write for us.  Here’s a big bag of money.  And some ice-cream.  And a ticket to England, which is where we want you to write.

           If this happens, please, nobody wake me up.