New Obsessions.

Transcripts. I'm starting a new process in the Registrar's Office were I'm required to look at official university records. They're sent over from institutions across the country and scanned into the computer and sent to me. Then I open them and look for important information like degree conferred and GPA.

But the problem is that I get too excited about college classes. Instead of allowing my eyes to scan for the information I need, I instead find myself reading the courses. "History of Teaching and School"? I want to take that class! "Speech Improvement"? Sign me up, please! (Unless it's a MWF class at 8:00. Then I'll take it next semester.)

What really gets me excited, though, are the older transcripts. Yesterday somebody applied for a faculty position and had an undergraduate transcript from 1961. It was half-typed and half-written. It noted his graduating class (151), had a blank spot where one would fill in vocation, and had a blank spot to fill in his religion. Religion on your transcript! How interesting that that goes on your record! Neat! (Have I been living with Liz too long? I'm calling transcripts neat? Come on, now.)

So when I look at the older transcripts, I spend my time daydreaming. I just imagine that spring of 1971 when the transcript-holder was taking his Psychology class. Weeks before the semester ended, that morning wetness in the air as he walked to class in his tight jeans, the sky starting to turn the color of honey (or is that because I picture this like an old photograph?). What was psych class like in 1971? Was it all about those wacky Lithium pills and their severe side effects and the horrible results of ECT, like in the movies?

His teacher, I bet, had those long, thick sideburns that could be mutton chops. His glasses were brown. Nike shoes would show up next year. People were finally starting to get over breakup of the Beatles. And there'd been liberal progress in the last 10 years. At least he didn't have to put his religion on his transcript.

He was smoking cigarettes while typing Psych papers about the new thoughts of B.F. Skinner on his typewriter. When he came up with long strings of thought, words and words of genius, he stuck the cig between his lips and took drags and nodded his heads while his fingers moved on--until the long ash and cherry fell onto his lap and he swiped it away and kept typing on...

...and this is why it takes me, sometimes, 40 minutes to get through a transcript.

Today I tried to figure out a Canadian transcript pre-2003, meaning that it involved a number system instead of a letter-grade system. They assign you 1-9, seven being satisfactory. Then they put a conversion chart at the bottom of the transcript so one can convert 9s to As. It was oddly satisfying to do this, although after 15 minutes of math I was told that I wasn't supposed to do the conversions. They hire someone else to do it.

What's really odd, though, is that after 1986 Canada Universities decided that anything below a 3 was unsatisfactory and this considered an F. Doesn't that seem pretty pointless? Get it? Point-less!?

Why do you even have a 2? So you can grade students and say things like--this paper is so bad, it's not even a 3. It's not even a 2. This research paper about Molson is certainly a 1, eh? You hoser, student. Those crazy Canucks.

And do they get grade points for bringing donuts to class? (Donuts, that's a shout out Shannon. To Dr. Hayes, also known as Captain Corduroy, also known as my Morality Plays and Shan's and my Bible as Lit instructor. He was Canadian, obsessed with donuts and the U of T, and while reading the Canterbury Tales aloud one day came across the word "netherpurse." He said, netherpurse? Netherpurse, netherpurse. Ah, yes. ... Underneath purse! ... Balls.

And continued on. He was also known for being spotted around Winona with his fishing cap, long khaki cargo shorts, sandals, and per usual his round John Lennon glasses.)

Anyway, I could look at those manuscripts all day. Oh wait, that's my job.

*
Which leads me to obsession number two, which I could also look at all day. Thanks to Darren bringing Freaks and Geeks over to my house. Someday, I will have 100 of James Franco's babies.

I'll stop acting like a 12 year old girl when he stops looking so sexy, yet cuddly and puppy-like at exactly the same time.