Epiphany

Honest, I only had that one, that one and that one. 

I am now 38 and after an evening of miniature golf (I was an amazing 26 over par), drinking various lagers/liqueurs/ales, listening to Prince and arguing the merits of Roger Daltry vs. Pete Townsend, after having defended my declaration of a crush on Richard Widmark -- I say after all of this activity, I had 3 hours of sleep before getting up for 3 hours of work and 5 hours of Intro"duck"tion at the University of Oregon.

Yet again, I was the oldest student in my orientation group (a familiar setting for all of my failed attempts at a college education). In fact, I was the only one over 20, even counting our student guide. Each and every student member of lucky Group 13 was fresh from high school.

It was incredible listening to them talk to one another and to their parents. They think they know everything because they took AP classes in high school, and some of them were already getting that bright-light look of freedom; that attitude toward their family as though they had the scissors out ready to cut the ties. I'd forgotten what that was like, and it was really interesting reliving that youth-memory through them -- or maybe it was part of the hangover. I tend to get sentimental when I'm hungover.

As an aside, I felt really guilty when the student guide reminded us not to drink in the dorms because they didn't want to have to write us up. Part of me wanted to light up a cigarette and say "Hey, no rules at my house if you guys want to come by."

As to the title of this entry ... dude, all this time I've been going at this college thing backward in a really big way. For some reason I was thinking that it was ALL learning your major and the other stuff was just fluff. In fact I was planning my schedule around filling those requirements first and foremost. Then, suddenly, sitting in that stifling hot lecture room wishing I could take a break for the ladies' room (my GOD, don't kids have to pee these days? I thought I was going to die), when it BAM! absolutely made sense. It's not all about the major. I can take the other stuff now and work the major starting my sophmore year. Hell, there are kids going at it who don't even know what they're going to major in; they pick a major their junior year and complete it in time for graduation! pffft, man ... there's 4 years to do it. I don't know what my all-fire rush was.

I'm off to choose some culture courses and some history, maybe some art and, of course, tai chi.

That's freedom, kids.

Voices Airy

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch
To win or lose it all
- James Graham, Marquis of Montrose

(He also says "Do you take me entirely for a wig, sir!" but that's only in "Rob Roy" and is really just John Hurt, but ... it sort of fits in ... and I like saying it at odd moments, like when I'm in the car, etc... but I digress.)

It's July and I'm freaking out about school. It seems really inconceivable suddenly: the registering, the affording, the placement testing -- and there's the very real possibility that I'm going to somehow fuck it up. I know that there are a lot of wooden tops out there who make it into universities and I'm pretty sure that I'm on par with most of them, but there's something about the planning stages that gives me the Fear in a really big way.

My friends and family tell me not to worry. They've been through school -- some of them are still in it, although not students ... although some are -- and they keep telling how easy it is. I mean just look at the boneheads filling a lecture hall these days! They can't read beyond Dr. Suess, but can manage working a cell phone and completing the registration process for college.

But there are those who have known me for a long time and can remember my past attempts to get this done. It's always at the registration phase that something goes horribly wrong. I never even get as far as actually taking a class. Once I couldn't even manage to get to the campus -- as though Long Beach State was hiding behind a tree that day or something (I swear, one minute I was on the right street, and the next I was turned around onto the freeway going home. It was fate).

I'm hoping that by blogging this I'm trapping a demon in a bottle. ("Cork it!" to misquote Withnail.)

There's the theory that telling your dreams keeps them from coming true. Maybe the same can be said for fear. After all, the monster stays in the closet if you keep the light on and your head under the covers, right?

The Rain Man Suite

Viva, Viva Las Vegas 
Sorry for the delay, but last week was the annual trip to Sin City with the girls (and Uncle John). We stayed at Paris, where we've stayed since they opened the place, and, as usual, had a hard time having a good time. Here's a list of the irritations inflicted by the staff:

- Rudeness on the phone ("I've already told you, there are NO ROOMS LIKE THAT AVAILABLE")
- Rudeness at the restaurant (mom: "Can we push the tables together?" hostess: "No." We were a party of NINE. I should also add that we were a *reserved* party of nine, so it's not like it was surprising -- "Zut Alors! Nine for dinner! What will we do?" -- and maybe wanted to sit together n' stuff)
- Broken air conditioning and wet spot on floor (although it doesn't top the condom wrapper, chewing gum paper and Chapstick we found at the Luxor a few years back)
- 30 minutes for a friggin' drink at the pool and then another 30 minutes for her to return with change for the tip
- On attempting a refill on coffee, my mom was stopped by the basilisk guarding the urn (the cup mom was using was from a different coffee shop - also located WITHIN THE HOTEL, by the way, but you've got to keep an eye on those 8 ounces), which only goes to prove that all the Nazis haven't left Paris

- Non-Paris related: a psychic charged me $20 plus tip to tell me that I was a stubborn control-freak who will do well in business and not to let my friends/family set me up on dates. Also, when I meet "the guy" (supposedly at a party) I'm supposed to play hard to get and make him wait. Hard to get?!? Dude, I'm 38 in 2 weeks. I nearly slapped him. All I wanted was to know what numbers to play at roulette. Pffft ... hard to get. As if.

On the good side, I won $550 within the first 10 minutes of gambling ... erm ... only to lose it all over the following 4 days. But it felt great to win. If I hadn't been sitting so close to the front door I would have thrown up and peed my pants all at the same time like a cocker spaniel (or like a cocker spaniel with a gambling addiction).

And just to prove that it wasn't all bad, here's Uncle Johnny with a showgirl.

"She wasn't that great," he said