To: Phil
From: Foreign Affairs Canada
Date: December 07, 2006
Subject: Scholarship

Dear Applicant,

The Canadian Scholarship Selection Committee has just completed its review of all 2006 applications for the Commonwealth Scholarships tenable in the United Kingdom during the 2007-2008 academic year. It is my pleasure to inform you that you are one the candidates whose applications will be forwarded for consideration by the Government of the United Kingdom.

[…]

Nothing to be excited about. I had a strong application and I would have been utterly mystified had I not made it through the first round. The Commonwealth Scholarships will fund my stay at Tolkien’s old stompin’ grounds, should I choose to study there.

I’ve been getting frustrated lately. Angry is more like it. Angry at my research. “How could such a simple problem,” I ask myself, “lead to so much grief.”

The logical, rational part of my brain assures me this isn’t entirely uncommon. The differential equation, y” = y has very simple exponential solutions that nearly every student learns about at some point or another. In comparison, the (Airy) equation y” = xy has no elementary solutions.

It happens. A little twist here, a little nudge there, and everything goes kablooey.

Linear problems are for wussies, anyways.

By the way, congratulations to those who caught the not-so-subtle literary (and later, cinematic) reference of my previous post.

Yes, the post has been taken down. Hot on the heels of my La Petite Anglaise article, I’ve been hesitant to post things that risk offending others and more importantly, risk my professional career.

The fact is, what I was referring to as a “momentary lapse in judgement” in the previous post, I really did mean momentary. Nothing major happened.

I mean it.

But it’s the case that I’ve received a whole host of e-mails regarding the late-night entry, ranging from the curiously fascinated to the downright insulted. It really is my fault, and I left too much to the imagination in writing that post.

The other night was an opportunity to have fun and enjoy myself. But instead, I found myself babysitting drunk people. Making sure intoxicated people had made it safe and sound into their hotel rooms, helping girls down flights of stairs when they were a little too wobbly to walk, and offering napkins to those who were a little too cavalier with their goblets.

And repeating to one very attractive, very drunk, and very beguiling lady that I was simply “not that kinda guy.”

But how I wish I was.

And other than the opportunities to dance with a few pretty girls, there was little rewarding about the whole kerfuffle. Except maybe one moment.

After I had gone down several floors to make sure one of my friends had made it into his hotel room safe and sound, his girlfriend ran out of the room and caught me before I entered the elevator.

“I just want to thank you for doing that,” she said sencerely.

I simply nodded.

“It’s hard to find guys like you.”

“It’s what I do,” I said before entering the lift.

Later in the evening, I was referred to by another girl as, “that hot guy who acts like a total gentleman”. It was a nice compliment, sure, but ultimately a glorified version of the truth. What she failed to mention was that guys like me are inconsequential in every way that counts.

The truth is I’m tired of being a walking, talking cliché. A posterboy for this so-called Gentleman’s Club.

Given my past history with women (or lack thereof), I think I deserve to have fun at least once every few years.

So take my advice, folks. Go out, get drunk, have fun, feel free to make out with strangers who think you’re the best thing to come along since prepackaged meats and sliced bread.

Otherwise, you’re going to realize one day that all you have are your goddamn ethics.

“So you listen to a lot of classical, huh?”, asked my passenger.

“Sure,” I replied

“I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? It’s all so boring to me.”

Wordlessly, I loaded a CD into the stereo.

Seven minutes and twenty-six seconds later:

“Whoa.” said my passenger.

It was moments after the final tutorial, and nearly all the students had already left the class, including the ones who had come up to me to say their final goodbyes, goodlucks, and you-better not-fail-me’s.

Well, all except for one.

“It’s been fun”, I said to her.

She glared at me angrily for a few seconds as I began shuffling the papers on my desk.

“I just wanted to tell you it won’t work on me,” she finally said, nodding emphatically. “It never has.”

“What won’t wo –”, I began.

“– That look you give people,” she interrupted me, “that look you give girls. The look.”

“I have a loo –”, I began.

“Oh sure,” she said, sighing wearily and sitting back on the table, “you have many looks.”

“Like?”

“Like your that-was-a-stupid-question-but-I’ll-answer-it-anyways look. Which is kinda like a sneer. Then there’s your I-know-the-answer-but-I-bet-you-don’t look, which is just this stupid smirk. But sometimes, you use this special look. Only for girls. I just wanted to tell you that it doesn’t work on me.”

“Am I using it right now?”

She peered at me for a second, then shook her head. “No, you kinda tilt your head to one side like this,” she said as she casually demonstrated, “then stare straight into their eyes for a moment. It’s like…well, it’s sort of like your I’m-so-sexy look.”

“…What? Never.”

“Of course you do. Then the girl goes all giggly and practically swoons at your feet. Your jokes aren’t that funny.”

I blinked. “That hasn’t ever actually occured to me.”

“Puh-leeeze, Phil. Do you actually think the girls here come to hear you talk about math?”

I blinked again. Her contemptuous emphasis on the word ‘math’ was slightly disconcerting.

“But I just wanted to let you know, it hasn’t worked on me, Phil. I’m immune to it. I don’t get all blushy, giggly, weak kneed, or whatever. It just doesn’t work, okay?”

And before I could even act on my own defence, she spun on her heels, tossed a soft ‘hurumph’ into the air, and marched away defiantely.

And that about wraps up the most peculiar encounter I’ve had with a student so far.