Mister Half Face, Come Out!

*Flourishes cape*

Willikers! An actual blog, Chiroptera-Guy! Sort of.

My blogger’s leal has been hideously absent over the past few months—SO HIDEOUS. Of course, I have spent much time executing what writers seem to do best-- staring at a blank sheet of paper or blinking cursor whilst restively cursing gods, devils, society, the neighbors (Carlyle, I’m looking at you, fella), and eventually themselves before sinking into a dolorous morass of self-loathing and surrender. It becomes easy to convince oneself that one is insensate, numb—useless.

Look at this asshole.
It's like it's tapping its foot at your inaction.

Oh, how horrible it is—especially when one recognizes that this (acquired apathy aside) can be an ideal artistic and/or literary state. Why, it is full of emotion, expression, aching, and—this one is important—hatred. Hatred for oneself, hatred for one’s roommate and his/her sonorous bong, hatred for those ridiculous whorls of paint on the ceiling above your couch; it truly does not matter which direction the dial spins in. Hate is ugly, but damn, it is potent.

I suppose what I’m saying is that writer’s block is—at least in this case—a poor excuse, and I assure that I will not allow such a creature come between us again. Hugs.

Ruminations aside, my return is accompanied by a state of somewhat alarming sleeplessness; thus, the muse of charm, humor and inanity is fueled, and sticky honey-soaked joy can be merrily suckled upon by all. I’m not certain what that last part means, but it is undoubtedly better to not ponder it in any great depth.

Yes.

Summer. It has been both eventful and listless; I suppose this is to say that there are some wonderful topics to regale here in Mister Half Face’s dusty corner, whilst others are boring/un-amusing and thus not so bloggable (I made a word: time for cake!). Such future entries are currently in the works, and shall be delivered in a timely fashion. Until then, my dear darlings, I extend a flouncy bow, flourish my cape once more, and leave you with the scent of promises, wood glue, and one spoiler: cigarettes.

Should the Creaking Floor Give Way...

I live. My utmost apologies.

Anyhoo, as I was exploring the uppermost level of a condemned building, I was entertained by a number of thoughts-- particularly those that involved falling through rotted floorboards. I share these with you in the spirit of love and hugs. And horrible death. Onward!

Doc. Ambis Ister: Ep. 2 (A Swingin' Fix)

My utmost apologies; still exorcising. 

May this keep you as cozy as a puppy on a grill:

Doc. Ambis Ister: Ep. 1 (Intervention)

Whilst I exorcise the next blog entry from my keyboard (even if I must employ the practice of ambulomancy to do so), here is something disturbing and offensive. 

Mr. Half Face wuvs you.

Note: I do not wish to murder women via forcible asphyxiation. These things just fall out of my pen after a stormy week.

Six Tutoring Nightmares

Tutoring is probably my most exercised activity, second only to the chore of skinning frogs to line my shoes (it makes me feel closer to the Deep Ones and keeps my toes toasty and pink). For anywhere between 5-20 hours a week, I and my fellow writing tutors wade through the trivium of grammar, rhetoric, and logic. Largely, I enjoy my job. Nevertheless, there are certain types of students who make the lives of tutors a veritable abyss of rage, ulcers, and eventually alcoholism (or meth, whatever). These sorts of humans generally come armed with the thickest of defenses: the blank stare, the incessant argue-hole, or the incredulous outbursts (“I actually have to go through and read stuff?!”). Whether you are confronted by a stack of inchoate, off-topic research or a disjointed sentence, you can expect one thing, and only one thing, from most of such hell-spawned sessions: nothing productive is going to happen, and you will be praying for the peaceful silence of death long before it’s over.
    I have catalogued the most frustrating offenders below. Many are applicable to tutors of all fields, rather than just the areas of writing and English. If you have never tutored, feel free to read on for the lulz; if you are one of the following characters, stop it. STOP IT.

·         The Lonely Guy
        The Lonely Guy has dangerously limited social interaction and/or no friends, and thus seeks out companionship anywhere he possibly can; because tutors are required to be friendly and accommodating, Lonely Guy views this as gaining a horde of instant friends. You see, he is not merely lonely; he is inept concerning matters of acceptable human behavior. He interprets a tutoring center to be hot social venue rather than an academic service. He has no interest in working on the assignment that he brings in, nor does he give a damn about anything that you have to say about it. He will drone on about his own interests, personal life, and poorly thought out philosophies over your requests (and eventually sobbing pleas) for cooperation; after all, you are a warm body with ears. Feigning deafness will not help; he will only speak louder and more slowly about why a dog’s stomach can divine the future, or about his plans for creating artificial intelligence via the internet. Thirty-minute sessions become one-hour sessions, and frustration becomes psychopathic fury. As he becomes more comfortable with the environment, he will increase his visits; don’t be surprised when he begins stopping in three times a day. Should you encounter a Lonely Guy, may the gods save you.

·         The Testosterone Beast/ Cat Scratch Fever

  Ah, there is nothing so thrilling as explaining to a person who could tear your torso in half like a piece of cardboard why he/she is wrong. Because fierce sports-stars love nothing more than to be told that they’re wrong and need to put in additional effort, yes? And queen bees who held a glittery, fearful reign over their high schools truly appreciate constructive criticism and easily recognize their shortcomings, right? Wrong, you little nerd. Wrong. The above concepts are entirely foreign to these people, and they will generally react to suggestions of improvement with anger and disbelief. Thankfully, the professional setting tends to quell impulses toward physical violence—but it does not cure the argue-hole.
    § Side Note: women do not always scratch; I have encountered females who appear as if they could tear through me with the flick of a finger. Also, there are men out there who will scratch. Be on your toes; gender can mean little in the battlefield of tutoring centers.

·         The Overzealous Researcher

  This person is a delight if he/she is cooperative and determined to write the best got-dang research paper ever. However, it is not so delightful if the paper is a maximum 750 words and the student slams 100 pages of research in front of you. It is worse if said student has chosen a topic so broad that others have written text books about it. The situation gets even more horrifying when the student utters the words, “I don’t know how to do a research paper,” and/or “I printed off everything on every website that met my search on Google.” Worse still? “I haven’t read any of it. I don’t want to.” At this point, dear tutor, you may find that your brains are leaking from every orifice on your face (grab a tissue; dripping brain goo is unprofessional).  Take a breath, help the student outline the paper, and hand the student a highlighter.
    §Side Note: In my own experience, it can get much, much worse (see The Shock Artist)

·         The Screamer    
 The chronic over-use of exclamation points. In other words: 

                        !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

 ‘Nuff said.

·         The Shock Artist
       These people are tolerable in the sense that they are really into their writing. I mean, really into it. Often, they fancy themselves to be the next household novelist, the next Dickens or Dahl—or in this case, the next Marquis de Sade. Their writings consist of disturbing adolescent angst (even though many of them are well into their 20s), shallow attempts to breech societal taboos, or simply distasteful topics that nobody wants to hear about (incest, how he/she likes to push pins into his/her own asshole, etc.) Alright, fine. We all like to grope around for attention sometimes, and who doesn’t love reading about cannibalism, deviant sex, and brutal murders once in awhile? Forgivable.
            But one must truly re-evaluate their literary intentions when he/she writes something so vile that the tutor cannot finish reading it, as he/she is dashing from the room in horror. Because it couldn’t be more disgusting had it been written in menstrual blood or cat feces. Seriously, when you produce something that reads like a collaborative work by Adolph Hitler, Albert Fish, and Issei Sagawa, take a moment to contemplate your life. I would also like to point out: Tutor= helpful stranger. Helpful stranger.
                Side Note: A 3-page research paper and no less than 400 pages of research (covered in dried apple juice). The topic: BDSM. The student introduced herself as a “submissive” (because it's totally acceptable to reveal such an intimate part of your sex life to someone you met one minute ago), insisted on trying to cover the entire topic in three pages, and proceeded to show me pictures of delightful practices such as cock n’ ball torture and “Adult Little Girl Charm School”. Whee. I now have information stuck in my head that will never be un-stuck.
    *UPDATE* Just ran into her. In the bathroom.                
 Side Note 2: A fellow tutor was once brought a terrorist manifesto. Yep.

·         The DJ
       These folks are sneaky. To say that they could not care less about what you have to say about their paper/assignment is a sorry understatement. Their outfits usually consist of hoodie sweatshirts or hats with earflaps. Why? So they can hide their headphones. So they can listen to music while you sit like a jabbering imbecile, completely unaware that you are talking to nobody except yourself and the paper. Yes, this happens. A co-worker recently spoke of his own experience with a DJ; he had spent 45 minutes working with a student before realizing that the young chap was not nodding in understanding or agreement, but was instead bobbing his head to the mad beats of his covert music machine.
      My advice? Pretend he/she has theme music. This may subdue your wrath enough to resist murdering the offender. 


Hugs and Kisses,
       Mister Half Face

And It Rose From the Sea...

   Greetings, dear humans. I have been neglectful in updating this blog, but still I live.

   There is a certain feeling that accompanies hearing the snap of a mouse-trap, only to look behind the couch and discover that the wee creature is still wriggling.

   I imagine that is how you are feeling now. Take a moment to stop screaming.

   

   Anyway, a new year has come and gone (for some time now, I understand), and now is the time for clinging to the resolutions that were inevitably made in a regrettable moment of drunken optimism. As you may well know, it is winter, and a somewhat ghastly one. To shovel is as if one is challenging the Gods themselves. I delight in this sensation of mightiness, as back-sliding as it may be. Here is a visual expression of such:

I will conquer this driveway 
and feast on the bellybuttons of virgins!

   This is my resolution. To defeat the malicious snow-gods.

All Hallow's Eve Report, 2010!

The eve has come and passed us already, dear humans—how did you choose to revere the glorious dead? On Friday the 29th, I dressed as the Marquis de Sade, observed gender interactions, and choked a few people with a whip; it was delightful. On the night of the 31st, however, I chose to honor the corpses by applying ghoulish (and greasy) make-up to my face and filling a bowl with a huge volume of sugary goodies for trick-or-treaters.

SPOILER: This will become my supper.

You see, this was my first year living in a house—not a dorm, not an apartment, but a real damned house (albeit a dark, decrepit, creepy-creeper house). I had always been under the impression that a real damned house in a neighborhood (dogs poop in my yard and everything!) meant unyielding hordes of trick-or treaters, and there are few things that I love more than terrifying younglings as I throw cavities at their greedy face holes. Also, cable television is superior during this season; however, I do not have cable at the moment, but alas!—dvds exist! After sliding in The Abominable Dr. Phibes, I sat giddily in my chair, waiting for the swarms of bag-toting tots to arrive.

Pictured: a happy Mister Half Face

Two hours, a sunset, one awesome mustache and several bizarre deaths later, I still sat with an almost untouched (I needed movie noms) bowl of candy in my lap. During this time, I had eaten three Snickers fun bites and survived a surprise nosebleed. I had also accidentally rubbed much of the grease stain off of my face. I sat, looking like an auto-mechanic/crack whore mutant (still scary, right?!), and pondered where the trick-or-treaters could have gone. I’ve seen them out and about on non-Halloween days, screaming their stupid heads off and riding their bikes right behind my car as I’m shifting into reverse. Now where were they? Conspiring? To do what? What?! TELL ME.

Pictured: an uhappy, paranoid Mister Half Face

My holiday message to the little conspiring anti-trick-or-treating shit heads: Happy fucking Halloween. I hope a ghoul eats your dog and throws it back up on you, then urinates inside of your gaming consoles. Jerks.