What does this say about me?

Quick update on my witchcraft class yesterday:

There are only 3 guys in the course, and 14 girls.

I am friends with all three guys.

I am friends, in fact have met, only one of the girls.

Hmmm.

War, drugs and llama fetuses.

Remember that job I forgot how to do? I'm not so worried about it anymore. That's because I've met Fred.

Fred is the professor I'm TAing for. We had arranged to meet at IC Square (or the snack bar, as he called it -- thank goodness I guessed right) after I had finished classes yesterday. I saw a man who resembled the picture I'd seen online and went up to introduce myself.

Fred seems to me to be a grizzled old war veteran, though I can't be sure that he's actually fought in a war. He's got this black Celtic-looking tattoo on his arm, not his forearm but the top part of that section of the arm. (Leave me alone -- I'm not a scientist or even remotely familiar with what various body parts are called.)

We start talking, and he asks me what classes I'm taking this semester. I tell him about the witchcraft class I'm taking. Ten seconds later the conversation turns to llama fetuses and how our experience with southest Asia are like witchcraft.

Okay.

It didn't take me long to figure out that every conversation with Fred will somehow turn into one about war, usually Vietnam or Iraq. The kids in our class soon learned this too, I'm pretty sure.

The first class began today as a discussion (one-sided since the kids were probably frightened a bit) about the history of war and what we're willing to kill or die for. Then we went around the room and said what we needed to work with in writing. A nice flip there for you. The weird thing is, it all seemed to flow together very nicely. I don't quite understand it.

He said that most of what the students mentioned they'd like to work on were bad habits, like drinking or smoking: wordiness, bad grammar, run-on sentences. One girl said she was bad at avoiding run-on sentences. He asked her if she liked writing them; she was confused.

His explanation: "Well, most people who have habits do them because they like them. Why do heroin addicts shoot herion? Because it's fun! You ask a herion addict why they do it, they say it's fun, I get off on it, it makes me feel good. Not that I'm condoning drugs. You shouldn't do them. But that's why people do drugs. They enjoy them."

"Oh God, please don't do herion..." I mumble from my place a little behind the circle. A girl, Kelly, looks back at me and starts laughing, which most of the class is already doing anyway. A kind of uncomfortable laughter, but still, I guess it's better than silence.

So these are my first impressions of Fred. I'm not writing his last name because I don't really want him to somehow find this and read it, but whatever. I like him. He's out there, but I like him. At any rate, I think this shall prove to be an interesting semester.

What is this TA business? Oh, that's right, I forget.

So I spent today and yesterday going through training for a job I can't really remember how to do. Good luck, little writing students. I hope I don't screw up too badly and mar your experience at Ithaca College. In my defense, the last time I did this was about eight months ago.

At least I'll remember not to climb onto a table and accidentally almost flip it over onto some students this time around.

O Lord, give thy servant a horse.

This weekend, I accompanied my reporter housemate/good friend Erica on an excursion to Romulus, NY, to see the Sermon on the "Mount." Not mount as in mountain, but mount as in horse.

One Mr. Lew Sterrett from Pennsylvania goes around the country, giving sermons using the analogy of horse training. Walking on the site of the sermon was like being in some alternate dimension -- there was a corral that I can only assume Lew brought with him, lots of people surrounding it in lawn chairs, and the man himself riding around on a horse talking to those who wished to speak with him. A regular cowboy. Bluegrass served as a nice score for the evening.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQgTDQo7irc

The sermon took an hour and a half. At least I got a free hot dog.

Movin' in.

So I was wrong. We did have electricity and hot water. Thank goodness.

But all three of us moved in on Saturday, and since then our house has been in a state of constant messiness, and I love it. My room is great, and pretty clean considering, but the downstairs area needs to be picked up a bit. I wish I weren't so lazy. Despite this, we've hosted two dinners at our place, both of which I think were successful.

Unfortunately, we won't have internet until September 4. So if you email me, it might take a while for me to get back to you since I would need to be at the school in order to see it.

Other than that, not too much is going on. I'm being really lazy, and the only work I've done so far is monitoring for BSG. I've also spent a lot of time at the Ithacan office because of this, and also because I miss the people here. It's nice not to have any responsibility whatsoever and still be around.

O Pioneers!

Okay, so I messed up. Big time. Because I'm a greenhorn at this take-care-of-yourself type thing, I call our electric and gas company until Tuesday. Apparently this is too late to get electricity or gas (meaning hot water and a working stove) in our house by the time we move in. The earliest they can get there?

Wednesday.

So, because of my colossal goof-up, we're going to have a pioneer week. I just wish we could light a bonfire to roast hotdogs on a straightened-out wire hanger.

My brother is one of the goofiest kids I know.

I walk into the family room after monitoring tonight, and see my brother Zaven sitting in an armchair with a bucket, a stick, and sandpaper. He is sanding the stick.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Whittling."

I look at my father, who just shrugs. "What happened to the triangle on top?" he asks.

"I sawed them off."

"But that made the stick!"

Let me just take the time to point out that my father sees nothing strange about this. I walked away, because I could think of nothing else to do in response. As I'm leaving, I hear Zaven say, "Peace pipe, Dad. Peace pipe."