Real Class

It's that time of year again... Later in summer when I start thinking about school again. 

The last couple of days in July I always stop and think about my summer plans and desires and take stock in the "quality" of summer I am having. Like there is a grade for a great, good, or sustainable summer. This year; however, is very different. 

Last Saturday, the boyfriend and I got up early to go hiking, we casually mentioned how we had not hiked as much as we had hoped. We specifically avoided a popular trail in hopes of avoiding the COVIDidiots on the trails. Yet, just a little way up the path were groups of people amassing unmasking. So, this summer is different. Not only do I have to measure the quality and quantity of outdoor fun time, but also the un-dyeing factor as well. So, I guess I am winning as I am not dead?

But living means going back to school this August. I am still scheduled for an "in classroom" class which is weird that they have not either cancelled it or pulled it on line. All of my classes..... for years have been on line. The only reason this is not is because it's a "Senior Seminar" class for my major. After this class all of my requirements for my major will be done. But, we will see if it remains in a class format....

School's Out

The semester of school is finally done. School's out for summer!

This last semester was a strange one, even though the classes were online; once the pandemic hit both of my professors, for the two separate classes, melted down and gave up. As the majority of their other classes were in person, switching over to online learning took most of their time. One also had to start home-schooling his 3rd grader and spent what would be the remainder of the semester talking about how hard 3rd grade math can be. The lessons in ancient rituals of Ireland faded away and all the assignments at the beginning of the semester stood in for the majority of the grade. For me, this was great as I actually cared at the beginning of the class, not so my towards the end.

The class was on Irish history, and I was really taking it to learn about the monastic era. This era being one of retrieving ancient works of great Greek/Roman thinkers, and transcribing them into modern language. To see how Socrates came to us in modern tongue. Once the class moved passed the era of the monasteries, I just kept getting mad over and over reading about the generational fight for freedom against the jerkish British. Gurl! eat a Snickers, you get all Colonialist when you are hungry.

So the strange semester is over. And next semester, in the Fall of 2020 surely will not be plagued by the... plague. It will be my "senior project" semester to finish my history degree. So yay. Other than the fact that I have run out of student loan money and have no idea how I am going to pay for it. Maybe Betty Devos with get the virus. We can only hope. 

Almost Summer

I literally have one day of classes left until school is out for the summer. I do have one major exam to take next Tuesday, then I am free for the summer. The exam will however, possibly kill me so I might not see the summer. It is two hours of free-style essays on Rene Descartes and David Hume. Descartes I pretty okay with, understanding his arguments for the existence of God. In the mid-term I had to argue a seminal point and ended up re-writing the plot to the Lion King. I missed a letter grade because I miss-represented Simba for the name Kimba. Not sure that happened.

 

For the finial I plan on explaining Rene’s position on the whole “God” thing using analogies from Beauty and the Beast.  “No one explains an a-priori argument like Gaston!!” I do however, have no idea about how I am going to write about David Hume. For the last four weeks, when we have been discussing Hume’s argument of God’s inconsistencies in regard to human suffering; I have been just staring at his sassy turban on the textbook cover. No one, living or dead, can argue that we may perceive two events that seem to occur in conjunction, yet there is no way for us to know the nature of their connection in an argument against the concept of causation and do it while rocking a turban like that man.

 

After next Tuesday it will all be over. And, I will be free to enjoy my summer.

* It's like a he-man beer commercial.

Defending Socrates' Virtue

In my mind I am waging a heated war. In my mind.

 

The unlawful combatant that is preemptively attacking my reinforced boarder, you ask? My Ancient Philosophy Professor. Okay, so mostly I’m killing him twice weekly with my mind powers. Okay, so I’m mostly staring down his evil gaze whilst he attempts to teach me Plato’s Republic. Yes, I’m learning new definitions and arguments for how we as a society define our concepts of “intent” verses “action” but, still that’s not the point. I hate this professor with every fiber of my knowledge yearning being.

 The most important thing to pass along to you in this blog post is that, yes; it is widely known that Socrates liked his guys young. Real young. But, in Protagoras, by Plato I have learned that Socrates was not a Pedophile. It is clearly written that Socrates’ latest boyfriend has a beard. Stating that his taste in men is when the beard first grows in on the face. But, heaven forbid you bring this fact up in the middle of class! This Professor sure likes to box up the world’s strongest and most quoted philosopher as a boy licker. Lasers shot from my eyes. In my mind.

 Okay, this isn’t really the reason I want him dead. It is because I wrote an eight page paper on the concept of Akrasia. You know, the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgment through weakness of will. I stopped myself from using example of dating dudes ten-fifteen years younger to explain this concept. Instead maintained a professional tone. At the end of this project I submitted a paper I was really proud to complete. I got a C. Okay, a C-. I would share with you why I got such a low grade, based upon his full-page hand written tear down, but I cannot possible read his handwriting. I can make out “I know you can do better than this…” What??? You don’t know me!!! Jerk. Upon my failure to read his comments, he then announced that he will not review any student papers. “Not my policy.” He stupidly announced.

I have one more paper to write before the semester ends on the 13^th of December. I’m sure “I can do better” not that I know what that is.

 

Degree

I changed my college major. Again.

I know I have changed my major roughly nine-hundred times since George H. W. Bush was in the Whitehouse and I started my path of higher education.  This time I’m going to stick to it. I can state this declaration mostly because I am old, and tired of going to school.

With all of my classes and tallied up credits I only have 35 more credits until I they give me a degree in Philosophy. A degree of which, I said to the chair of the Philosophy Department and my assigned guidance counselor, will not gainfully employee me one tiny bit.  This is the type of degree that people pursue purely for the love subject; not to look good on a resume. Unless you’re attempting to appear deep. Or… if you are attempting succeeding at being a pompous ass during a dinner party. “Well I am a philosopher, and I wrote a thesis on feminism and the third wave feminist philosophers, so I can say…”  

What a twat degree.

But, it is what I like, so off I go. I do promise that I will not bring third wave feminism up into any conversions I may have over dinner table topics. Unless asked. I am more of an ancient philosopher kinda dude anyway. Seeing as my minor is ancient history.  

Back to Class

Monday marks the beginning of the Spring Semester. Just the thought of this makes my head spin. It seems that just moments ago I was celebrating the end of the 2015 fall semester. My MacBook has not even cooled down from the massive amount of writing that I did, now it is time to crack it open, and log on to my on-line classes again.

Today finds me feeling a bit nostalgic about going back to school. There is no longer a formal return to the sacred and hallowed halls of my college, since I began taking all on-line classes. I somehow forget during these times of misty eyed revisionist history that the physical returning to the University also brought months of sitting in a class headed by close-minded idiot professors, droning on about their personal agendas. Although, if I am honest with my self, what I miss most was sitting behind hockey players who had allergic reactions to wearing pants.  If I really examined my attending of classroom based classes, it was a trade off. Yes, I now avoid the close-minded Professors by taking my classes via computer, but I also miss hockey players falling asleep in class with the gym shorts slipping lower and lower.

But, I don't regret switching to my electronic class room. This means I can do my school work at one of the cities gayer coffee shops. With a wider variety of boys in gym shorts. On Monday I will have to scope out my territory. My new classroom.  I will then quickly begin to countdown the days until May 9th. 

Back to Class

"I am honestly shocked that my summer is over." I said this out loud as I dusted off my MacBook and cracked open its neglected case. I haven't touched my computer in months. In the same way that I have not worn jeans in months. It was a summer of shorts. It was a summer not thinking about my education.

I sat at the dining room table and logged into my first Fall class.  ENG 221: Creative Writing. This course teaches techniques for creative writing. Explores imaginative uses of language through creative genres (fiction, poetry, literary nonfiction) with emphasis on the student's own unique style, subject matter and needs.

"Why did I sign up for this class?" I said out loud. I am not creative. I can't write. I was right then I decided to write as much about the Nazi's as possible. This is mostly because the class is online, and we have to "peer-review" each other's work. It is also, as I scanned the class list, filled with inspired, yet frustrated Soccer Moms. So bloody epic atrocities it is then.

Our first assignment was to write a simple scene with tension. I turned in this...

The large man in the uniform barked again.

“Ma’am move into the scanning area.”

She was frozen in terror. Her weak and feeble legs, the ones that were once strong enough to carry her quickly across that field in Poland, refused to move. The legs that saved her life by outrunning the German’s dogs. The legs that fearlessly out ran uniformed German soldiers. Now they were frozen in fear.  It was her Grandchildren, which talked her into leaving the safety of her bedroom. To take an airplane to see them. She didn’t understand what this uniformed man wanted. She peered up at him. Tears began to flow.

“Oh, geesh.” The TSA agent whispered as he rolled his eyes.  “Move into the scanning machine, everyone has to be scanned.”  The security officer will never understand how his actions mirror the actions of other uniformed men. In a similar line, back in Poland.

When I was a Boy

My first car was a 1968 Ford Mustang. No. It was not brand new. I found this car in a ditch around 1991, and towed it home with the help of my brother-in-law. I spent every meager dime I had working to get that Mustang up and running.  When it did run, I was always out and about in this car, with its mis-matched fenders and wonky exhaust. Around this time I also seemed attracted too, and dated older guys. I bring up this point because, now that I'm over forty I am now returning the favor and started to embrace my inner-daddy. Yet, it seems times have changed in the Daddy/boy dating world.  Yes, this blog post is going to be themed "When I was a boy!"

As a gay waiter at the age of twenty-four, I met and dated guys in their late thirties. I had an apartment on my own,  generally paid my own way, and had a blast in the dating world. Now, the caveat emptor of this situation may be type of guy I'm finding, meeting them mostly on Grindr. But, it seems that all the guys I have chatted with, don't own cars and still live with their parents because they just can't afford a place of their own. So, the economic atmosphere in the US is severely cramping my sex life.

Student loans, high rental rates of apartments, and the lack of jobs for new college graduates,  is impeding my ability to find a nice twenty-six year old to tie up and do things. I blame the Republicans.  This entered my mind as I picked up a nice guy for a date, at his parents house, the sideways glances I received were epic when his mom deducted that her and I were the same age. In an attempt to avert the awkwardness I offered that I too had a mid-term to study for, as I'm in college as well. It didn't help.

When I was a boy, I guess life was easier. I pretty much built my own car, and lived on Capital Hill in a series of run-down skeezy apartments. Now that I've found myself  in the Daddy role,  it appears that guys are living at home for much longer. That, or I need to change my Grindr profile to read that I'm looking for guys that have their own car. That's right, StevieB, keep those standards high. Or..... I could keep my nose out of Grindr and in my history book.

Deadlines in a Leather Bar

I'm not quite sure how I missed it. It was on the syllabus since day one, along with all the other assignment due dates.  "Saturday, September 6th. Outline for the big research project." Due at midnight, Saturday night. As this is for my online history class, I had logged in several times over the last couple of days to complete other assignments, yet somehow missed this deadline. Until noon Saturday, right as I left for work. In a panic I emailed the professor to tell him that I would miss the deadline. That, however didn't sit well with me. I grabbed my computer bag and headed into the office, knowing that I wouldn't be done until ten that night.

If all went well, I would be able to kick the kids out of work at ten. Knowing that all coffee houses within the tri-county area close way before ten on a Saturday I would show up at Jim's bar and use his office for a study hall. This was for his wifi and his comfy recliner. I chose this because I knew that if went home to write an entire paper in two hours it would never work, dogs to be walked, doughnuts to eat. If I were to pull off his major cue of ignoring a paper, then cramming it into the very last second, I'd need seclusion.

At ten the plan started to move. I hopped into the Jeep and headed to Denver's finest leather bar. At 10:20pm I walked through a field of leathermen in a Polo shirt ( I blended perfectly with my school bag and khakis) to make my way to the office. Right at 10:30pm, behind schedule, I cracked open the MacBook. A proposal for my history research project fell onto the computer screen. The topic will be how Catholic monks saved classic Greek philosopher's works be transcribing them and saving them from obscurity.

As the security cameras displayed the Saturday night craziness of a leather bar ramping up to full swing, I clicked away. Attempting to ignore the party going on right out side the office door. Until 11:55pm when I  clicked SUBMIT on my paper outline. I was in the Professor's dropbox before the deadline.

Procrastinate

I have only three hundred more words to write on my first of three term papers. As I sat at the dining room table today, I saw the end in sight. Yet, it is a rough and tumble three hundred to still complete. There is not much more I can say on Philosophy from a Feminist perspective. So far, I’ve purchased two pair of jeans from Amazon, Googled “Pedant T-shirts/floppy gym shorts,”  changed the bed linens, completed three loads of laundry, Oh…. and wrote this blog post. So sue me if it goes astray. 

If I don’t complete the three hundred words, I will be forced to canceled a lunch plan I had with a very sexy boy. So…. really, I should be exploring Feminist Philosophy…..

…I really like the Levi jeans that have the longer back pockets. So, I bought some pairs. On line. Guess I see how they fit when they arrive, I am concerned for the D-bag factor. Or the "over forty year old attempting to dress like a twenty-five year old" because that could easily be the case. Welcome, one an all to StevieB's midlife crisis. 

Oh, I got new Pumas. I have really stopped counting how many pairs of running shoes I own. I do know that I’m out of closet space and I now need to keep Pumas in my oven. 

Alright, back to writing…. wish me luck. 

Monday Night Gym Time

Don't stomp your little last season Nikes at me, honey.

This week I've been on Spring Break. Although in years past this would prescribe a road trip, this year's road trip never materialized. The freedom of not going to class on Monday night gave me a brilliant idea. It's Monday night at 5pm, I'll go to the gym. Somehow, the perils of going to the gym on a Monday evening somehow escaped me.

Picture it; Dallas 2002. Steve walks in to the weight room of THE gay gym in fabulous and unique brand new shorty gym shorts. It's a wall of gay boys sporting the same brand of shorts.  After carving out some territory in front of the mirror for some arm curls I begin to flirt with a fellow gym bunny. Wearing the same style of shorts. We were hitting it off nicely, despite the completely over crowded gym. This was, until he mentioned how hard it was to work out on a Monday night after a weekend of Special K. When I agreed, but offered that I was a Cheerios guy, I received enough laughter and judgment from every gay within a ten foot circle to leave the weight room quickly. I was thirty and opinions mattered.

I haven't worked out on a Monday night since.

When I walked through the gym this week, the memories of how hellish it is to attempt to workout on a Monday hit me like a wall.  Followed by a "fuck it" I'm working out. It went well, since I'm not used to having to "work in" with people (as I usually hit the gym around midnight) it was kind of nice to actually interact with other real humans. Only one little queen attempted to toss shade.*  This happened  when I was apparently taking to long with a bench. I spouted, "don't stomp your little last season Nikes at me, honey" to the laughter of him and every gay within a ten foot circle.  I'm forty and opinions don't matter.

*look how topical I am. 

Maintaining the Mean

I am not a fan of clutter. This may be part of my homosexual training in “clean surfaces.” Part of the homosexual agenda that pushes a simple and clean esthetic, and to force straights to no longer keep their toasters out on the counter, or large bowls of decorator soaps on the back of toilets.  Pushing and forcing our agenda on America. An agenda of tasteful design, simplicity in form and function. When clean design solves a functional problem as simply and elegantly as possible, the resulting form will be carried to success by the gays. 

That being said, I had a personal intervention last night…..

Yes, I am working fifty hours a week on top of going to school. I still should be able to keep my desk clean. Yet at the bottom of the pile is the box my Mac came in… over a year and half ago. And that’s the issue. When I purchase fun toys, I don’t want to part with the box. Like unwrapping and unboxing is such a high, I don’t want to just toss out the package. If it didn’t just smack of effort and crazy, I’d be one of those “unboxers” on Youtube. Those people that video the unboxing of any new electronics, and post it to YouTube. If I start, I welcome any smacks to  the head. 

So, I just keep the bags and/or boxes to hold onto the thrill of opening the new item. Well, it may also be warranty and return purposes. That doesn’t mean I must leave them on my desk so I may contemplate when I should be writing a paper on Aristotle’s philosophy on happiness in human nature (no irony there). 

Yet it does bring the reason why I still have the bag for my Coach wallet. “Happiness depends on ourselves.” Aristotle enshrines happiness as a central purpose of human life and a goal in itself. A new Coach wallet, although completely shallow in its happiness, makes me happy. Aristotle argues that virtue is achieved by maintaining the Mean, which is the balance between two excesses. I don’t depend wholly on wallets Swatches for happiness, they’re tiny treats for working fifty hours a week and going to school. I maintain the Mean. 

Now if only I could get the bags and boxes off my desk to maintain my clean desk… that’s another issue. I am not a fan of clutter. 

John Grant Doesn't Love Me Anymore

To reward myself  for surviving midterms, I finally purchased one of those radios that link directly to one’s iPod. By making it through all of my midterm papers and exams, I mean being able to bullshit on the topic of John Locke’s Natural Rights theory in five pages without doing any research what so ever. I received an 85% percent on the paper, but since it just screamed of effort to which I employed none, I’m proud of that 85%. 

I do love my iHome clock radio. It has a magical quality that seeks out the most ironic song on my playlists and gently wakes me up to that needed song. As my mind is an underdeveloped monkey brain, that song gets stuck in my thoughts and I end up singing it all day long. Yesterday is was Kylie Minogue’s - Your Disco Needs You.  All day….

Your disco, your disco, your disco needs you
Your disco, your disco, your disco needs you
We're sold on vanity, but that's so see through
Take your body to the floor, your disco needs you
From Soho to Singapore
From the mainland to the shore

It does wonders for my much needed happiness levels. Well… lately I’ve become utterly obsessed with John Grant. You should check him out, amazing singer-lyricist. His music is haunting. But be warned, some complete dickface broke his heart. His new album, Pale Green Ghosts is exorcizing all that pain. I discovered him listening to the title track, there was a line that read “I take 25 and 36 to Boulder” which seemed odd to me since I was taking highway I-25 to I-36 to Boulder. It was love ever since. My IHome and iPod; however, decided to play Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore one morning. 

I feel like telling everyone To fuck off all the time
'Cause they don't know.
Why don't you love me anymore?
Tell me--why don't you love me anymore?

Which is fun to sing running around your place of business. It’s funny because it’s true; I do feel like telling them to fuck off all the time. Irony. One day I shall marry John Grant. 

Book Worm

There may be only thirteen days until I leave for our massive gay vacation, and ten more work days, but there are four more school days until I’ll miss two important assignments. That means as I sit naked by the pool at our leather themed vacation guest house, my junk wont be getting sun as I will be typing away on a paper about Socrates’ conversation with Euthyphro.  Picture it, a Fort Lauderdale gay hotel; pool side…

From porn
to pedal 

“Why thank you, and your muscled hotness is amazing too” I’d say looking over the top of my Macbook, returning a complement from a former porn star turned natural grocery store owner, “could you… you know what would be really hot… is if you could define your thoughts on the ‘Devine Command Theory’?” 

For some reason, every guy in my fantasies happens to be muscled former porn stars who took their fortunes to open some kind of environmentally responsible business. Like a Colt model-turned bike shop owner, or “after several years in the frat porn genre, making his way to open a vegetarian restaurant. I guess muscled green entrepreneurs turn me on. But, that’s not important right now…

What is important is that I will be completing a five page paper on the issues and theories of Ethics while Mister Twelve-pack-turned-organic-farmer enters the cabana next door. 

Damn you, Epicurus!!!! Your theory on enjoyment of life is wrecking my theory of getting laid by an ex-Sean Cody  star. 

YOLO

I spent my day yesterday doing homework at the local gay coffee shop. After the coffee had gone through me, I headed to the bathroom. Upon my entrance to the Men’s room I immediately noticed the newest addition to the men’s room decor. Someone had taken time and effort to scratch YOLO into the stainless steel towel holder. 

So, you believe in the mantra of “You Only Live Once.” The concept that we have a choice of living life to its absolute fullest, seize the day, and do what makes you happy. Maybe you are picking up Henry Fonda’s vibe from the1937 crime drama that shares the same name, You Only Live Once. Henry Fonda busts out of jail in this classic after gunning down a prison chaplain. All for the love of Sylvia Sidney. Maybe this film noir, along with the hipster, Jersey Shore urban, modern take of controlling your own destiny drove you to use, no doubt, your laundry room key to scrape this well versed acronym into a gay coffee shop’s towel dispenser?

May I offer a bit of advice? There are a million stellar sights and experiences to behold in this amazing world. Biking trails in the Rocky Mountains, so amazingly beautiful they bring tears to one’s eyes. Discovering and unavailing unconditional love from another person. The pride and inner-strength of standing up for your integrity and morals in this corrupt society. I can not begin to see the edge of possibility in life. No one can. That is why it is so amazing. And some modern philosophers believe you only have one chance at it.  

No one has ever, nor shall anyone be able, to unravel the mysteries of life. So, yes you only live once, or YOLO. As individuals begin to explore the advancements and developments in their place in this finite life, great adventures take place. Go! Take it, Seize it!  You do only live once. And, in my opinion, that life should not be about defacing a f%$#king Dazbog paper towel dispenser. Ya’ nit-wit. 

Tee-Shirts

In the countless number of essays I have been writing for school (this week is a three page paper on how the French started Vietnam, or ‘nam if you were there) I have developed a strange addiction. Internet tee-shirt shopping.  It’s strange because I stopped wearing graphic tee-shirts since..... around here....

It was an escape from school work when I started dropping shirts left and right into the online shopping cart on 6DollarShirts.com, then they started showing up at my door. Upon opening the plastic shipping bag, and a quick once-over they then quickly get tossed into the laundry bin or taken to work to be thrown in the employee lounge. It’s an odd habit. 

This week this showed up...

Followed by this...

6DollarShirts.com will be bummed when my semester is over. 

Ready to Roll

I purposely positioned my bike next to the door I use every day to leave the house. This is to remind me  the ease of grabbing my bike, and going for a ride. This week; however, has been rather torturous in the bike riding department. 

Colorado has decided to not give up on winter and wants to keep the snow cranked up for a long as possible. Winter in Colorado is the Norma Rae of seasons. Monday I was the only student to show up to my American Civil Rights history class due to a massive snow storm. You would think the professor would cancel, but I guess he gets paid by the Microsoft slide show, so I sat alone in class and watched grainy photos of President Johnson, as I listened to Professor Nerdbear speak about President Johnson’s response to Dr. King’s response to Vietnam. It’s difficult to text during class when you’re the only one in attendance to a history professor verbally decipher the Lemarchand's box that was Johnson civil rights policy. On the way home from class I drove through 7” of snow, thinking how ready I am to put LBJ behind me and go for a bike ride. 

Yesterday it snowed again. Yes, it is April. I am chomping at the bit (as President Johnson used to say) to slap my bike onto the back of my car and head out for a long bike ride on the Platt River biking trails. 

How The West Was Won(ish)

I truly despise the American west. Well, not the actual American west… The fictional west. The west where John Wayne defended settlers from savage Indians, and where Mormons proudly conquered the un-tamable desert. 

 Growing up on an American Quarter Horse ranch in the middle of Colorado, I was raised with examples how “we as strong cowboy stock” claimed the west. As a kid my father’s idea of decorating was to festoon the house with cowboy art. You know the type; majestic cowboys have defeated the evil savage Indian to bring peace to the rolling countryside. Even then, I looked at the shady Native American and wondered how it will feel to have ones lands and history torn away.

In fifth grade our school trip was to visit the site of the Sand Creek Massacre. In case you’re not up on this event, in 1864 a force of 700 Colorado militiamen attacked and slaughtered 150 Native Americans. Two-thirds of who were women and children.  My fifth grade teacher quoted the Colonel in command,

Damn any man who sympathizes with Indians! …I have come to 

kill Indians, and believe it is right and honorable to use any means 

under God’s heave to kill Indians.

If I knew the term “royal ass-hat douche bag” I would of called my teacher this, with his prideful smirk, after reading this quote to the class. This lesson of having a warmongering lack of compassion for your fellow human, has stuck with me all my life. Making me the bleeding heart liberal I am today. The story of taming the west is actually a story of systematically destroying a part of the planet. Systematically wiping a culture off the earth all for big business.

You may ask why am I going off on this anti-west tirade today? Well, I’m taking an American History class this semester.  It is taught by a tiny gay man that started last class on how the native peoples, who lived on the land in the west for thousands of years, were hunted down and wiped out like a ghetto in Poland. What? I was dumbstruck.  A professor whose lector doesn’t sound like my Father’s view of the world? Well… like my Dad always said; “Generally, you ain't learnin' nothing when your mouth's a-jawin.”

Ironic that this is the picture
 hanging on the wall
above my toilet?

Favorite Cowboy book: The Man Who Fell in Love With the Moon   Favorite Cowboy line: “I speak horse. His name is Susan. And he wants you to respect his life choices.”

Making Mark Love Me

Last night was the first day of class for the spring semester. I pondered why the winter break went by so incredibly fast as I tossed my concrete filled backpack onto a table in the back row of my first class. This semester, all but one of my textbooks are hard covers.

It took me exactly twelve seconds to look over and fall in love with a guy in my history class. He is just adorable; slim frame, messy hair. The way he slouched in his chair and played with his iPhone during the syllabus review…dreamy.   During attendance, I discovered my betrothed name was Mark Jacobson. I immediately started to doodle on the cover of my The America Promise (the irony didn't pass me) textbook. Mrs. Steven Jacobson. Mark and Steve forever. Steve loves Mark.  Around this time of fighting the urge to write a note asking if he liked me, check YES or NO, I had the thought that you don’t hear a lot of kids these days named Mark. Oh, my crush is like eighteen?  I tore the cover from my book and broke up with Mark in a crushing scene. In my head.  I am such a dirty old man. 

Be warned: I am taking a philosophy class and also studying the biographies of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X this semester. Ahead for us lies/lays (God, I should of taken another English class) geeky blog posts in regard to Plato, Dr. King, and how Mark Jacobson doesn’t love me. 

Captain America

As I walked up my front sidewalk last night, I carried my backpack filled with my school books that were as heavy as my head filled with Dayquil and thoughts of the seven more pages needed for my term paper. My head cold had moved into my chest and as my class let out so did my lungs.

As I moved like a zombie up my sidewalk I encountered a ten-year-old Captain America. He had obviously attempted to claim his reward for looking so damn cute by asking for Kit-Kat donations from my front door. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have any candy for you this year.” I shrugged my shoulders as the mini-Captain of all that is right in America tilted his head, not buying my story. “See… I had to go to school with a cold… and I have a really hard homework.” Suddenly I started in telling Captain America why I failed to have the proper tariff of candy. “ See… I have really hard homework, and I start a new job on Monday…and...”

Captain America’s Mom, Mom America, was down the sidewalk and didn’t hear me whine about how hard my life seems. Nor did she see what happened next. Captain America reached into his loot bag and pulled out a full sized Snickers bar and handed it to me.  Just like a true hero, he called out “I hope you feel better!” as he ran down the street.

And that’s how Captain America saved my life.