As a student, it always amused me to stumble upon my teachers outside the classroom: at the mall, in the movie theater, or even on the school parking lot. Somehow it seemed strange to discover that our educators had lives and families outside the school property, as if they had apartments in the teacher lounge or — more abstractly — ceased to exist entirely without their class. I would imagine Mrs. Willis and Mr. Phebus melting from the walls at the ringing of the bells, reforming flesh from discarded glitter glue and construction paper like a Terminator villain armed with copious lesson plans and graded algebra tests.
Of late, the boys have started this group message thread to whittle away the hours while pretending to work and yet still reap the benefits of a real paycheck. Like all the best Seinfield, the thread is mostly about nothing: BSing each other and counting down the minutes until happy hour. Since my phone has sold its digital soul to the ‘robot devil’ (i.e. it broke), I could not read these messages or in truth comment on them. Luckily, last Easter I lost my cellphone down a storm-drain while stomping on it with my right heel. It will not be missed. My subsequent purchase of an iPhone opened a doorway to a whole new world of texting and communication. Moreover, I can now chat with my brothers while they work during these June days and I contemplate my next blog post in my PJs at home. Teaching does have its merits.
The following conversation delved into how my presence has affected the Groupchat (as they dub it) for better or for worse. If you, dear reader, find these conversations interesting, I might try to post a few more now and then.
Three accounts. Three computers. If I thought it would improve my chances to heft some of the house’s scattered PCs — outdated, abandoned, or consumed by spiderwebs — down to my room, I might have risked electric shock and wolf spider bites to heave the towers into my room. But I had three accounts, thus only three computers.
The other members of my party were working across the street at Katie’s new house, knocking down trees and feeding the sap-soaked limbs into the chipper, giving Mother Nature the ol’ Fargo-special (as I call it). Thus, the task of procuring tickets to the Comicon fell to me.
Now, we’ve attended comic book conventions in the past here in Baltimore and DC. These are typically low-key affairs, occupying a single floor at the Baltimore convention center, which — to quote the Hulk — is puny in comparison to its counterparts in DC and Boston. Still it manages to stock the panels with some pretty awesome writers and artists: Scott Snyder, Greg Capullo, Don Rosa, and Neil Adams to name a few that I’ve seen (Batman and Uncle Scrooge fanatic that I am).