Monday, September 20, 2004

Little David.....Strikes out?

Story of my life, beautiful female thows me a curve ball atop the pitching mound of life and rather than swinging the bat with all my buckled emotional acumen and rounding the bases into the echoed din of the crowd, I decide to salivate like a Pavlovian chiuaua over home plate, staring with dazed donut eyelids and listless limbs into a bewildered reflection of my own puddled drool as the Umpire huffs out a third strike, pointing his tyrannical finger like a gavel into the direction of my isolated dug out.

Well, I need to swing the bat. Especially when it comes to school. Scholastically speaking, I've had a worst September than the Chicago Cubs. I keep swinging the academic Lousiville slugger as hard as I f#$%ing can only to realize that the ball, the elusive, spherical planet has already whiffed past me without my previous knowledge, safely secure in the crass mit of the "published" prof.'s unerring glove.

Published my ass. Their academic articles have as much life as the stats to my grandpa's life-time shuffleboard average. What bothers me is that in all my classes I sit in the front row, ask copious amounts of questions, am always my convivial and crazy (long) haired self and still I get comments like:

"You're just trying to be cute." or "Don't you think you should take this assignment a little more seriously?" or "Brilliant prose but I just can't figure out what you're trying to say?"


Most of these prof.'s I'm real good friends with and they acknowledge me as a burgeoning writer. Which kinda sucks because it's like, "You've written how many words and you're still and undergarduate?"

Check this out, so far this semester I've received nothing higher than a B. A Bee? (of the two assignments I've had turned back). As my gay friends used to say, sugah, I may be dumb, but I ain't stupid.

Perhaps they're just grading me harder because they want to see how I'll react. Fine, this is how I'll react. Everytime I'm in the classroom I'll be ready for the pitch, be ready to hit the ball outta the park on the first swing. Be ready to round the bases and then I'll come back to the plate the next inning, my eyelids fully ajar, my spirit fully ablaze, everything that is inside of me (or rather--toady that I am--whatever the academic geekzoids want me to write for them to get that maraesque A) is sweating out from the top of my brow like a stage curtain about ready to plummet on the final aria.

That said, I'm off to give my professors exactly what they want and hopefully, give them a smile along the way.

Joe Propinka showed up today.....

......Unlike my student loans.

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