Shark Attacked

Last week while riding a wave,
A shark had a really close shave,
He was hit on his snout,
causing him to Wipe Out,
While Mick Fanning, his own life, he saved.

Splitsville

Blake and Miranda are shedding their rings,
Affected by all their celebrity brings.
Many things had gone wrong,
Like a sad country song,
That now both of them have to sing.

Going to Extremes

The Piano Man has a new mate,
Half his age and also his weight.
Now the girls in his life,
(That's his daughter and wife.)
Enjoy each and every play date.

Put Up Your Dukes

Like the end of the ol’ Civil War,

The ol’ Stars & Bars flies no more.

It had quite a run,

But its days are now done

Except when the ol’ Duke Boys soar.

Out on Bonds

The Feds, today, called a truce,

With Barry Bonds’ justice abuse.

Though the tried and they tried

To prove Barry had lied,

Bonds is free now to enjoy morning juice.

The Son Also Rises

Governor Kasich just said he would run,

With intentions to re-rise the sun.

But with 15 more,

Knocking hard on the door,

Republican’s days in the sun might be done.

Iran So Far Away

The US's new deal with Iran,

Calls for a plutonium ban.

But the deal falls short,

Of a nuclear thwart,

Instead, giving time and money to plan.

A Flutey, Epic Limerick

There once was a man named deMarcos
Who played a mad flute in a band.
He could hit the high "C"
With greatest of ease
And could press all the valves with one hand.

Well, deMarcos could do other things.
He was quite the Renaissance Man.
He could tie a bait fly
Make a mean Mince-Meat pie
And get dark with without having to tan.

To get the idea of his talents
I should also tell 'bout this one time,
When deMarc' had the itch,
and, without even the slightest hint of a hitch,
Wrote a limerick stanza of unmetered rhyme.

But his flute he played 'oft as he could.
For it was his primary passion.
Just like Jethro Tull,
He dreamed in his skull,
When tough, manly flutes would be fashion.

In between his flute session he would
do so many great things for all others.
He'd changed a flat tire.
Clean lint from a dryer.
And he'd fill in for absentee mothers.

But in private he practiced that flute
Be it morning or lunchtime or night.
He would practice his trills
Giving his Pet Snakes the thrills,
'til each Etude was perfectly right.

Out in public he was a great hero,
And the police were quite thankful, in fact
For he solved unsolved crimes
And, yes, there were times
An imposs'ble confession he'd extract.

But the flute he was always a thinking
About playing a grand march by Sousa.
Even though he might be
Helping all the blind see,
He dream of play'n Lollapalooza.

Then one day his big break did come.
The first chair grand flutist was ill.
He was called on to sit
In his chair in the pit.
He was par'lyzed with fear and sat still.

While he gathered cans for the Food Bank,
He thought, "what if I'm not good enough?
Some people will judge,
and they might hold a grudge.
Are my fluting skills all the right stuff?

He was only deMarcos, you know.
and "Of the Marcos" he had came.
His dad was a pheasant,
shoveled crap (not so pleasant),
All he wanted was fortune and fame.

As he saved a man's life in the street,
He told himself that he should toot his own horn.
Though a horn's not a flute,
No one there would refute,
That no better a flutist had been born.

He agreed, with his calendar marked,
and practiced his flute more than ever.
But the President phoned,
Then by Kutcher was "Qwned."
Then he fulfilled a UN endeavor.

Then the big night arrived and he flinched.
First chair in the grand symphony.
Would he find the right breath? Or would he find his death?
In the midst, would he have to go pee?

All these thoughts they did go through his mind,
As he broke up fight in the lobby,
Then he changed a wet diaper,
Milked a poisonous viper,
Then turned down the nose of the snobby.

"I am confident in all I do!
except in the one thing I love.
How ironic is it.
That now do I sit,
In the first chair of Alex Gregov?"

"I do hope that Alex recovers,
and is able to then take his place,
in this tight crucible,
that plays games in one's skull,
But tonight, that just isn't the case."

Then the curtains came up he felt,
that all eyes were upon him so fast,
"Where's Gregov?!" they purr,
"That's a big impostor,
Oh, tonight is a night to lambaste!"

But the flute solo comes just in time,
And deMarcos takes in his breath.
As he plays his third note,
from the crowd comes a bloat,
Some guy had just come to his death.

To make a short story long let me say,
That deMarcos thought not of the flute.
From where he did sit
He leapt from the pit.
To save the dead guy in the suit.

In that moment he thought not of his chance
To get what he always had wanted.
But only of others,
his sisters and brothers.
In these times he never was daunted.

The flute hit the floor with a crash
And the crown sensed the thickening plot.
With only sum gum
And a few nacho crumbs
He revived the dead man on the spot.

deMarcos, of course did not think,
As always he only reacted
What he never quite saw
Was how others in awe
By his acts were profoundly impacted.

Well, the guy that he saved was real big,
In stature as well as in clout.
Turned out the guy knew
A flute band or two.
And arranged him a private try-out.

After solving Fermat's Last Theorem
deMarcos auditioned with glee.
Though he still earned new patents
And peace-talked combatants,
He now played in a band happily.

Lost in Jeopardy

Question: "Tony Parker, Hugh Hefner, and Kevin Korpi all have this in common?"

Give up? . . . . . .

Answer: "What is 'We won't be playing for the Spurs anytime soon--nor have we been in Cliff Clavin's kitchen.'"

I DID, however, try out for Jeopardy recently.

Inspired by reading A.J. Jacobs "Know It All," in which he tried out for Jeopardy, interviewed Alex in his home (after mistaking him for a friendly gardener), but never got the call to be on the actual show (he did, however, get onto "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire," only to lose before the $32,000 lock-in by mistaking "erythrocyte" as "plasma" and not the obvious (answer that wasn't there) "parasite that feasts on erythroes"), I put my name in the hat to audition for the premiere "how much do you not know" game show (even though the money-to-knowledge ratio is MUCH higher on the Millionaire show . . . who, in their right mind would want to win more money by expending less mental energy on an inferior show??)

For the first time ever, Jeopardy was allowing auditions online rather than forcing a bunch of nerds to show at a physical location to take a paper test, much to the rejoice of socially-awkward brainiacs who otherwise would never get a chance to be on the show because it meant getting dressed, leaving the house, and interacting with other people's shoes. I liked the idea because of the convenience and the prospect of putting my 110 wrds-pr-minutz to dud usse withgoooggle as my frend.

I knew that the test would be designed so that even the most-cunning person--who could employ an army of question-googlers at low cost, all hooked up to separate computers, who never thought about what he would do if he ever made air time, other than say "Hi" to his mom before he went into negative land by the end of Double Jeopardy, only to be absent during the Final Jeopardy--would not be able to obtain an advantage over the lesser-cunning but sufficiently-knowledgeable prospective contestant. What I didn't realize is how nerve-racking the show's remedy would be.

Registering online several weeks before the scheduled date (January 27th, 2010 at 9:00 p.m. Eastern time--sure to automatically disqualify anyone west of Georgia unable to do the time conversion), I logged onto the website using my secure password ************************* 30 minutes prior to the test beginning. A countdown clock immediately appeared. I thought only to crack my knuckles and to use the bathroom. Now came the wait, what I thought would be the toughest part.

While I watched the clock slowly click down, I sat in front of the computer pretending to take interest in my kids' day ("Daddy, today we got to hold a rattlesnake at school without wearing gloves!" "Wow, that sounds great. Keep up the great work.") and acquiescing to my wife's every whim ("Honey, should we sell the house and move in with my parents to save money?" "Yeah, sure babe." "Honey, how many pints are there in a gallon?" "Yeah, sure babe." . . . etc). I went through my favorite trivia in my head, mainly sports and presidential. I tried hard to go through my knowledge of European kings and queens, but I kept coming back to . . . "did my kid's say 'rattle' snake??!! Did Cleopatra die of a snake??? well, she's not European . . . supposedly . . . or was it Catherine the Great that died from a snake?? or was it a horse . . . or seahorse . . . "

I had 10 seconds to read each new category, read and process the question from that category, then type in my answer (thank goodness we didn't have to type in each of our answers in the form of a question, but if so required, I had my "Ctrl-V" button ready to automatically insert "Is it " . . . Spelling was not penalized, unless obviously egregiously incorrect (i.e. when I type in 'Montseguer' instead of the correct answer of 'Manhattan,' I shouldn't expect the show to neither offer correct spellings nor infer that I'm from Southwestern Alabama (on the very border of the Eastern/Central time zone).

The countdown reached its finale: 3-2-1

I was in a groove for the first two questions. I even had the hubris to answer question two with 10 seconds to spare, so I clicked the "next question" button rather than using the remaining 10 seconds to relax.

Category: "American Authors" Question: "She scored her first New York Times best-selling book 'The Lovely Bones' in 2002." CRAP! I just mentioned to my wife that I wanted to see the movie. CRAP! Ms. Blair was reading this just the other morning in my tutorials. I even commented to her that I wanted to see the movie. The author's name NEVER came up. Think carefully . . . you saw the cover from halfway across the room . . . what was the name on the bottom of the cover?? CRAP! why could the question not ask "What movie that's currently out in the theater are you most interested in seeing?" CRAP! With my wife and kids hanging over my shoulder, n a long shot, I type in "Danielle Steel" with 5 seconds to go, knowing that typing her tricky name in correctly would earn me partial credit with the Jeopardy judges (it's too bad that they don't accept "Danielle Steel" as an alternate spelling, alias, or pen name of the correct answer "Alice Sebold."

I hoped that the conviction with which I pressed the keyboard keys with what I knew was an incorrect answer, I would still by my family's hero. "Great answer!" said my son, who I think knew deep down it was "Sebold," but who I can't fault for being honest to a monetary and financially-free fault.

Only 47 to go.

And so the next 7 minutes and 50 seconds (I dare not hit "next question" ever again, instead using any extra time until the automatic advance kicked in to beseech my family to just "holler out on the next one if you know for sure!" I figured I'd try to cross the knowledge-gap on the actual show when I actually got there.)

When it was all over, I felt tremendously tense and stressed. Questions that I knew toward the end were made impossible by the ticking clock. Answers like "(Is it ) the lost symbol" to questions like "What is Dan Browns most recent best-seller that takes place in Washington D.C.?" (I had just read the book in two sittings not two months prior) eluded me. If it weren't for my calm, collected, acutely-ill, and selectively dishonest wife answering through her sudden cough, I would have missed an easy one! I feel like I answered at least thirty of the questions with certain accuracy (including spelling). I think I made great, educated guesses on another half of the other 20 ("Sanskrit" is ALWAYS a great answer to an "ancient language" question.) On the remaining ten, I was just typing in bogus answers at the remote chance of impressing my family and being correct.

As the test expired, and I was taken to my exit page, congratulating me for my nerdiness and willingness, I expected to see how I did. Instead, I was "greeted" with the disclaimer about how "scores will NEVER EVER EVER be revealed," and prospective candidates can be notified by phone or email within the next calendar year.

WT . . ?

How anticlimactic was THAT?!?!

And so I walked away from the computer on my 36th birthday to have a slice of birthday cake with my family at an hour way after my kids' bedtime, not knowing if I would turn 37 without a phone call from Alex Trebek.

My family still treated my like I was the smartest one in the family, even though my kids know better than to insult their mother so, perhaps because it was my birthday. I wouldn't trade my family for all the Jeopardy winnings in the world.

Two final notes:
1. My son's been watching recorded episodes of Jeopardy with me every night since. He knows who Alice Sebold is, and he definitely knows who Alex Trebek is. Fortunately, he and I get a chance to meet Mr. Trebek in person on April 12th, 2010 at Texas State University. I can only imagine the things my son will say to the "polite gardener."

2. A.J. Jacobs, the insightful, humorous, and great author (yes, great in the fantastic P.J. O'Rourke sense) who inspired me to finally try out (and whose "Year of Living Biblically" I'm currently reading and who's "Guinea Pig Diaries" sits on my desk to be read next) has an insatiable proclivity to "Google his own name," despite it being against the bible's teachings of vanity. I you, A.J., come across this blog, I invite you to email me at mrkorpi@korpisworld.com, subject line "The REAL A.J. Jacobs" (I get emails from those claiming to be you quite frequently). I've got some ideas to share with you, among them, Descartes penchant for cross-eyed women.

An important question

I've often wondered if my bombastic, loose, witty lessons combined with my adult ADD (easily distracte---boy is it a beautiful day for a run today, if only my knees would cooperate), and minor Turret's (I have a difficult time having unspoken thoughts) help or hinder my ability to teach. In fact, my proclivity to wander off subject, take time out to explore a good joke, or interject random bits of trivia in no particular language is the main reason I entitle my blog "Off On A Tangent," that and that it was a great math pun (oh, yeah, I often say things in class that are punny).

My digressions tend to get worse throughout the day as I get tired, hungry, or begin thinking about what I'll do after school. They even get worse throughout the year, as my educational endurance reaches into its reserves. This year's been even worse having to adjust from a block schedule. I'm pretty much slap happy and sometimes ridiculously delirious by 2:00pm. Compound all that with the fact that I don't eat breakfast nor do I eat lunch (13 years now), relying instead on my morning dose of caffeine via 12 cups of dark, black coffee. By mid-afternoon, I'm not only hungry, my body is crashing. None of this is necessarily any good for my last period class of the day, a class that, more than any other of my classes, requires me to be focused, explicitly clear, and cognitively cogent. That class is BC calculus.

This time of year, in BC, we're getting into some pretty high-powered math, abstruse concepts and often paradoxical results (see Torricelli's Trumpet for an example), but the concepts become even more difficult to understand when they're not presented well. Granted, the students I'm expecting to just "pick up" on the ideas and their implications are among the top math students in the world, which means they'll probably understand in spite of any dereliction of duty on the didactical dictator's part. Everything has always worked out in the end, meaning all have gone on to do well on the AP exam in May, a successful, well-adjusted university career, and beyond. As a result, I've never tried to temper my enthusiasm or ballistic approach, but lately I've noticed that, left unchecked, I've progressed further and further, becoming what might seem more like incompetent lunatic, rather than eccentric math teacher.

I'm beginning to feel the judgmental eyes of the BC class as they wonder if their mathematical future is in good hands. What they don't realize is that I'm trying to come up with wonderful, meaningful examples on my feet, to try to make the lesson "fresher," more "relevant," and "customized," but it's very hard to come up with such examples from the hip. It's even more difficult when your exhausted, hungry, and "crazy." While my intentions are good, many of my impromptu examples have been dead ends, and while I can extract a valuable lesson from each of them (.... soooo this series actually diverges, ......sooooo we should never assume lest we make one of ourselves, .....soooooo here's why you should get plenty of sleep and plan all your extemporaneous speeches in advance), it's hard to save face in the eyes of our society's future top scientists, engineers, doctors, lawyers, teachers, clothing designers, and stay-at-home-parents.

So I'm contemplating the question: should I teach on the straight-and-narrow and lose all the interesting, memorable follies, foibles, and fallacies that go along with learning and teaching a great group of students, or should I continue to teach like I do, running the risk of a few moments where I look like an unprepared, incompetent, mathematician gone bonkers?

Or perhaps . . .

I could just start eating lunch?

Ode to ELA TAKS

It's madness I tell you, we must be in March.
I'm monitoring so actively, my shirt's losing its starch.

Today is a big day, it's TAKS ELA
and there's so many rules that I have to obey.

No websites to browse, and nothing to read,
it's going to be a long day indeed.

I'll read like a robot in monotone voice
reminding the students to bubble their choice.

Read exactly what's written, there's no script deviation.
(These type performances get no standing ovation.)

"Backpacks to the front, turn off your cell phones.
bathroom's one at a time, you must go alone."

"No drinks except water, hurry, finish your drink.
There's no proof that energy drinks help your brain think."

"Speaking of brain food, have I some for you,
I'll now pass out something on which you may chew."

I then hand out crackers, and a peppermint candy.
"If you're hungry or've got bad breath, they'll each come in handy."

"Turn to page to in your book, No not that one,
Please don't turn at all 'til my words are done."

"Your test booklet's also known as 'the test,'
I'm not 'posed to say, but I will, 'do your best!"

"Your answer sheets the page on which you will bubble.
Please raise your hand if you are having trouble."

"You may begin," I eventually say,
As the ELA students begin to wend their own way

Through a myriad of passages that they all have to read,
it'll be a long day for them, too, quite indeed.

Now time moves so slowly that I hardly can feel it.
I'm watching the clock as if someone will steal it.

The only sounds made are pages turning to the next,
and the occasional grunt from the student whose perplexed.

Now I just sit there, twiddling my thumbs,
looking all around, smacking my gum.

I try to pass time by popping my knuckles,
A student just farted, now I'm suppressing the chuckles.

I'm crossing my legs, one over the other,
and sharpening pencils, one after another.

Humming all kinds of great songs in my head,
stopping only to put a sharp point on a lead.

I can't do much else, lest the students all cheat.
Then I lose my job and have nothing to eat.

No, I've got to keep watching them, I must stay alert.
"Is that boy out of dress code? Should he tuck in his shirt?"

Many times there's eye contact. "Great, they think that I'm leering."
"Wait just a second, that guy's wearing an earring."

Oh the grand thoughts that do go through my mind,
"Did I start them too late, is the world now behind?"

My pacing is wearing out holes in my floor,
Oh great! there's some action, a kid's started to snore.

I wake him up gently and set him on course,
(he looks more bored than I do, now I'm filled with remorse.)

But no one may sleep during a standardized test.
Those without diplomas will surely attest.

If you're not awake, then you can't show your knowledge,
much less can you go to a nice four-year college.

To their every need, I eagerly cater.
Sometimes, though, it feels like I'm just a TAKS waiter.

What's with all the pencils?! I make lots of trips,
I feel I should ask if they'd like salsa and chips.

There's so many students who are sniffling and sneezing,
(perhaps its because I keep my room freezing.)

At least I have tissues, gives me something to do,
walk around with Kleenex asking, "have you nasal goo?"

No, I really don't do that, but I think it, it's true.
They get their own tissues. What's a bored teacher to do?

On part one, for each student, verbal aid is okay,
Dictionaries, Thesauruses, can help compose essays.

But part two is different, they must spell on their own,
Even if, for them, the true's spelling's unknown.

I move Dictionaries from desk A to desk B,
as I hope my break's coming soon, 'cause I gotta pee.

(dang all that coffee, by now I should know,
that favors are returned ala "quid pro quo')

I've ne'er given potty breaks an anyone lately,
I regret that now that I've got to pee greatly.

Great, just on time, my relief is here,
"I'll be back in a flash! You just saved my career!!!"

Returning refreshed, I can now go all day,
We're all that much closer for ELA going 'way.

But wait, who's on part two and who's still on one?
Part one uses dictionaries, part two uses none!

But while I was out, only one student switched,
(Thank goodness she told me 'bout which one was which.)

The next phase is blurry, I'm not sure how it passed,
I don't mean to say it went by real fast.

As the clock on the wall slowly ticked toward one-o- clock,
We all leaned towards the door like a giant trapped flock.

Then the announcement came, "Students please go to fourth."
and with the announcement, all the students went forth.

To go to real classes, they couldn't wait to return,
Who knew they'd all be so eager to learn.

But learning was hard with such 'breviated classes,
Teachers barely had time to count lads and lasses.

I spent my few minutes with each of my own,
finding the volume of right circular cones.

Then the day finally ended, we were done with the drill.
At least we get to do it all again, come April.

I ain't 'fraid of no Spring

Today's not only the first day of March (already!) but also the first day of the work week (already!!) and the first day of the 5th six weeks grading period on campus (already!!!). So while it's a day of new beginnings, including this beginning paragraph of my now "plan your mortgage payment around my consistently reliable" monthly blogs, it's also a red-letter day for things coming to an end.

Sadly, the weekend is over once again. It seems like there's always more hours between Monday and Friday than there ever are between Saturday and Sunday (and I guess that's for a reason). I never get the time to do all the things I always mean to on the weekends. With all the practice we have getting used to Monday morning arriving all too quickly, you'd think we'd be great at facing Mondays, but it never gets any easier. At least we had some great weather yesterday and Saturday, and it was so nice to be watching it through a window while labored over a computer writing three more letters of recommendations. I did get some great time with my own two children (and even my wife!), after which I told them that I was "sincerely grateful for the time we spent together, and that I enthusiastically and wholeheartedly recommended them for a scholarship." Indeed, the weekends should be called the "strong" ends.

Good thing I love my job, so Mondays aren't really something I dread. In fact, I was rather excited about going to school today, because today marked the first day of the end of something else: my tenure as interim Statistics teacher. No offense to all the wonderful stat students I got to teach the past two months, and no offense to statistics itself, which is, after all, still math (and boy do I love math at least as much as I love jalapenos, and I DO love jalapenos and coffee (not together, though) (see previous blog entries)). Rather, the relinquishing of statistics to its rightful, maternity-leave-returning teacher gives me much of my free time back, time that can now be spent doing other productive things like blogging, helping my daughter spell "George Washington," trimming Crepe Myrtles, feeding my two dogs (they're so awfully thin!), writing letters of recommendation before 2 a.m., and calculating confidence intervals just 'cause I wanna.

Best of all, the temporary teaching arrangement, which required my department head to teach my 2nd period precal class after observing me teach it 1st period so that she could ensure that my own 2nd period precal class, the one I would be leaving in the hands of the department head so that I could go across the hall to teach statistics to a different class, which I learned to also call "my own," would get the exact same lesson so that when I quizzed them the next day, when I was back, while the stat class worked on a worksheet that covered the lesson from the previous day, would be able to do well on the quiz I was to give them that covered precal material I did not teach them but that they were still, nonetheless, taught. Yeah, all that is over. The department head gets her planning period back, I get my 2nd period precal class back full-time, the returning stat teacher gets her stat class back (albeit much, much smaller since her absence spanned the semester break at which time many stat students dropped), and the stat-teacher's full-time substitute, who was teaching the stat teacher's geometry classes every day but not the stat class but who rather graded geometry papers and entered grades in the stat classroom while I taught the stat class while the department head taught my precal class while the original stat teacher was at home spending deserving, quality time with her newborn daughter, in the house, that incidentally, Jack built . . . I forgot where I was going with this.

Anyway, the smell of spring is in the air, even if we're smelling it outside with our winter coats on, prepared on any given night to still leave our hose-bibs dripping outside during a flash-Texas-overnight freeze. Everything is being reborn and coming out of the winter dormancy (if you're St. Augustine grass or Crepe Myrtles), hibernation (if you're a bear or a lazy math student), of the doldrums (if you're a wind north of the equator of prone to the blaaaahs). There are only 3 very busy and exciting months left in the school year, during which softball and baseball seasons must be played, getting ready for AP exams must be gotten, Swine Flu must be avoided, Prom dates must be finalized, banquets much be planned, and seniors begin to feel both the excitement of graduation and the nervousness that comes with the reality that they will be leaving their household to enter college--the first step into the unforgiving dog-eat-dog world. It's also a time for teachers to dig in their heels and pull each and every student across the finish line. Without the stat class, there are just fewer people for me to have to pull across that line.

Not that I'm not strong enough to do it, I just need all my strength to finish writing all those letters of recommendations.

It's time to step up and spring forward (almost, officially, it's 2 a.m. on March 14, 2010).

Happy Holiday!!

Tomorrow is Groundhog Day.

I'm so excited, I can hardly wait.

Around my house, February 2nd might as well be April 12th, because although it's NOT "Big Wind Day," (that holiday blows me away) it IS the only day of the year where a giant ground squirrel known as a "Marmot," "Land Beaver," "Whistle Pig," or "Woodchuck," gets a chance to play prognosticator to a bunch of adoring U.S. citizens who are eagerly waiting to see if they get to pack their winter coats in the attic trunk, or if they have a good excuse to overeat and wear silly looking sock hats for 6 more weeks.

It does seem kind of silly to watch a Marmot emerge from his den, decide if his reactions constitute him NOT seeing his shadow, then inferring that it means that the cold snap is soon to end, and to infer that if his reactions imply that he HAS seen his shadow, that we are due precisely 1.5 months of Winter. Silly, perhaps, but people have been married and wars have been started over much sillier concepts (take the American Revolution, for instance, where England, WAY over there across the Atlantic told American Colonists to follow its rules, to send them most of their money, to not brush their teeth, and to drive on the left side of the road--Outlandish!!!)

Now, if it were any old groundhog (do you think they got their name because they ran off all the moles, rabbits, and other burrowing animals??), then my family and I wouldn't take any more stock in the annual holiday than we do with the evening forecast on the local news channels. But this is not an ordinary Marmot, no! It's Punxsutawney Phil, a dapper little rodent from Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, a city renown for its funny name, the proclivity of its local men to don overcoats and top hats, and their bizarre fascination for Whistle Pigs.


With Christmas and New Year's recently behind us, I'm excited about the next BIG holiday. While it isn't a day we get to miss work and school for (officially . . . YET), my family and I still adorn our house with a myriad of Groundhog Day decorations (quit laughing. yes, they DO make them). With lit candles (rodent scent), we festoon the small crawl space in the hall closet beneath the stairs with brown streamers to simulate the actual "Gobbler's Knob" where the "Real" Phil lives (I hear they replace him every year, and that he lives in Jersey on the other 354 days of the year). Our hand-made banners are strew throughout the house stating our individual result preferences of what Phil will do (we tell ourselves that we can "agree to disagree.") Phrases like "Shadow Please. I LOVE to sneeze" or "No Shad-OW, Cold's gotta go" become rallying points as my son, daughter, and wife align against me (if it weren't for them, I'd live in Montana and have my own pet woodchuck, whereby I'd teach him chuck wood.)

What my family doesn't realize is that I REALLY want winter to continue NOT because I enjoy having all the "dead from not being watered and not from being frozen" plants in my garage taking up my wood shop space in my garage, but because I simply don't like to sweat, and by "sweat," I don't mean work (like the work involved in taking all the dead plants back outside again), but rather the actual act of having to perspire because I'm HOT. This is the same reason I keep my classroom as cold as possible (it also helps to preserver the math). Besides, if it stays cold for another 6 weeks, that's more time to snuggle and spoon . . . but I've said too much.

So anyway, tomorrow might be just another February 2nd to you, and winter is going to come and go as it pleases (several times a season here in Texas), but to ME, its a day that pays homage to the fact that prediction, especially about the future, is so easy, a cute rodent can do it, and how we, as humans, have an inherent desire to look forward and report/talk about things, even if it means looking forward to something we don't desire.

At least we always have something to talk about: If Phil's correct, we marvel at how nature enables it's creatures with innate, accurate instincts. If Phil's wrong, we marvel at how grown men in tuxedos can place all their beliefs in the animalistic whims of a rodent.

Gotta go.

It's time for me to light the "Rodent-smelling" candle and dust off my top hat.

Addiction

I've heard that pregnant woman sometimes get cravings for some pretty outlandish, unconventional combinations of things to eat. . . whether they're edible or not. Mac and cheese with lobster tail is quite common. Grilled cheese with Gain laundry detergent . . . not so much. These cravings usually pass, and a normal diet is resumed (even though the husband has a much harder time getting off his "empathy diet for two").

Well, I know I'm not pregnant (I hope), and although I LOVE the smell of Gain, I haven't had the urge to sprinkle it all over my Post Toasties in the morning (I really don't eat any breakfast, but I thought the imagery would work for the general reader). What I HAVE had an insatiable craving for lately (3 months now, qualifying it as more than a craving, fad, or "Tonight Show" host guarantee) is for something with much less "dirt-lifting" capabilities as any laundry soap. I've truthfully been addicted to

jalapenos

(I don't know how to type a Tilda. Perhaps I'll figure it out by the time I'm through with this post and these three plump, verdant, spicy jalapeno peppers currently in front of me). By addiction, I mean that I can't even do a decent math problem anymore without a fiery sensation in my mouth and some masticated seeds in my belly.

I've eaten so many lately that I can't even support my habit by shopping at the local HEB, not only because it was eating a hole in my wallet, but because they weren't eating a big enough hole in my stomach (weren't hot enough). I've resorted to shopping at CostCo, a place I used to make fun of for stocking a 5-gallon tub of mayonnaise. Now I've embraced their 6 pound, 4 ounce container of pre-sliced AND whole jalepnos (not yet) which are both cheap ($6) and sufficiently hot (4600 Scoville heat units).

My first trip to the warehouse superstore, I bought two containers and was barely able to make it through the check-out line before I dug into the one containing the whole jalapenos (wait for it). How embarrassed was I when I hit the exit door and had to explain my pepper addiction to the lady with the Black Sharpie, and that the two "unaccounted" jalepeños (DID IT!) were evident on my breath. Talking to her up close avoided me a nasty confrontation with CostCo security (who incidentally wield MUCH larger and MUCH sharper Sharpies).

On my second trip to the store (after I ran out of the first batch), I was determined to buy enough jalapeños (Two in a row!) for any pepper enthusiast trapped in a bomb shelter. I bought a thousand containers!!! (actually, it was only 4, but the cashier looked at me as if it were 1000 and that I had plans to use them in some kind of chemical warfare . . . perhaps the look was because of the 5 gallon jar I mayonnaise I bought that day--who uses all of THAT?!)

With every meal, I found myself loading up with heaps and heaps of the glorious peppers.

Breakfast: Breakfast tacos? Make mine a harvest of jalapenos (missed one), oh, and if you can wrap it up in a tortilla and add a few scrambled eggs and a strip of bacon, that would be great!

Lunch: I usually only drink water for lunch. Now I was eating at least two full peppers and, surprisingly, less water (the heat never seemed to bother me, and whole jalapeños (redemption) are so moist that you actually end up squirting an unsuspecting victim no less than 5 feet away as you bite into one.

Snack: A new eating time of day I have devoted exclusive to munching on whole jalapeños.

Dinner: This is usually with the family. It doesn't matter if it's Hamburger Helper (business idea: "Jalapeño Helper"), New York Strips, Deluxe Cheeseburgers with Jalapeño Jack Cheese marinated in jalapeño juice with fried jalapeño slices on top, I add I giant heap of sliced jalapeños to the top of everything. Surprisingly, no one in my family wants to kiss me after dinner, not even my two dogs.

I can't explain the sudden craving and tolerance for this pepper. I don't want Habañeros, Serranos, or ghost peppers--they're just painful. I just want the heat and taste of the jalapeño, but that's just as odd. Growing up, even though it was in the Rio Grande Valley where everything was Mexican Cuisine and Salsa was king, I had ZERO tolerance for heat ("pica" not "calor"). I was a lightweight "Bolio!" My friend once "tricked" me, in 2nd grade, into eating a whole jalapeno (he told me it was the non-Tilda type, which was more like a pickle than a jalapeño . . . not to mention the fact that he was going to give me a "Washington" for my daring feat. Aside from getting a piece of popcorn stuck in my throat for over a week, it was the worst childhood experience of my life. I got my quarter (not even a dollar!), but I spent the rest of the night doing the "Curly Shuffle" all over the living room floor as my stomach distended from gallons of water I thought would quench the fire.

Since then, I've stayed as far away from them as I could. Pickles were too similar in texture, crunch, and color that I couldn't even watch "Larry the Cucumber" on "Veggie Tales" with my kids when they were young (I know . . . he's a cucumber, not a pickle), thereby missing an important chapter of their lives because of a disturbing chapter in mine.

NOW, I'm buying my own raw peppers at a farmer's market, pickling them by the pounds, and storing them in my garage as if I were some colonial Puritan, eagerly anticipating the day whereby I can open them and chomp them down jar by jar. Not only can I not explain my sudden appetite for them (like I can for the Jonas Brothers' music--my KIDS like them), but I have no explanation why I have a new-found tolerance for "pica" heat.

Why just a couple of days ago, I was at an all-you-can-eat Chines buffet (please don't ask why, just realize that I have a HORRIBLE short-term memory) with some friends, and I had loaded on my plate all the "spicy" crusty entrees that were coagulating under a heat lamp. From "Spicy Joe's Chicken" (is Joe a Chinese guy?) to "Chicken with Brocolli and Jalapeños," I had my plate piled with the spiciest, least-fresh (apparently most people avoid these types of food, so they're the most likely to be left-over from . . . . last week), I made my way to the sushi. Now, I have an even more horrible experience with Sushi than I ever did with jalapeños (and I've yet to get a sudden, irrational craving for it), but next to the Sushi was a small tub of green paste which resembled guacamole sauce . . . and I absolutely LOVE guacamole, especially if its got jalapeños in it.

Knowing it was actually Wasabi, I piled a giant scoop of it onto my fried Won-Ton and headed back to my table with a practical joke of my mind. Back at the table, I commented how funny it was that a Chinese restaurant would have guacamole on its buffet, as I slid the corner of the fried Won-Ton containing the gigantic gob of Wasabi into my mouth. The looks from the table were noticeably those of alarm and concern as they grabbed for their cell phone to dial 9-1-1.

"That's . . . uh . . . not guacamole! Spit it out man." The effect was exactly as I had hoped. Not only did my sinuses immediately open and my eyes began to flood with tears that would make Niagara falls look like "Stinky Falls" (a local falls much smaller and less impressive as those in New York). I held my ground and acted like nothing had happened. My jalapeño training had prepared me for this.

To make a long story short, I now have to budget for 6-pound containers of jalapeños, I'm currently saving for a separate room to store these containers, and I can play funny jokes on friends at restaurants.

I can't explain why all this is so. Perhaps it's because I'm getting older (I turn 36 tomorrow), or because it's because I got kicked in the head by a mule a few months ago. All I know is that I'd LOVE to see that childhood "friend" of mine again, accept his bet, and DEMAND a dollar bill--that would go a long way towards my next 6-pound tub.

Mathematical Musings XVIII

I hear a lot of things in my math classes like, "When is the bell going to ring," "Can we use our calculator," and sometimes even things like "I wish Mr. Korpi would assign more homework," and "Wow! I think I actually understand this stuff." What I hear, though, is nothing compared to what my poor students have to hear coming from my mouth. Here's another installment.

• Math is the language of the Universe. This means it is the language of love, too. So, for Valentine’s Day, I wrote my wife the following poem:

My love for you is like a one-to-one monotonic increasing function.

Together we have passed the Vertical and Horizontal line test.

For each of me, there is always only one of you.

But it’s your Vertical Asymptote that I like the best.

(After she read it, you’d have thought I had divided by zero!!)

• Jimmy Carter Plumbing: Getting you out of sticky situations Peanut Better than any other nut out there
• My first T-ball practice went great! Of the ten kids, there was only one kid who wasn’t doing what I asked. He was running around, going to the bathroom, playing on the nearby stacked drainage pipes and playgrounds instead of playing the field like all the other boys and girls. When we got home after practice, he got in BIG trouble.
• Gabriel’s Horn is a paradox: It’s like a bell of a trombone that extends to infinity, but it holds a finite amount of paint, however, you could never buy enough paint to give the outside a single coat!
• Don’t just do something!!! Stand there!
• If you liked that last problem, you’ll love this one! If you didn’t like the last problem, you’ll still love this next one, because you should have liked the last one.
• Since we’ve had a quiz every class for the last two weeks, we definitely won’t have a quiz next time in class . . . . . . . . . . . unless it is a pop quiz.
• If you forgot to put the “+C” at the end of the problem either take off 5 points or add it there really quickly so that I don’t know you left it off. Also, it the second case, please also hit yourself violently in the head and yell, “Geeeeesh, I’m not going to THAT again.”
• I’m giving out truckloads of free advice and help Monday through Friday each week and some of you come in here without a container to put it in!
• Of course this integration stuff is difficult, lest you become bored and sick of it all!
• I have already not said that before. Now please, don’t make me not say it again!
• The other day, I twisted my ankle playing with my kids. I tripped over a hole that was sticking up out of the ground.
• Student: Korpi, are you going to skip tomorrow and go the soccer game? Korpi: Go to the soccer game, I might, but unfortunately, I cannot skip anymore . . . bad knee.
• If you're not confused, you haven’t been paying attention.,
• I’m right 95% of the time. I don’t worry about the other six percent.
• Oh, Discrete Math!! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
• OK, if I have ten marbles in a bag, what’s the probability of drawing out a red coin on the first throw?
• Anitsesquipedalian is a make believe word that means ‘to be opposed to the use of large, imaginary words.’
• Think Five. High Five. Five-Alive. Math Power to all. Go AP!!
• I mean that it’s not so much the mode as the median.
• I think all my jokes are funny. Funny, weird, though. Not funny, ha, ha! Weird, isn’t it?
• Let’s just do this example for kicks and giggles.
• OK, let’s stay focused and not waste our time engaged in idle discourse . . . hey, where’d you get that shirt?
• In Mathematics, they seldom don’t never not disprove things by not concealing the fallacy of the negation of the opposite of a statement. For real!
• Ever since my son was severely burned by the hot frying oil, he has a newfound respect for heat. He is now much, much more careful when playing around volcanoes.
• Why was 6 afraid of 7? Because 7 devoured 9, or something like that, I think it was 9.
• In middle school, I played trumpet in the jazz band. It was a blast!
• I may do foolish things, but I do them with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm is the key.
• I don’t want to over generalize, but every teacher in the world who uses this method, uses this very method.
• I only do math on days that end in “y,” and every other day in between.
• You either get this stuff, or you don’t. Most of y’all fall into one of these two categories.
• For your next test, please learn the material well enough to get an “A,” or learn it just well enough to fake getting an “A” so that I cannot tell the difference.
• Boy, if I had a nickel for everytime I heard that, I wouldn’t have enough nickels to rub two of them together.
• So, when you tell me you don’t “understand anything,” what specifically do you not understand?
• Could you possibly imagine a day without doing math????!!!! Well then, if only your math skills were as strong as your imaginations, we wouldn’t have a problem.!!
• Student: Mr. Korpi, I didn’t do my homework. Korpi: Ha, ha, ha, ha. That was a good one. . . . Wait a minute. What did you say? For a second there, I thought you said you did your homework.
• I can guarantee success on the next test if you follow these simple procedures: Pay attention in class, take good notes, do your homework, and work your review sheet 22 times without any help from me, friends, or notes. Yep, that should do it.
• Guess, what?! If you only focus on the grade and not the learning, you only get the grade, you don’t get the learning. The grade only lasts you through the next report card, the learning last at least 3 days longer.
• I’m sorry, am I teaching over your head? Well, it would help if you weren’t ducking at everything I said.
• Sure, it’s easy for me because I’m the teacher. Do you think I was born a teacher? NO!! I had to actually DO the math to learn it, just like you . . . errrr I mean, NOT like . . . well, do you get my point? Probably not. The answer is 5. Next question, good luck in the real world.
• Why do I like math so much? The answer is quite simple, it’s because it is so easy to teach, and it makes teaching so easy. It is the only subject that practically teaches itself, that everybody understands, people are naturally fired-up about math. All I have to do is point, and my job is done. So why do I like math? Out of selfishness, laziness, economy, and greed. Why are you in my class?
• So converting three feet gives us approximately, no exactly, 15 toes.
• Let’s see. 36 + 7. That’s . . .Ok . . .carry the one, divided by . . .borrowing from the neighbor . . .divided by . . . times . . . taking the log .. . . verifying . . . ok . . . that makes . . . oops, forgot to round . . . ok. . . approximately 43.0000000.
• Life sucks, then you walk into math class. Guess what?! Get over it!! This is an elective
• I don’t know how to ask you any nicer to “shut the heck up” than to say, “please, shut the heck up, or I will assign math problems until you understand it.” You certainly don’t want that, do you?
• I’ve noticed that as the years roll by, I’m more interested in bread.
• As time goes by, I become more jaded, more cynical, more fat, and more old. I wish I wasn’t so jaded (and that I could use my comparative adjectives poetically-er).
• Did you hear the great news????!!!!! I bet not, since your mathematical confustication has you screaming at the top of your lungs.
• I’m doing super-bum-ously great . . . but fear not, I’m getting much better.

In defense of mathematics

Today I got an email from a former student whose college professor had them takes sides in a letter written by a pre-law student, who, thinking that math was irrelevant to his career, was asking to be "excused" from having to take any more math courses.

Naturally, my former student decided NOT to defend the student who had written the letter, but against the idea that math is not important for becoming an attorney. She, along with about half the class, had to defend their position (not a bad assignment), but was shocked to hear after the assignment that her own professor not only defended the student, but actually took sides AGAINST the students that took sides against the letter-writing student, citing reasons, among others, that a student shouldn't have to waste what would amount to an extra year of undergraduate studies taking unnecessary math courses if their profession of chose didn't use math.

I got a plaintive letter from this student who was bothered by her professor's immediate dismissal of her group, not to mention the professor was WRONG!

She asked for my opinion, and here's my response:


First of all, it's a poor student who has to take another year of college simply because of math credits. A REAL student, pre-law especially, should be crafty and slick enough to fit those courses in without having to take extra an extra year. Just take 18 instead of 12 hours, and cut out unneeded electives like "ballroom dancing" and "Advanced Golf."

Secondly, people with great math skills who also have great communication skills make great lawyers. Mathematics requires deductive reasoning, drawing sound inferences, creatively conjecturing as well as demanding patient pertinacity, attention to detail, the discipline of concentrated daily efforts, and forges the habits of mind I would hope any lawyer defending ME would have (not that I plan on needing a lawyer).

In fact, I took the LSAT once and scored quite well on it. The test had many, many questions requiring the skills mentioned above, especially logic (which is a branch of mathematics). I attribute my great score to my math background.

True, you'll probably never have to find the integral of a trig function in order to save a client from death row, but anyone who says that the benefits of taking math courses would not help him become a better attorney, for reasons already mentioned, will probably end up being the type of attorney that advertises on TV and in phone books.

The best attorneys, like the best doctors, and any other professional, don't need advertising and AREN'T in it for the money.

I hope that answers your question, if not settles the debate.

Feel free to share my response with your professor.

By the way. I took the LSAT out of curiosity, not necessarily because I wanted to be a lawyer.

The Anti-Santa

Sung to the tune a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

(Let me hear you now, with feeling!)

Atnas the Christmas burglar,
He cased out a family's house.
Waited until the dad left,
And the daddy's pretty spouse.

Knowing that no one's home now,
He proceeds onto their land,
Atnas the Christmas burglar,
implements his rotten plan.

He begins out on the porch, taking stereos.
Then he moves into the back,
Stuffing things into his sack

Then he went for the tool shed,
Taking all my garden stuff,
He probably pet my dogs' heads,
'Cause the neighbors never heard them "rufff."

Instrumental (as the criminal loads his car in my circular drive and gets ready to leave the property)

Atnas the Christmas burglar,
has things that belong to me.
He's really made me angry,
although he's made my dog's happy.

I've searched through all the pawn shops,
Haven't found my trimmer yet,
At least I still have my family,
including two bad watch dog pets.

Thank you God, at Christmastime, amid our shopping sprees
Nothing's as important as
A good insurance policy

Now I just hug my children,
and I also kiss my wife.
But I sleep with eyes open.
Take my stuff but ne'er my life.

Evil Santa

You've gotta love the environment around a high school campus on the last day of class before final exams leading up to Christmas break. While the majority of students are exempt from their final exams, the halls are as dense and as festive as they are going to be until next year when everyone comes back to school rejuvenated with a hankering for mathematical instruction. Indeed, if there was ever a day where students could use an extra minute in between classes, today would be the day as they casually mender to and from their classes, not worried about being late and missing the first part of the in-class movie.

Not all classes, though, are showing movies. No, some are dedicated study halls where 28 out of 30 students play cards, chess, or draw festive pictures on the board while of the 2 students who actually have to take the final exam, one is asleep in a pool of slobber on his desk no doubt dreaming of working his review problems, while the other student is absent.

There are some classrooms, however, that are the exception to the "dead week" rule: those that forge ahead with new material up until the bitter end. These classes are, of course, the "uncool" classes with the "tyrant" teachers who never give students a break. These tyrants, realizing that most of their pupils (students, not eye parts) are not studying for the finals from which they are exempt anyways, uses every instructional technique in his arsenal of torture to hold the students' feet to the fire until the bitter end. Having quizzes and new lessons for which he, the unfavorable despot, will hold the kids accountable upon their return in January.

"It's not holiday break yet," he's heard to say as a faint, almost inaudible "muuuuuuuhaaaaahaaaaa" enters the consciousness of the forlorn students in attendance, their plaintive cries falling on deaf ears. "Trust me, I'm not only a ruthless dictator, I'm a professional educator," the oppressing autocrat sneers as his pupils (eye parts not students) dilate in ecstasy. It does no good for the already-crushed spirits of the students when the slavedriving wet-blanket of a teacher points out that if he were to allow partying and festivities in his classroom on an instructional day, not only would he be a terrible ward of the taxpayers and their parents' money, but he would have to compensate by giving a classroom lesson on Christmas morning in each students' home in their living room in front of the tree (quid pro quo), and logistical nightmare almost as daunting as Santa's himself, but an egregious violation of church and state. This message falls on deaf ears, much like the ensuing lesson.

So what sort of teacher would do such a thing on such day as the day before the day before most students begin their weeks-long vacation? A teacher that has the students' best interests in mind. A great teacher who has his eyes on the horizon and not just the ground in front of him (this is a great skill to have, but you have to have your eyes on the ground in front of you too, or you're likely to trip on a pothole while jogging on an unrepaired road at night at college right in front of a sorority lawn party . . . . you don't want to learn THAT the hard way . . . like some person I know).

Yes, I'M the person who has done all these things, quizzes on the day before finals AND the tripping thing. Luckily, my students know we very well, and they expected nothing less. Hopefully they also comply (somewhat) willingly because they actually REALIZE that I have their best interests in mind, that I LOVE math, and that there's no greater gift than the gift of knowledge.

It was very rewarding these past two days being the tyrannical, mathematical Santa. Let me just recite the final part of the quotient rule in calculus by saying . . .

Ho Ho.

If cavemen could speak

I hate to always rant and rave about the negative, but stupid people and stupid rules get me much more agitated than the smart, competent ones. Although blogs about the wonder of rainbows and the joy of a long-awaited and much needed rainstorm do wonders for increasing our awareness of the good things in life and help us to "count our blessings," they don't do NEAR enough to help us get those chips off our shoulder.

I'm convinced language was invented out of man's innate need to complain about things that effected and affected him.

(rock hits caveman on head)

• without language: caveman rubs head and tries to look up at spot on head only to realize he can't see it. continues to rub head.
• with language: caveman yells "WTH!!" and feels better instantly

(caveman told to do something asinine lest he lose his caveman status)

• without language: caveman rubs his head and wonders what the rubbish of sounds coming from the caveman making the threat actually mean and how he can actually lose his "caveman" status.
• with language: caveman yells "WTH!!" then points out that the person making the demand is nothing but an unintelligible caveman and that he would actually PREFER to lose his "caveman" status, if it were even possible, so that he wouldn't have to be associated with such asinine cavemen.

(caveman told to quit making high-quality tools out of flint to attend a seminar put on by another caveman on how to make high-quality tools out of flint, whereby the presenter has never actually made a high-quality tool out of flint, but has rather only read about them in "books," incidentally carved into stone tablets by tools developed by the man forced to attend)

• without language: caveman forced to attend points to his arsenal of tools and grunts puzzlingly.
• with language: caveman forced to attend yells "WTH!! Have you ever actually noticed what I'm doing here?! I'm making the darned actual tools you caveman! Look here! Tools. They don't make themselves, but then again, seminars don't attend themselves, I get it. Why wasn't I at least asked to lead the seminar on tool making. I could have actually brought some of my samples. By the way, did you know that saber tooth tigers salivate when they hear about cavemen seminars? . . . What's that???!!! You want me to bring my stone carving tool that I made to the "tool making" seminar that I'm forced to attend so that all the other caveman in attendance can use it to sign in so that their attendance can be well-documented!!!

I'm guessing that since we as a civilization are well passed the caveman era, that we DID eventually begin to speak, and that we developed because bad ideas were voiced and pointed out. This is why caveman committees are not read about and why the saber tooth tiger is extinct. Unfortunately, we are forgetting common sense and our voices are falling on deaf ears. The process and "knowledge" of tool-making is transplanting the product, the importance, utility, and palpability of something real and meaningful, itself.

In a world where students are expected to train to build tools by reading about the process, then being tested on the process itself, it's no surprise that they, when thrown out into the tool-building world, must finally begin their education. It's also no surprise that the teachers actually skilled in tool building who try to teach the physical craft to their apprentices, when constantly required to attend (and document that they attend) tool-building seminars, are exiting the profession.

No extinct species can ever return from their ultimate demise, but I think the caveman is making a strong case to the contrary. If this happens, the saber-toothed tiger will soon follow. Perhaps we need more saber-toothed tigers on the loose BEFORE we all become cavemen again.
Hey, I think it's raining outside . . .

A perfect way not to spend a day

There are two things I simply cannot do. I cannot sit standing, and I cannot stand sitting.

Although they are both physically impossible (send photo evidence to the contrary and I reciprocate by showing you evidence of division by zero), the latter is something I also cannot tolerate, and booooy did I get to practice my patience today.

As a self-diagnosed adult with ADD (among other ailments), my mind tends to wander without much effort. Although this can be a source of constant creativity and insomnia, there are other side-effects, namely my inability to sit still for extended periods of time as well as my lack of interest in people who ramble, babble, talk incessantly, go on and on, are redundantly repetitive, . . . Being the adult and professional that I am, there are times where I can focus my attention with the skill of a veteran Yogi and feign enough interest so that it appears to those around me that I DON'T have ADD, but perhaps only suffer from a pinched nerve in my coccyx and neck. Today was one of those days.

Attending the second of three installments of forced professional development by my school district, I missed an entire day of instruction to attend a seminar on how to be a better teacher. Much to my dismay, the first rule of the day was NOT "Be in the classroom with your students." Rather, the seminar focused on how we math teachers who teach at levels below calculus can implement calculus-type problems in levels all the way down to algebra I. Luckily for me, my training and experience have afforded me the opportunity to teach at all levels, so many of the ideas at the session were ideas, lessons, and strategies I already know and use. But I'm not above thinking I don't have anything to learn, I try my best to be attentive and to contribute to the conversation so that it's not a waste of time. This becomes increasingly difficult as we work through problem after problem after problem, hour after hour after hour, problems that I easily could have written.

It's days like today that I empathize with my own students and how THEY must feel sitting in my class each day, but then again, it only makes me realize more that if I'm the one in front running the show, I'd better make it entertaining if not interesting or I'll lose my audience. Unfortunately, not all presenters realize or are capable of this. Nothing against this presenter, per se, she was very knowledgeable and capable, but she WAS teaching down the middle to the crowd, and I've never fit in well with crowds. I know that if I cannot first capture my audience's attention, I'll never capture their imagination. Additionally, I must sustain their interest to keep them captive, all while keeping them moving in a direction that I want them to go in.

There were many times today that I felt that all I could do to endure the day was to jump up in front and start leading the seminar myself (this was AFTER I drank down my fair share of "complementary" coffee from the employee lounge.) It got to the point that I took long bathroom breaks even when I didn't have to go to the bathroom. Believe it or not, as many times that I got up to stretch my legs, I never missed a beat when I returned to my seat. It was like watching one episode of a soap opera every two weeks--you still pick up on the plot (even though the infants are now teenagers.)

Luckily, I did get to excuse myself a bit early because of a subsequent engagement--the Math Club Christmas party back at the high school (I hope they're not still waiting for me to come out of the bathroom). I felt so liberated as I walked out the double doors, with Nietzsche's quote resonating in my head: "If it doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger." I felt like the Incredible Hulk.

Arriving back at school among all my students who were filled with yuletide, mathematical spirit, I felt once again back in my element. I don't know who was happier to see who. For motivated students who love to learn and for an enthusiastic educator who loves to teach, we all agreed that I should miss school a lot less often. After all, that's what good teachers do, even if they're "weaker" for it.

Perhaps for the final session, I'll pull one out of Tom Cruise's book. No . . . not jumping up and down on a couch, but rather THIS one . . .

Of COURSE I'm awake!