One of the few things that unites all Washingtonians, from hyper-competitive workaholic fucks working for some schmuck Congressslug to burnt-out government cogs who think formal officewear consists of hiking boots and one of those stupidass fedora things, is hatred of the Metro system.
Seething, teeming hatred of the Metro system. It's like a rite of passage. And the greatest thing is you (yes you!) can join in on the hate, even if you've been in DC for all of 40 minutes. Go ahead and vent. We'll jump in with you!* We're pathetic because we have absofuckinglutely NO team spirit, no local pride whatsoever.
So in the spirit of bitching and not doing anything to, you know, do anything about it, please enjoy this rant (I'm sure it'll be the first in a series) about my gripes with the Metro.
The Ballston station escalator repairs: How many months has this been going on? Are they like antique East German escalators or something? You know what? Don't refurbish them. You do it every goddamned three years (or so it seems) just to do it again. A Metro escalator is kind of like one of those rotating cake trays in a diner. Only instead of rotating strawberry shorcake and cheesecake, it rotates complete and utter failure! Learn to accept when you've been beaten, and just leave them off permanently.
*This usually holds true, but once in a blue moon, you'll get someone who overhears a good old fashioned Metrorail rant and pipes in with "Well, I dunno about that (*scratches chin and looks off into the distance*). I've been to (*rattles off about 20 cities he's been to*), and I must say that I think we've got it pretty good in DC."
Hit him. Hit him hard. And do it again. Think of every setback you've had in life, and imagine that hitting him will rectify all that. That promotion you didn't get? That boyfriend you didn't get because he went out with the pompom slut in high school? It's ALL this guy's fault, and taking a crack at him will feel better than a five minute bowel movement.
Ever see one of those movies where some henchman gets sent to take out the good guy and gets his ass handed to him? And how there's a scene where the henchman just got worked over by the bad guy's bodyguards 'cause he fucked up? And how the bad guy says something like "you've just failed me for the last time"? And how the henchman has that petrified look in his eyes, like he knows for absolute certain he's gonna find out the awful truth about how hot dogs are made?
You need to make this guy tremble like that guy. Only don't tell me about it. I don't wanna be an accessory or anything.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
I need to play some video games... like, soon.
When I was a pre-teen, nothing came between me and my Nintendo Entertainment System. We were inseperable. I was good to it, and it was good to me.*
I'd flip nearly every cartridge I'd get within a few weeks, and was always screwing around on it, as evidenced by my D-lightful report cards during high school (when I was in school, and away from my Nintendo, I'd bust out the Dungeons and Dragons rulebooks in class. How I never got stuffed in a locker is beyond my reckoning). Hell, I never even bothered with strategy guides for the most part (though I was a dedicated Nintendo Power reader). I played games like a MAN plays games, dammit. Trial and error. Lost? I didn't know the meaning of the word. You get lost, you hack and slash your way until you find out where you're supposed to go. What, you don't like experience points?
Somewhere along the way, all that changed. I got rid of the NES back in 1993 or so and never picked up a new system. When I got my first apartment back in 1999, one of the first things I went out and bought was a Sony Playstation. I barely had any other furniture for the apartment, but I had no qualms in dropping $300 on a Playstation and some games.
"Hey baby, glad I could talk you into coming home with me. Want something to drink? Uh, I don't have any glasses. Sorry. Wanna snuggle on my couch? Er... funny story about my couch. I don't have one.
Baby?!? Where ya goin'? Call me!"
I got some mileage out of that Playstation, but I also noticed, in my haste to make up for lost time since I last had a console, I was picking up games at a pace that far exceeded my ability (or desire) to beat them.
Things have gotten steadily worse. I bought a Nintendo Gamecube a few years ago when the Resident Evil remake came out. Resident Evil is one of my favoritest franchises EVAR, and as it came out as a Nintendo exclusive, I bought the system just for that reason. I now have about 20 Gamecube titles, most of which I haven't spent more than half an hour screwing around with.
I've since bought a used PS2 and Xbox on the cheap, and dammit if I don't have more games than I know what to do with. And it's not like I'm a hoarder or anything. I buy games with every intention of playing them, and they just collect dust.
One game that I actually have taken a liking to (to the point where I've actually played it twice in the same week) is Dance Dance Revolution. It's fun, and it has the added bonus of actually getting me off my ass and doing some semblance of cardio (I used to be a gym rat until a year ago, at which point I stopped exercising completely). My only fear is that my inherent lack of agility isn't bothering my downstairs neighbors with repetitive stomping (I'm sure I look like Hermann Goering jackbooting his way through "Move Your Feet") at 11 o'clock in the evening.
*I wasn't nearly as good to my games, though. Throwning the cartridge down the hall was a perfectly acceptable way of showing my frustration with Ninja Gaiden. Hell, one time I was so pissed after having my ass handed to me in Snake's Revenge (shitty, unofficial Metal Gear sequel on the NES), I decided throwing it down on the nice, carpeted floor was too good for it. I proceeded to go outside and scuff the cartridge to shit on the pavement. I've mellowed out considerably since 1990, just so you know.
I'd flip nearly every cartridge I'd get within a few weeks, and was always screwing around on it, as evidenced by my D-lightful report cards during high school (when I was in school, and away from my Nintendo, I'd bust out the Dungeons and Dragons rulebooks in class. How I never got stuffed in a locker is beyond my reckoning). Hell, I never even bothered with strategy guides for the most part (though I was a dedicated Nintendo Power reader). I played games like a MAN plays games, dammit. Trial and error. Lost? I didn't know the meaning of the word. You get lost, you hack and slash your way until you find out where you're supposed to go. What, you don't like experience points?
Somewhere along the way, all that changed. I got rid of the NES back in 1993 or so and never picked up a new system. When I got my first apartment back in 1999, one of the first things I went out and bought was a Sony Playstation. I barely had any other furniture for the apartment, but I had no qualms in dropping $300 on a Playstation and some games.
"Hey baby, glad I could talk you into coming home with me. Want something to drink? Uh, I don't have any glasses. Sorry. Wanna snuggle on my couch? Er... funny story about my couch. I don't have one.
Baby?!? Where ya goin'? Call me!"
I got some mileage out of that Playstation, but I also noticed, in my haste to make up for lost time since I last had a console, I was picking up games at a pace that far exceeded my ability (or desire) to beat them.
Things have gotten steadily worse. I bought a Nintendo Gamecube a few years ago when the Resident Evil remake came out. Resident Evil is one of my favoritest franchises EVAR, and as it came out as a Nintendo exclusive, I bought the system just for that reason. I now have about 20 Gamecube titles, most of which I haven't spent more than half an hour screwing around with.
I've since bought a used PS2 and Xbox on the cheap, and dammit if I don't have more games than I know what to do with. And it's not like I'm a hoarder or anything. I buy games with every intention of playing them, and they just collect dust.
One game that I actually have taken a liking to (to the point where I've actually played it twice in the same week) is Dance Dance Revolution. It's fun, and it has the added bonus of actually getting me off my ass and doing some semblance of cardio (I used to be a gym rat until a year ago, at which point I stopped exercising completely). My only fear is that my inherent lack of agility isn't bothering my downstairs neighbors with repetitive stomping (I'm sure I look like Hermann Goering jackbooting his way through "Move Your Feet") at 11 o'clock in the evening.
*I wasn't nearly as good to my games, though. Throwning the cartridge down the hall was a perfectly acceptable way of showing my frustration with Ninja Gaiden. Hell, one time I was so pissed after having my ass handed to me in Snake's Revenge (shitty, unofficial Metal Gear sequel on the NES), I decided throwing it down on the nice, carpeted floor was too good for it. I proceeded to go outside and scuff the cartridge to shit on the pavement. I've mellowed out considerably since 1990, just so you know.
If your religion explicitly states you're going to Hell for seeing my dick, you should probably major in something other than art!
It's been almost a year since I started doing the modeling thing, and I have to say it's been quite rewarding.
And I've also made the mental transition from "OMG I'm naked in front of strangers" to "OMG it's 8:30pm and all I want to do is finish up this pose so I can go home and crash."
It's also given me a renewed sense of self confidence. Now you have to be comfortable in your own skin to stand up naked in front of a bunch of people you don't know, but it was always on stage in front of people. Like six to 10 feet in front of you. Until one fateful Saturday morning in November, that is.
I roll up to the classroom about 20 minutes early and the security guard points out the classroom. The first thing I notice is that the room is small. Very small. About half the size of the classrooms at the location I normally model in. The next thing I notice is that there isn't a stage like I normally had available. Nope, just a teeny, tiny podium about two feet high and maybe three feet square. And it was in the CENTER of the room. Not up front.
I was going to have people looking at my naked body from all sides! And about three feet away. Gulp!
And it went fine! Everything was totally relaxed, and the only time I got nervous was when my legs went to sleep and I was afraid I'd fall over. I even got compliments from some of the students, thanking me for modeling for them :)
On the subway ride home, I reflected on this and realized that art students have probably seen the naked form as often as some creepy, raincoad-clad perv in an adult bookstore. And since they're obviously cool with it, I should just relax and have fun. After all, I've noticed that the more involved I am in the class (picking up on their energy and responding accordingly), the more I think the students get out of it. Who wants someone busting out dull poses for three hours?
And then something weird happened to me.
No, I didn't get an erection in class. No, I didn't bump into someone who recognized me. It was far more... interesting. A few months ago, I got a call from the art school. They needed a model that very night. As luck had it, I had my modeling kit (just a duffel bag with a robe, flip-flops, a timer, a book, and some other miscellaneous crap) at work with me, so I told the model coordinator to put me down.
Upon getting there, I check in with the instructor and then get changed into my robe. When I got back to the classroom, she dropped what I considered to be a semi-bombshell: you see, one of the students couldn't be exposed to naked people. It was against her religion. So I cooled my heels while they brought in a clothed model to do the intro portion of the class while I waited outside. When they were done with that portion, the student in question would go sit in on another class while I went in to model.
Do you know how weird it feels to stand out in a hallway with people coming and going while you're in your robe? It may sound weird, but I think I would have actually been less self conscious naked. And I don't care, there's nothing you can do to make yourself appear nonchalant, cool, whatever when you're in your fucking bathrobe :)
The rest of the night went off without a hitch. I get yet another call to model the following week with the same professor. So when I check in with her, she asked me if I brought my shorts. Huh? Umm... no. I brought a robe and my birthday suit. Turns out the religious girl was in that class too and the model for that night was supposed to bring shorts to do the gesture poses. The instructor asked me kind of sheepishly (I think she was a little rattled by having to accomodate this student's needs at this point in the semester, and seemed a little embarassed about it) if I could pose in my underwear, to which I was tempted to reply that if this person had an issue with my naughty bits, she probably wasn't going to find my choice in underwear that much more acceptable. As luck would have it (sort of, since what I'm about to say also meant I wasn't getting paid for the night), there was a double booking, and the other model (naturally after I had already gotten changed) came with shorts, so he was clearly the model that was supposed to show up.
I was dead tired that night, and frankly needed the night off. But it got me to thinking who the hell enrolls in an art program and doesn't expect that, from time to time, penises and tits will be exposed? In the same room as you are. I'm really hoping this person is, I dunno, a fashion major or something, and just needs an Intro to Drawing class as part of some general ed requirement. I'm really hoping it's not some sort of Generation X/Y entitlement bullshit where the student thinks the class has to bend to her desires, and not the other way around. I just can't wrap my head around it. Shit, I knew people got naked for art when I was 12 years old reading art history books in the library (disclaimer: it didn't have to do with my love for art so much as my love for nekkid wimmin!). Not to mention you're fucking over the rest of the class who are paying good money (very good money. This school ain't cheap!) and expect to be able to learn and practice art the way it's been done for thousands of years.
I really hope this person, for the sake of her fellow students, decides to major in something, anything, that won't put her belief system in conflict with others. It just isn't fair to anyone.
And I've also made the mental transition from "OMG I'm naked in front of strangers" to "OMG it's 8:30pm and all I want to do is finish up this pose so I can go home and crash."
It's also given me a renewed sense of self confidence. Now you have to be comfortable in your own skin to stand up naked in front of a bunch of people you don't know, but it was always on stage in front of people. Like six to 10 feet in front of you. Until one fateful Saturday morning in November, that is.
I roll up to the classroom about 20 minutes early and the security guard points out the classroom. The first thing I notice is that the room is small. Very small. About half the size of the classrooms at the location I normally model in. The next thing I notice is that there isn't a stage like I normally had available. Nope, just a teeny, tiny podium about two feet high and maybe three feet square. And it was in the CENTER of the room. Not up front.
I was going to have people looking at my naked body from all sides! And about three feet away. Gulp!
And it went fine! Everything was totally relaxed, and the only time I got nervous was when my legs went to sleep and I was afraid I'd fall over. I even got compliments from some of the students, thanking me for modeling for them :)
On the subway ride home, I reflected on this and realized that art students have probably seen the naked form as often as some creepy, raincoad-clad perv in an adult bookstore. And since they're obviously cool with it, I should just relax and have fun. After all, I've noticed that the more involved I am in the class (picking up on their energy and responding accordingly), the more I think the students get out of it. Who wants someone busting out dull poses for three hours?
And then something weird happened to me.
No, I didn't get an erection in class. No, I didn't bump into someone who recognized me. It was far more... interesting. A few months ago, I got a call from the art school. They needed a model that very night. As luck had it, I had my modeling kit (just a duffel bag with a robe, flip-flops, a timer, a book, and some other miscellaneous crap) at work with me, so I told the model coordinator to put me down.
Upon getting there, I check in with the instructor and then get changed into my robe. When I got back to the classroom, she dropped what I considered to be a semi-bombshell: you see, one of the students couldn't be exposed to naked people. It was against her religion. So I cooled my heels while they brought in a clothed model to do the intro portion of the class while I waited outside. When they were done with that portion, the student in question would go sit in on another class while I went in to model.
Do you know how weird it feels to stand out in a hallway with people coming and going while you're in your robe? It may sound weird, but I think I would have actually been less self conscious naked. And I don't care, there's nothing you can do to make yourself appear nonchalant, cool, whatever when you're in your fucking bathrobe :)
The rest of the night went off without a hitch. I get yet another call to model the following week with the same professor. So when I check in with her, she asked me if I brought my shorts. Huh? Umm... no. I brought a robe and my birthday suit. Turns out the religious girl was in that class too and the model for that night was supposed to bring shorts to do the gesture poses. The instructor asked me kind of sheepishly (I think she was a little rattled by having to accomodate this student's needs at this point in the semester, and seemed a little embarassed about it) if I could pose in my underwear, to which I was tempted to reply that if this person had an issue with my naughty bits, she probably wasn't going to find my choice in underwear that much more acceptable. As luck would have it (sort of, since what I'm about to say also meant I wasn't getting paid for the night), there was a double booking, and the other model (naturally after I had already gotten changed) came with shorts, so he was clearly the model that was supposed to show up.
I was dead tired that night, and frankly needed the night off. But it got me to thinking who the hell enrolls in an art program and doesn't expect that, from time to time, penises and tits will be exposed? In the same room as you are. I'm really hoping this person is, I dunno, a fashion major or something, and just needs an Intro to Drawing class as part of some general ed requirement. I'm really hoping it's not some sort of Generation X/Y entitlement bullshit where the student thinks the class has to bend to her desires, and not the other way around. I just can't wrap my head around it. Shit, I knew people got naked for art when I was 12 years old reading art history books in the library (disclaimer: it didn't have to do with my love for art so much as my love for nekkid wimmin!). Not to mention you're fucking over the rest of the class who are paying good money (very good money. This school ain't cheap!) and expect to be able to learn and practice art the way it's been done for thousands of years.
I really hope this person, for the sake of her fellow students, decides to major in something, anything, that won't put her belief system in conflict with others. It just isn't fair to anyone.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Another week's coming up...
And for some reason, I'm dreading it.
Oh, it's not that anything bad is going to happen (so I know). It's just that having zero responsibility this weekend felt soooooooo nice! Okay, so I was putting off doing any serious schoolwork until a few weeks ago, but I crammed out a few papers and took a final, so I'm entitled to feel burnt.
Fortunately, Memorial Day is coming up, and I may try to take that Friday off so I can have a four-day weekend. I think that'll do me some good.
Oh, it's not that anything bad is going to happen (so I know). It's just that having zero responsibility this weekend felt soooooooo nice! Okay, so I was putting off doing any serious schoolwork until a few weeks ago, but I crammed out a few papers and took a final, so I'm entitled to feel burnt.
Fortunately, Memorial Day is coming up, and I may try to take that Friday off so I can have a four-day weekend. I think that'll do me some good.
A model opportunity!
I can't remember the last time I did anything wild and/or crazy.
I mean, something reeeeeally outside of my comfort zone.
Then, a few weeks back, I read a review on yelp where a yelper recounted her experience at a local art studio. Apparently they hired a nude mode and sometime during the session, the model totally lost it for a while and started to cry.
The thought hit me out of the blue: "Man, I can stand around naked. And I can not lose my cool either. I should try that."
That thought proceeded to leave my head, and right when I turned my attention to something else, it came back again.
"Hey, maybe I should try it!" Screw it! When the hell was the last time I did anything totally out of character? Well, there was that time in Denver when I ate a plate of fruit and yogurt for lunch.
All right: I'm not the most buff, studly person out there. But I remembered that I read an article a while back that said most artists tend to prefer to paint people that aren't perfect hardbodies... they get more experience painting different body types.
So I emailed my yelper friend the next day and asked how I'd go about getting started in the biz. She recommended getting in contact with a local artist that she knew. Armed with her recommendation, along with another one I came up with (more below), I started to make my availability known to the DC art world!
My first call was to the Corcoran Gallery of Art. A few years ago, a woman on Slate (maybe it was Salon) did a series of articles where she undertook a new and unusual job on a regular basis. One of her gigs was as a nude model.
The chipper receptionist transferred me to the model coordinator, and right then and there, I started to get nervous. I had successfully steeled my nerves during the initial phone call, but now I was feeling that familiar tightening of the chest and throat. Hmm... maybe she'll be out of the office and I can just leave a message (or hang up, most likely).
No dice! There was a real, live person at the end. So I introduce myself, state that I'm specifically looking to model nude, and would be willing to do whatever it takes. Understandably, her first question was what made me decide to pursue this, and decide to stifle my first response (post-quarterlife crisis) and go with what really drew me to the Corcoran: the Slate article.
She proceeded to laugh and I felt at ease. She said she got a lot of inquiries after that article ran, and apparently the author took some creative liberties in her recounting of the story. But she did say that she was interested, although the Corcoran slows down during the summer, so it might be a few weeks before anything happened.
I told her I wasn't in any rush, and frankly was happy to have the opportunity to have an interview with her at a later date. I also cautiously made mention of the fact that I'm not exactly Brad Pitt (well, maybe Brad Pitt if he discovered a lust for beer and burgers with blue cheese). She reassured me that it's all professional and that they look for all ethnicities, genders and body types: the world is diverse, and the artists need to be able to capture that diversity.
Relieved, I thanked her, agreed to forward her my contact info, and proceeded to call the artist that my friend recommended. Turns out she didn't really have anything, but suggested I contact someone in Georgetown who serves as a clearinghouse for DC figure models in general, nudes in particular.
I say goodbye and I hang up. Okay, nothing's gonna come out of that lead. She probably thinks she was talking to some weirdo or perv and just wanted to get me off the phone. Hey, it's a strange world. I don't blame her.
Fast forward to last Wednesday. I'm having a HORRIBLE day and am feeling really burned out. All of a sudden, my phone starts to ring. I don't recognize the number at first, so I let the VM get it. I turn back to my work and for some reason, the area code starts to sound familiar, but I can't place it (it was an out-of-state area code). Hmm... I'm definitely recognizing it. Could that be the artist I spoke with last week?
Naaaah! Probably some random caller with an information request. The "message" light starts to glow cherry red. Curiosity having gotten the better of me, I listen to the message.
It's the artist! Turns out she had a model cancel, and she was hoping I could fill in for her! It took me all of .5 seconds to pick up the phone and call her back.
She thanked me profusely, gave me directions, and told me kickoff was at 7. The rest of the day just dragged by. A whirlwind of thoughts and emotions were rushing through me. I couldn't cancel now, even if I wanted to: she'd never get someone this short notice. I emailed my yelper friend (who I also knew from grad school) to thank her for the reco and proudly tell her I got my first gig. "I know," she wrote. "I got the email with tonight's information from Sarah (the artist)." Hoo boy! I wasn't counting on actually appearing in the buff in front of someone I actually know. Things are gonna get interesting...
So 7 rolls around and I'm in an old building that's now being used as an arts center. The yelper in question showed up, along with a few other people. I met the artist, Sarah, and after exchanging pleasantries, she handed me a bathrobe and said I could go ahead and get changed while the artists set up shop. I swear, it was the longest time I've ever had getting undressed. It's like time just stood still.
I'm in my robe and out in the studio now, and the artists are setting up. There's only a few people, so Sarah suggests that we'll wait a few more minutes. She initially wanted to do a standing pose, but my height plus the height of the podium thingy I'd be standing on made me way too tall. She opted for a sitting pose instead.
By this point, I'm starting to get a little antsy. It's like I'm ready for "go time!" People are setting up the lighting and the backdrop, and it felt like it was going on forever, that's how apprehensive I was. Then, the fateful call came out:
"Okay, it looks like we're all ready and I don't think anyone else is coming," Sarah said. "so why don't you go ahead and get into position?"
My heart skips a beat. I fumble with the stupid knot I managed to tie on the bathrobe. Jesus, what kind of f-ed up knot did I feel the need to tie tonight? Finally it comes loose. My heart's totally racing at this point. Sarah instructs me to put the robe to the side. I take off the robe and climb on to the podium and sit down on the chair they have for me.
And all of a sudden, I feel fine. I don't feel any pressure, fear, or anything. I'm just basking in the warmth of the studio lights. I know I have a job to do, and at this point all I'm focused on is trying to get into the position Sarah wants. That, and remaining still. I'm just happy that it's relatively warm inside, and that I'm not sporting wood or otherwise losing my cool. The only thing I was really concerned about as the session went on was that my feet were starting to get dirty (I think the studio doubles as a woodshop during the day, and since I was called last minute, I didn't have a pair of flip flops on me).
I should probably note that we weren't the only people there. Since it's a general-purpose arts center, there was a band rehearsing in the next room, and they'd come out every so often to grab something between sets. Sarah told me about this when she called me, but it was kinda weird sitting totally nude while complete strangers walk back and forth in front of me, especially since they weren't gawking or staring. They'd seen it all before...
How it worked was I'd pose for 20 minutes, take a 10 minute break, and pose for another 20 minutes. I'd repeat this for three hours. The first hour was easy, but it started to get surreal at one point, almost like an out-of-body experience. Seriously. Towards the end (after the band left) someone turned the stereo on to a classical music station. As the music started up, I got these really weird visions before me and started to imagine a French movie plaing with the opening credits rolling. I was staring down a tree-lined road as this random jumble of words flashed by.
During the breaks, I'd put on my robe and go over and check out how everyone's work was progressing. I was really impressed! One did a full-body profile, another focused on my midsection. One sketched my knees, and Sarah painted a head portrait that was incredible!
I was SORE when it was all over, though the $60 check helped limber me up considerably. I got some very nice compliments on my professionalism, and I can definitley see myself doing this in the future (in fact, I meet with the Corcoran on Tuesday). I was also on something of an artistic high, since there was some really good art that was created that night, including an uncanny head shot of yours truly! Really, it was a totally accurate image! I was happy that I was able to help, in some small way, such talented people for one night.
My friend and I climbed into a cab for the trek back to Arlington and I wisely took a few Motrin before heading to bed (I was still a little sore in the morning, but was fine when I got to work). I can definitely see this as being a fun side gig!
I'm done!
I'm done!
Stick a fork in it, close the book, cap the pen.
For it is over.
After three long years (which, at the same time, feel like only yesterday) I graduated with my Master's in International Commerce and Policy!
It couldn't have come soon enough. I was feeling a major case of burnout this semester (actually, it started up towards the end of last semester), and I was really slacking. I don't think I did any reading, save for that required for a test or term paper, since February.
Now when all my friends and colleagues went into their final year, I could never understand the fact that they essentially just shut down and stopped caring. That would never be me, super-student! I would approach the twilight of my education with the same intensity as I did the dawn.
Up until around December, that is. I just stopped caring, and half-assed my finals and one of my papers. Still got decent grades, but the rot had most definitely begun.
This semester, I think the only real work I did was studying for tests and slamming out a bunch of papers for the last two weeks. I just felt incredibly fatigued by it all... like I was ready for it to be over.
So, after uncomfortably yanking two term papers that I was exceptionally not proud of out of my ass, and showing up and taking a final I know I could have done much better in, I got my final grades. Both passing. And after a quick call to GMU juuuuuust to confirm one last time that I have enough credits, I'm a newly-minted master's recipient.
How do I feel? To be honest, I really don't care. The MA was undertaken strictly because where I live, a BA is pretty much like a high school diploma (and sadly, this is happening elsewhere too). I've never been one to believe that academic credentialling automatically confers intelligence, nor do I believe particularly that it measures a person's worth. I played the game because I had to, not because I wanted to.
Am I more well-read? I couldn't really tell you. Most knowledge gleaned left my head as soon as I regurgitated it for a test or a paper. To this day, I couldn't tell you squat about economics... I think it has to do with supply and demand and economies of scale and stuff.
When I was an undergrad, I spent the last month or two taking long walks in the buildings and around campus. I wanted to take it all in for one last time. My mood was most definitely somber, but also reflective and never melancholy. I knew even then that my life was at a crossroads, and while I had the souvenier map, the trip was over. Not so with grad school. There was no long walk around the campus (not that I would have had that far to walk... it's a satellite school away from the main campus and is undergoing major renovations. The School of Public Policy is housed in an old department store, and will be torn down soon to make way for a brand new school). Getting your BA is a rite of passage. Getting your MA is something that just needs to be gotten out of the way ASAP so your life can resume to normal. I grew really resentful of having to give up two nights of freedom a week (but let's face it, those days would probably have been spent drunk or asleep) just to jump through a bunch of hoops that society (or some other force that is unseen, intangible, yet controls your mores) thinks you should, for no reason whatsoever.
So how do I really feel? Tired. I don't feel particularly proud. Just tired. But happy too.
Happy that it's ALL OVER!!!
Stick a fork in it, close the book, cap the pen.
For it is over.
After three long years (which, at the same time, feel like only yesterday) I graduated with my Master's in International Commerce and Policy!
It couldn't have come soon enough. I was feeling a major case of burnout this semester (actually, it started up towards the end of last semester), and I was really slacking. I don't think I did any reading, save for that required for a test or term paper, since February.
Now when all my friends and colleagues went into their final year, I could never understand the fact that they essentially just shut down and stopped caring. That would never be me, super-student! I would approach the twilight of my education with the same intensity as I did the dawn.
Up until around December, that is. I just stopped caring, and half-assed my finals and one of my papers. Still got decent grades, but the rot had most definitely begun.
This semester, I think the only real work I did was studying for tests and slamming out a bunch of papers for the last two weeks. I just felt incredibly fatigued by it all... like I was ready for it to be over.
So, after uncomfortably yanking two term papers that I was exceptionally not proud of out of my ass, and showing up and taking a final I know I could have done much better in, I got my final grades. Both passing. And after a quick call to GMU juuuuuust to confirm one last time that I have enough credits, I'm a newly-minted master's recipient.
How do I feel? To be honest, I really don't care. The MA was undertaken strictly because where I live, a BA is pretty much like a high school diploma (and sadly, this is happening elsewhere too). I've never been one to believe that academic credentialling automatically confers intelligence, nor do I believe particularly that it measures a person's worth. I played the game because I had to, not because I wanted to.
Am I more well-read? I couldn't really tell you. Most knowledge gleaned left my head as soon as I regurgitated it for a test or a paper. To this day, I couldn't tell you squat about economics... I think it has to do with supply and demand and economies of scale and stuff.
When I was an undergrad, I spent the last month or two taking long walks in the buildings and around campus. I wanted to take it all in for one last time. My mood was most definitely somber, but also reflective and never melancholy. I knew even then that my life was at a crossroads, and while I had the souvenier map, the trip was over. Not so with grad school. There was no long walk around the campus (not that I would have had that far to walk... it's a satellite school away from the main campus and is undergoing major renovations. The School of Public Policy is housed in an old department store, and will be torn down soon to make way for a brand new school). Getting your BA is a rite of passage. Getting your MA is something that just needs to be gotten out of the way ASAP so your life can resume to normal. I grew really resentful of having to give up two nights of freedom a week (but let's face it, those days would probably have been spent drunk or asleep) just to jump through a bunch of hoops that society (or some other force that is unseen, intangible, yet controls your mores) thinks you should, for no reason whatsoever.
So how do I really feel? Tired. I don't feel particularly proud. Just tired. But happy too.
Happy that it's ALL OVER!!!
Thursday, September 20, 2007
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