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This morning the wind whistling down Yonge Street ripped and tore at my face, an unparalleled gale where raindrops pelted me like anvils of moisture. It was more hardcore than ANY of my vague childhood memories of Chicago, and I believe that particular city has somewhat of a reputation for Windiness. Starting today, Toronto should be known as the capitol of Full-Frontal Nature Rape.

I watched an old woman's umbrella catch the raging wind and carry her, forcefully, down the sidewalk at a brisk pace. Unfortunately, she was trying to walk in the opposite direction. Another nice old lady, her own umbrella already shredded and turned inside-out, informed that she was "learning computers". We navigated the twisty-turny labyrinth of Kerr Hall together and she talked enthusiastically about how computers can - wait for it - make pictures now! I told her it was cute that she was still trying to learn new things at her age.

All of this dubious entertainment preceded my last tutorial of the semester as a Pop Culture TA. With nothing new left to learn, the frozen-faced students who scraggled into class were swiftly organized into teams - Team Donkey, Team Llama and Team Camel - and pitted against each other for the ultimate stake... their lives. That's right: the losing teams would be executed, and the winners might feast upon their flesh if they chose. Points were awarded for topical knowledge, real-world examples of theory in practice, and hilarious anecdotes. Fellow TA Kendra also handed out points to placate students whom I playfully offended in various ways.

It was good times - the winner ultimately decided by a surprise showdown in rock-paper-scissors - and I concluded that I would miss this group of kids. Especially the ones who would shortly be murdered and eaten for their shortcomings. I had just learnt their names and everything, and a little bit of what they were about.

I read in Maclean's that people posturing as "life coaches" for rich, coddled babies pull in somewhere between $250 and $300 PER HOUR. The article employed a useful bicycle metaphor to describe the difference between coaching and various other forms of professional babysitting.

A therapist, for example, will analyze the motives behind wanting to ride a bike. A trainer will help you learn to work the pedals and steer. A coach, on the other hand, will "run alongside you as you ride." How fucking useless is that? All it really implies is that coaches are like those poor kids without bikes who had to really sprint to keep up with their richer cycling friends. Occasionally they could ride on someone's handlebars, but they were always impoverished tagalongs. A suck, a drain.

Which leads me to conclude that this is my kind of work. In the last semester, I spent a lot more time talking to the students about "life" stuff - switching programs, living at home with overbearing parents, their ambivalent future - than course material. Now I'm not complaining. I thought it was kinda cool that they would ask me about things like ESL, or professional bestiality. But I'd think it was even cooler if I were making $300 an hour to do it.

So bring it on, you rich fatcat sons-of-bitches. Send me your sons and send me your daughters, each with a fatcat check, and we'll talk about their feelings and Billy Talent. I'll let them know it's okay that they don't want to be a doctor or a lawyer, even though you told them to get a "real job". I will also probably tell them to go on wild sex and drug binges to counteract the ever-tightening noose of control that you strung them up with, when you saw they were growing up and away from home. By your standards, this is probably not very productive but luckily you are too busy making money to notice... money which you will pay me hand-over-fist to normalize your kid.

Chris Clemens, Professional Life Coach For Rich ($$$$$) Teenagers.

Posted by Chris at 03:13 PM >> Commentations (1)