Random Venting Lest I Go Nuts

The whole idea is to get away from random illiterates in offices telling you what to do. That's what you put up with the humiliations you will have to put up with (like students having no idea what you're trying to do, or having no money), for. That's what you teach quarter-to-quarter at sordid old Midstate Community College, for.

Or so I felt willing to claim one short paragraph ago. But I erred in at least two (more-or-less opposite) directions: It's even worse when they want you to do it online; and Lecturing on math at the board is one of the greatest things in life. And the really interesting thing right now, for me, is that the random venting actually works here at home alone with cat and computer; I'm tapping out copy for one of my (absurd number of) blogs and enjoying it as usual. Just like that. But when there's an audience around, it's murder. The more I rant, the madder I get (so "lest I go nuts" doesn't apply). And we're not looking into that just now because it's making me sort of sick at stomach and this is supposed to be fun.

So back on the droids. The deal here is that (of course) the interface sucks and people that've thought themselves in compliance up until the finish line have found their work dumped and them to blame as far as anybody cares (as usual) and it's kind of frustrating so people complain about it. And then redo it anyway which is what breaks my heart.

We're the talent, here, people! We're the ones they paid to see. None of the support staff, alleged or otherwise, even wants to think about doing our job.

(Well, not "none", literally. Dammit! I can't figure out if I'm ranting or trying to be clear! But you get the drift.)

But something strikes me weird here. Because I go around thinking I want people to complain about the brutalities we're all routinely made to submit to at the undead hand of Bad Software. Some of this bad software runs on an operating system called The College (or its Departments or what have you) and is generally known as "the way we do things here"... but I digress. Because it's Software in its usual, runs-on-hardware, sense that I'm claiming to have thought I wanted to hear more complaining about. Though now I'm not so sure, as you will have surmised. Because having now considered this, I wonder if I'm only wishing for a sympathetic ear for my complaining. So it's the (dammit) usual "just how much of a Prima Donna am I acting here", thing. And I'm not a horrible person.

I get to say this because I'm the guy everybody knows around here (and most talk to... if they talk to anyone at all around here); those are my books you see scattered about you, I studied more math than pretty much anybody, I've been at it for a long time, and, hell, I wouldn't go off like that if I didn't trust you.

And this last bit bothers me quite a bit. Because the effect is that of punishing someone for daring to love me back. But it's one thing to realize that you're being an asshole, again. And quite another to be able to reach into your soul and mess with what appears to be a pretty deep character flaw; indeed, is almost certain at least to partake of some flavor of what Program people call a dry drunk. On account of the way, just when you need to put on the brakes, you get this more speed thing going and brush your judgement aside right when you need it most. When this mood works, I call it hot blood (but then, that's not really the same thing...).

Anyway, though, I still think—to the extent that I can think and type at the same time—I want my colleagues to complain about their computer woes. And indeed, that my urge to get into every gripefest I dove into today was never unmixed with Pure Joy. Hell, I once co-founded a union drive; I can love the sound of somebody else not getting a computer to work for almost unselfish reasons.

But then, dammit, they won't even abstain and just wait and see what further pressure might be brought to bear. No, line up again and hope it's just another sheering because sooner or later they're coming for something you don't want to give up. Look. When the program predictably fails right after you ought to be done with it and you can't even get IT in the middle of the day and the emails bounce that's called being treated with contempt and whatever you put up with, there'll always be more. And it doesn't even pretend to make sense.

We don't even work for these silly assholes, anyway; they're supposed to be working for us. The fans pay the band; the barowner just passes along the money. And if just one person should say, "hey, wait a minute, Vlorbik's right!"... well, heck, with a committee of two, I could put all this computer hyperactivity to some constructive use...