that's awasum

The Forks Have Spoken
09.10.05 + 3:12 p.m.

I finally took a good look at tuition costs, and estimated the debt I’ll have accumulated by the time I graduate. Earning my Masters is going to dig a giant crater in my soul. I'm proud to say that my soul, or, at the very least, the crater in my sould created by graduate school, will eventually be worth about 75K.

It’s a good thing Drama Therapy is such a lucrative field. It’s like that old saying goes: “The big money is in outreach and the arts!”

Sometimes I think I am seven million different kinds of retarded.

Despite the frequent, boring, finance-inspired “HOLY FUCKING SHIT” moments, things are good. I love my classes, the course of study is fascinating, and my classmates are smart and dedicated and fun. I have no doubt that I should be here, and I know that while the impending debt may be daunting, I’ll figure it out, and things could definitely, definitely be worse. It’s not like I have anyone else to support. And student loans are an inevitability for a huge percentage of the population. For many of whom the burden is not possible, graduate school is considered a privilege. I’m lucky to be here. So, no more whining.

I find myself in a peculiar position, as far as this diary is concerned. For reasons of confidentiality and respect, I can’t tell you much about my classes. When I eventually start my internships, I won’t be able to tell you about my clients, either, also because of confidentiality.

So what I’m looking at here is a career that I’m not allowed to discuss, and which leaves a giant hole in my bank account.

Seven million different kinds of retarded.

That being said, I do feel okay telling you that my school is an extreme hippie utopia. This isn’t a surprise to me … it’s in San Francisco, for one thing, and for another, the school’s mission statement expresses its dedication to the fostering of mind/body/spirit crap. I’m happy about that. Such a statement presents a stark contrast from my undergraduate Jesuit school, where I felt pretty alienated most of the time.

While I don’t relate to all of my present school’s spiritual principles, it is a very loving and supportive environment. In general, the people I’ve met have had an overall good sense of humor about the ideals they passionately uphold, and are willing to discuss them. And since I’m a perpetual devil's advocate, my lovely school provides me with lots of things to mock.

The woman who works in the café, for example, is a scary, militant environazi. She looks like your least favorite lunch-lady from grade school, except that her smock and hair net have been replaced by a cotton tie-dye.

The other day: I’m in the café to eat a salad I brought from home. I go to the counter to buy a piece of fruit and grab a fork. When I reach for an apple, the woman barks at me, “Please don’t touch the counter.”

“Um. Sorry. Okay.”

“And I’d appreciate it if you waited for me to get the apple for you.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

My hands are apparently covered in smog and sinful smoker grime that will contaminate the principles of all the other apples, spread across the counter to the organic cookies, and creep under the miraculously biodegradable plastic wrap that covers the brownies. Word will travel to the recycling bin, wherein reside the empty cans which once held 100% pure fruit juice. Murmurings of mutiny will begin.

“Viva la Tofurkey!” the meat-free sandwiches will cry as they spring out of the cooler, holding open the door for the onslaught of natural soda bottles that follow them like missiles. The café food will unite in revolt! As they pin their tie-dyed oppressor to the ground, they will chant Soy has feelings, too, before strangling the environazi like a baby seal (using the discarded rings from a six-pack of juice), and throwing her into a landfill. It will be like the LA riots meet a Fruit of the Loom commercial.

All because of the audacity of one woman who dared touch an apple without permission. 'Twill be the apple-touch heard round the world.

Anyway.

I point to an apple, which she hands to me. I pay for it, being careful not to let my cowskin wallet touch the counter. Then, I reach for a fork.

“Excuse me!” Environazi holds up her hand to stop me, like she’s a crossing guard leading a herd of veal calves to safety, and I’m an oncoming SUV. “Forks are twenty-five cents, because they’re non-biodegradable.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” I’m actually feeling a little blind-sided, but I’m not going to eat my goopy salad with my hands, so I think “When in Rome,” and I put my quarter in front of the counter, on the shelf designed to temporarily hold yucky objects that have had contact with the outside world. Then I reach for a fork.

“Please wait for me to hand it to you,” she says. Oh, she suspects the unrest, and is terrified of the uprising.

“Sorry.”

She takes my quarter, hands me a fork, and I finally sit down to eat.

Then I process the whole experience.

What the fuck?

I’m admittedly pretty lazy about environmental issues, but I respect her values and priorities. I actually think it’s kind of cool that the café charges a quarter for a goddamned plastic utensil, because it encourages people to bring their own forks and, in some small way, reduces the amount of non-recyclable stuff they have to toss. But, a quarter of a dollar is a significant piece of cash for the café customers, most of whom are poor students who need to save their change for the bus or the Laundromat.

The fact that my fork is environmentally unfriendly is not my fault, and I don’t think I should have to pay for it. It would be one thing if the quarters were put towards a “Save the Forks” fund or some other environmental cause, but no, they’re thrown in the till with the rest of the filthy capitalist money. The fork money goes towards the café revenue, which in turn goes to buy supplies for the café, including EVIL PLASTIC UTENSILS.

That is bullshit. I am all for the Plastic Rights Movement, and I do respect her values, but the way they are demonstrated in this particular situation is not only obnoxious, but also contradictory.

And now that I’ve thought about it far too much, and have my soap boxy little speech prepared, I plan to tell environazi exactly that. Because it is very, very important.

Viva la Tofurkey!

~ Last Five Entries ~

Treasure Hunts, and Why I Have "Psychich Tony" Programmed into My Cell Phone - 10.24.05

The Lights Are Much Brighter There - 10.10.05

Concert in the Park - 10.03.05

Everyone Has a Fuckin' Opinion - 09.24.05

Pack of Ne'er-Do-Wells - 09.17.05

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.
««« Chicago Blogs Webring »»»

email:

words © luvabeans, 2003 - 2004