BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I went to college.

More than one of them, actually. I have all sorts of college credits racked up in different areas of study. Odds are many of them have expired, much like a gallon of milk from 1991, but I’m sure there are a few that still haven’t reached their “use or freeze by” date. However, one of the things I don’t have to show for all of that studying is a piece of paper. Well… I have all manner of pieces of paper, to be honest. What I’m talking about is the proverbial “sheepskin.” That piece of faux parchment, vellum, what-have-you, that officially attaches a pair (or more) of letters from the alphabet as a suffix to my name.

So, nope. I don’t have an AA. Never even been to a meeting. I have, however, ridden on their airplanes more times than I care to count.

And, I also don’t have a BA, Baracus or otherwise. I do, however, “piddy da foo” who thinks s/he is better than me just because they have a couple of letters that allow them to wear gaudy jewelry.

Nor do I have a BS, even though I’m pretty damn good at spouting it when I need to do so. All you have to do is check my blog for evidence of that fact. Truth is, I should have a PhD in BS. An official Piled high and Deep in BullSh*t. Yep. That sounds like the perfect degree for me, but alas, I have neither.

I also don’t have a MA. I had one, but she passed away back in 1987. That’s a whole different story. And nope, no MS either… Well, actually that’s not quite true. E K doesn’t do the Mrs. thing, so I guess I sort of have a Ms. Although, one doesn’t really have The E K. She has you. It’s sort of a control thing with her.

So… Why didn’t I ever bother to get myself a set of letters to append to my name? Or, if the college recruiter who was courting me so hard back in nineteen-cough-cough had been given her way, a D and an R to put in front of my name – in the form of an MD sort of Dr.

Well, in her case it’s because I don’t particularly care for sick people, but that’s another story entirely.

In the case of any of the other paired up, tripled up, or screwed up selections from the alphabet, it’s simple. I became fed up with academia. Why? Because I figured it out too soon. What did I figure out? That’s simple too. I figured out that sticking a mess of letters behind my name wouldn’t make me happy. They wouldn’t accomplish much of anything, really, other than wave a flag to the world that was meant to say, “I know a whole bunch of sh*t because all of these other people say I do.” Besides, all I’ve ever really wanted to do is write books, and that’s what I do. If I was writing a textbook about Quantum Physics I could maybe understand the need for a PhD (although, as I said, all it does is denote that someone else thinks I know what I’m talking about – right up until they disagree with me.) Truth is, I really don’t see where a degree would convince people to buy fiction—

“Hey, Joe. Have you read those fictional suspense-thrillers by M. R. Sellars? He has a PhD in Basket Weaving.”

“Well damn, Fred… A PhD? I’m going to rush out and buy the whole series!”

Yeah… I just don’t see it.

Now, I’m certainly not diminishing the accomplishment of those who seek those letters. I’m just saying I wasn’t cut out for committing a mess of silliness to memory so that a bunch of folks who really don’t give a rat’s ass about anything other than the size of their office, or where the next grant is coming from can certify that I know it. Truth is some of my best friends are packing around AAs, BAs, BSs, and MAs. My niece is sporting a PhD. Am I proud of their accomplishments? Hell yes. Do I feel like I need to spend 250K (minimum) to get myself some Alphabet Bling for my name?  Not so much.

There’s also the issue of what to do with all that memorization once I, well, you know, memorize it. Teach? Why? So that I can tell a bunch of other folks that they know what I know? Doesn’t really seem like true critical thinking to me. (Don’t take that the wrong way. I also have many friends and relatives who are teachers and I think they are great. If that is what they love doing, I support them and I also think they are NOT paid enough. So, I have nothing against teachers. I just think that I am better suited to entertain.)

So… Why am I writing about college? Well, that’s simple too. My daughter is friggin’ brilliant. Ever since Kindergarten she’s been in the gifted and talented program at her school, and she has also qualified for, and been attending, College for Kids classes during the Summer and Winter sessions. Learning stuff. Quenching her thirst for knowledge, and racking up points toward admission into college when she reaches that age. At this very moment I am sitting in a study area of the science building of one of the local Community Colleges while she is attending her full day of classes. Yep, I’m writing this blog from Kahllidge. (Obviously just a bit in advance of its early morning deployment. Gotta love scheduling on WordPress.)

However, I don’t guess that fully explains why I’m writing about it, now does it?

Well, I can sum it up this way. Earlier I ran into a gaggle of the students – this batch was actually younger than my daughter. There they were, wandering the halls of academia on their way to their next class, complete with Garanimals, Spiderman backpacks, and serious expressions plastered onto their little faces. The kind of serious expressions that made them look painfully constipated.

All in all, they sorta reminded me of me way back when I was in college…

More to come…

Murv

…Or am I just happy to see you?

Remember your childhood? No… Not back that far. No need for poopy diapers around here. I fling enough poo for all of us.

I mean like back when you were about 8 to 10… Maybe slightly younger, but not too much. You know, kind of like around the age of kids in those sub sandwich commercials where they have all the adults running around but they have little kid kinda voices…

You haven’t seen those? Well damn… They’re actually kinda funny…

Hmmm… Well just stick with me here and maybe we can work this out.

Back when you were a kid, around 8 to 10, did your parents ever say, “Come on, Rusty (or whatever they called you). We’re going for a ride.” Then, drive for about two hours and eventually boot you out of the car on some lonely country road and then speed off?

Okay, okay so mine didn’t do that to me either.

So, how about this instead: Did they ever hustle you into the car, not telling you where you were going, then listen to you gripe for 20 minutes because you wanted to watch Lassie or The Lone Ranger instead of go somewhere that you didn’t even know where or what it was? And then, after you were really good and bored, and extra grumpy, and were just plain being a kid, they broke the news to you that you were on your way to get a new bike… Or a puppy… Or to see a movie you’d just been dying to see… Or Holiday Hill… Or White Castle… Or swimming… Or any one of a million things that would make a kid go ape-shit excited to the point where they wiggle right out of their Superman Underoos?

Well, unless you had a truly horrible childhood then you probably know what I’m talking about, at least on some level, be it big or small.  If you did have a truly horrible childhood, you have my sympathies…

So anyway, why the hell am I rambling about such inane silliness? Well, you see, sometimes it’s exactly like that for writers. We get started on a manuscript (hustled into the car). We write, and write, and write (gripe and get grouchy because we’d rather be looking at porn… Hey, the other shows have lost their appeal at this point)… and besides, even though the story is good, and the prose we have penned is gripping, the final destination is in the hands of the characters and they haven’t yet given up the secret info…

But then, just like our parents who had tortured us with clandestine car rides only to surprise us with serendipitous banana splits from Velvet Freeze,  our characters choose some arbitrary moment to reveal to us where we are going.

You know, like when we are folding the laundry and ruminating about where to take that next chapter.

And, just like the little kids we were then, we wiggle right out of our  Superman Underoos, giggle, pee ourselves, and get all kinds of cotton candy overload excited.

Yeah… Pretty cool, eh?

So… I guess now that I’ve peed my Superman Underoos I should change. Whaddaya think, Batman or Aquaman?

Of course, there’s always Wonder Woman… But those are really designated for when I’m looking at porn instead of writing…

More to come…

Murv