Applehead calls out the Doo-Doo Heads

One of the universities I considered attending as I left high school was the University of Missouri. They were the only major college that showed interest in me as a basketball player, although to be transparent, they never actually offered me a scholarship.  I was going to study journalism because they were famous for that. Those were the days. Recently, they've been in the news.  What caught my eye was that the students who feel as if something "hurtful" has been said to them are encouraged to call the cops.  Ideally, they will also have a photograph of the rude person and maybe the license number of the verbal assailant's motor vehicle, if they had one.

My high school basketball coach called me lots of "hurtful" words.  I wasn't the only one he hurt with words, but I was the only one he called "apple head."  It brings tears to my eyes just to write about it, so damaged was I.  My friends and I called each other much worse names, the majority of them good, robust, healthy Anglo-Saxonisms that did not require too many letters of the alphabet to spell.  We all survived.  Big deal.

As for the dear students at the University of Missouri looking for hurtful words so they can call the cops, they're just a bunch of snowflakes who would melt easily at first chance.  Besides that, they're all a bunch of doo-doo heads.  Now, go ahead and call the cops on me.

Dream a little dream....

This academic year at my college will be over after Commencement on Saturday, May 3rd. I'll put on my Zorro outfit and the rest of my regalia, line up with my colleagues, and march over to the venue for the ceremony. Once there, and outside, we professors split into two lines and applaud the graduates-to-be as they march into the building. Although some of them should be whipped with birch branches as they pass by, almost all have worked hard to get where they are. I'm not a sentimental person (I'm a guy from Iowa, after all), but it is cool to see some of my students that I enjoyed in several classes over the years stroll by, sheepish grins on their faces, heads held high, enjoying the salutations and applause of the faculty. To me, that is the high point, other than mingling with my graduates and meeting their parents after the ordeal is over.

In between those highlights, I suffer through speeches read by guest speakers and think of Mark Twain's observation about one book as "formaldehyde in print." Then a seemingly-endless line of students march forward to receive their degrees, matched up with verbal outbursts of misplaced pride from their loud, rude, and ignorant guests who act as if they have no sense of decorum. Which they don't.

When it's all over, I saunter back to my office, remove my regalia, lock up, and head home, another year in the books, a summer of writing and a little bit of travel awaiting me.

And you know what? I am honestly looking forward already to next Fall Semester. Call me a dreamer. I don't mind.