B(itch)logg and Happy Mother's Day

Been working around the numerical disc of the clock; the emaciated thin limbs of the hour and minute hand shuffle past stiff integers of time as the semester wends its way into completion and I find myself (in less than a week) cloaked in a drape of black, jigging to pomp and circumstance, grasping the slanted palm of Dr. Browski--prestigious president of BU--fightin' off the spontaneous urge to spoonfeed him the finger (my own diplomatic dactyl of integrity and emancipation) while humming out Pink Floyd's infamous introit, more apt in an age where the once gilded, inemitable annals of higher education have sourly transitioned into a financial bulwark oppressing the financial future of many a working-class students, such as myself, for the next three-to-four decades.

"We don't need no education!
We don’t need no thought control!
No dark sarcasm in the classroom!
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teacher! Leave them kids alone!"


Yep, education these days pretty much truckles to the whims of all the pretty-boys Little Lord Fountainbleau's hailing from the likes of Skokie and Schaumburg. They have short hair, drink cheap domestic beer, deem themselves an authoritative asset on politics, never fully know their spouse, inherit their father's erstaz bussiness, have a hard time getting through Slaughterhouse Five let alone allowing their terse attention span to trek across any narrative that can't be imminently fast-forwarded, rewound or freeze framed.

It's almost an evolutionary phenomenom. Six million years ago; by process of evolution and natural selection, certain vectors of our species become bi-pedal, learn to walk up right, learn how to stretch and instigate muscles they never knew existed in order to behoove the development of the clan and perpetuate the betterment of mankind.

Now, six-million years later, society still seems bracketed into those who can walk and those who can't. (When those who walk employ SUV as crutches--the artist has no choice but to fledge his wings and offer those with attuned lobes a healthy flap).

The north american yuppie--a most disgusting mammal. The pessimism that exudes through the cracks of this entry comes from working thirty hours straight, ferrying to the whims of these short hair pretty boys. It comes from bantering with them, encouraging them, appeasing them, lauging with them, serving them. It comes from secretly wanting to be one. Wanting to have the assurance, the commodities, the trust fund christened from umbilicus, the mortgage (the know-it-all Manard's on Saturday, tinkering around the house genius, the bolwing trophy wife)--It comes from being exhausted. It comes from realizing that, the role of the Buddha is "Joyful participation in the suffering of the world" even if that suffering means you'll be in a piss-all tax bracket; that suffering still alloactes an element of freedom--it allows you to be able to sing, to dance, to make love, to be astonished by the thermonuclear slants of the sun, even in old age. It allows you to see.


True, looking back, myself (like allota kids I admire) have never known a week of school where I wasn't engaged in working extraneous jobs to pay exorbitant tuition rates. Scribbling out third shift timecards on a weekly basis may have deprived me of being a student, but, in all realization, it crafted me into a storyteller. It hardened my arteries, bolstered my awareness and apprecieation for the working class, made me dubious about US politics and above all, gave me the one diploma, that is never finished, that I work on every day, every hour, every moment....