Observations from The Future

"Does anybody really know what time it is?" asked the group Chicago in one of their popular 1970s songs. "Does anybody really care?" Do you remember the 70s? What do you think about when someone reminisces about the 60s? Think about it for a minute. How many times have you heard your parents (or even complete strangers) describe a decade in which the times were different; particular; special?

Well, it seems to me that (watch out behind you) the 80s are all but gone! In 130 days, we will drink a toast to the decade of revivals, preppies, yuppies, backyard A-bombs, terrorism, "Be Happy", and "Just Say No". Indeed, in the 3,288 days that have trickled away since we rang in the 80s, some item or incident has occurred which to each of us will come to signify the 80s. However, we will all have one common awareness -- that the 80s will be GONE.

The history of our world comes down to what exists in the environment, books, and minds of people today. Its time is gone; outdated; history. Now, fortunately for us, what is happening is that another conveniently balanced time marker will be erected on our culture's scoreboard. From there we will begin adding the few remaining marks until the number of important years equals 2,000 (MM in Roman). Another shelf of the earth's history, the way we count it, will be filled. In ten years, you will see my column stirring people up about that, bur for now let's look at our 130 days.

I don't mean to put any pressure on anybody. I don't mean to cause turmoil and turn the world upside down. I do want to make sure I have some good memories of the 80s, however. And so, should someone decide to turn the world upside down, I would be honored to attend the festivities. Drop me a line -- I'll sell T-shirts or something.

In the meantime, bear in mind that time's a'wastin'. Why loaf in the 80s, which are almost over and might be catching you a little behind, when you're going to have the next five or six years of the 90s to relax before gearing up for the big MM? What are you doing right now to make the 80s a colorful, significant part of your history?

You're in college. Awesome. Were your parents in college in the 60s? Regardless, whenever your parents were your age, they probably didn't live as close to the beach, Disney World, Rosie O'Grady's, Cape Canaveral, or the Bahamas as we do. They might not even have gone to college. We have a lot of potential for fun here that they probably missed. What are you going to say in twenty years when a kid asks you what the 80s were like?

We have a fall semester between now and New Year's Eve, and it comes with lots of neat events: Labor Day, Grandparents' Day, Homecoming, Veterans Day, Thanksgiving Day (and holidays), Christmas, and Football Season (a personal favorite). Lots of good excuses for great memories. Be a little uninhibited. Before long, if you haven't already started, it won't be possible in ten years for you to brag about a relationship that's lasted since the 80s.

Drop me a line about what item or incident makes you think about the 80s. What's happened in the last ten years that stands out? Maybe we'll find a trend. Maybe everyone will drop me a letter and consistently report that "the bike rack" or some other item, alone on a shelf, signifies the 80s. I'll let you know what happens. Then we'll sell the results of our inquiry to MIT or NBC and use the money for a big New Year's party.

Hi. How you doing? Good? Great! See you later.

Sometimes, when the campus seems so big, a nice little exchange like this one would be a welcome surprise. It's probably not even half as tough as trying to act distracted when you walk by a stranger on campus. I think it's time for a cool change.

Now, I'm not intending to get carried away -- I don't expect any professors to break down and adopt this friendly standard. It would be nice, however, if the student body decided to prioritize a little open-ended friendliness.

What are the anti-friendliness arguments? Let's be objective. One: A lot of the arrogance that's attributable to upper-class standing may just melt away if everyone suddenly gets friendly. Two: People that have been shy all their lives may wind up being popular overnight. three: Your sense of indifference may break down, leading you to actually care for your surroundings and to like this place. Admittedly, these are staggering possibilities.

Now, some pro-friendliness possibilities. One: In spite of years of struggling to find an elusive identity, after a few semesters of wide-spread friendliness, UCF may actually emerge with a recognizable, prideful personality. Think about it. Two: As we know, there are lots of people here from other countries. What with our present dynamic state of international affairs, you never know what allies we may need in the future. Wouldn't it be nice, in thirty years, to hear that the President of some remote foreign country vetoed plans to nuke our beautiful countryside simply because he says, "No matter what happens, they were pretty friendly to me in college."

School spirit. World peace. All we have to do is ax the acts; rub the snubs; ride the snide; fight the slight.

Say it! SAY IT!

It'll be like a campus-wide private joke. A little advise: Don't tell your friends at Rollins about this. They might not let you ride in their B'mers anymore.

Ultimately, it's you who has made the decision that has placed you at UCF.

This life you've chosen is fun and exciting. There are lots of new people and activities. However, it is unfortunate that much of the excitement involved with school doesn't actually extend to the school part.

When it comes down to books and learning, there are several things you can do to peak your performance. Sources abound for information regarding relaxation techniques, time management principles, and the construction of good study habits. This information is invaluable in the development of your peace of mind, which is reflected in every activity you undertake.

In order for your mind to absorb new ideas and to manipulate data, it needs to be able to stand on solid ground, so to speak. For example, if you're feeling a little guilty about how dirty your room is, your mind will be limited in its abilities.

The first thing to do is relax. Think about your responsibilities and get your priorities straight. Then, identify and try to break down any small barriers standing between you and your mental freedom.

People do, in fact, receive high marks in the classes you're attending, and they do it by steadily progressing along the course the instructors pave before them. There are assignments -- but the good thing about assignments is that, once they are completed, you have fulfilled your responsibility.

Preparation builds your peace of mind and confidence. Determining your responsibilities helps you define your goals and plan for their accomplishment.

Give yourself every opportunity to live up to your own expectations.

You're walking to class. You're minding your own business. You round a building, and, suddenly, beneath some bushes, you notice the wary form of Tonto, a campus cat. What do you do?

While this may seem to be an insignificant scenario, the issue has been very weighty here at UCF. The Kitty Round-Up which took place last semester was nothing to sneeze at. After the Campus Action for Animals (CAA) group got involved, it resolved the feline fiasco in a highly commendable, heart-touching manner. Today, the group is still at work, ensuring captured kitties are cleaned-up, given shots, and then introduced into eager-to-love domestic settings.

Despite the warm-hearted effort, however, there still remain a few estranged renegade pussy cats about the campus. These that remain are no easily-fooled naive tramps; rather, they are freedom-loving rascals, capable of evading even the cleverest of engineering students' harmless traps. Liken them to the last few Indians to leave the prairies for the reservation.

The fact of the matter is that, as the careless class-goer described above, your behavior may seal the fate of one of these foxy felines.

If you identify with the freedom fighters, you would probably approach Tonto as nonchalantly as possible, lean against a wall pretending to peruse some study materials, and then drop a small care package containing a few cans of 9-Lives, some catnip, and a can opener. President Bush might suggest some surface-to-air missiles with a hand-held launcher.

On the other hand, the idea of securing stable domestic existence for Tonto is a very humane alternative. Thank the folks at CAA for making it a reality.

Be prepared when you catch Tonto off-guard. Should you find yourself a sider for feline freedom, be aware: Your friendly "Here, kitty, kitty" is essentially a homing signal for the domesticators.

Aside from being something you get by using Close-Up toothpaste, APPEAL is our primary tool for answering to continuous, wrongful molestation by bureaucrats and their flunkies.

Just to bring this point home, let's consider the case of traffic violations. Low on the list of mentally-rewarding campus jobs, the work of a ticket writer is never done. Apparently, they are threatened with loss of life should they miss the opportunity of punishing a back-in parker or a dean's-parking-spot blocker. Don't believe for a minute that you can get away with any time-saving parking technique without at least a $10-fine; for, although the ticket writers have no professional self-esteem (can you read their signatures?), they are driven by survival instincts.

Thank goodness ours is theoretically a democratic government, and therefore even UCF must provide a system of checks and balances. Our first line of defense is to appeal. Appeal forms are easy to get: Just go to whatever agency did you wrong and start screaming, "I appeal!" until they hand you one.

There are results you can reasonably expect from your appeal. First, you can expect to postpone your fine payment for up to three months due to all members of the Appeals Board's contempt for the duty and the subsequent disorganization of the proceedings. Next, once your appeal finds their hands, you can expect them to quickly find the DENIED block, mark it purposefully, and send the form back to you.

Even though this does not actually absolve your "guilt", it does allow you to make the Appeals Board suffer through its session for at least thirty extra seconds.

The Appeals Board is currently collecting unwary members who can't figure out good enough excuses to avoid selection. By October 1, they are supposed to have their new group together. Let's make a point of answering to wrongful government: Appeal!

Out of the goodness of his heart, Mr. Darnell has sublet his space to me this week, so that I can speak out. I am a short, plump, large-nosed, recently unemployed, very lovable penguin.

A few weeks ago, I interviewed for the position of editor of personal ads here at The Future. I honestly believed I had seen it all. Well, you outlandish, barbaric heathens, I have been shocked to find out I was mistaken.

The Future refers to its personal ad column as "Lonely Hearts". In my humble opinion, it should be called "Feisty Rabbits", or some other title more telling of the exotically perverse ads you have submitted. Fortunately, I have stood fast in my moral beliefs and kept these filthy attempts at debauchery from publication.

Perhaps a couple of examples will illustrate proper, moral subject matter for a personal ad. First of all, let me stress to you that UCF will not support a porno ring, and advertisements fitting for such will only lead to my early death by heart attack.

Rather than "Hulk-type energetic beastly male seeks loving female shelter through Campus Action for Animals," you might try, "Healthy, athletic guy seeks fun-loving gal." Instead of "Lusty lady will buy the beer if you'll drink it," ( a repeat offender) please try something more subdued. Certainly, "Hopeless romantic female seeks Mr. Right," is more palatable, and I believe the respondents will be more respectable.

If, for an instant, you believe that anyone could be more lonely than a short, plump, large-nosed, recently unemployed penguin, you are very wrong. Still, you haven't read my Feisty Rabbits ad stating, "Mr. Universe with Mel Gibson-looks hungers for Hot Mama NOW," have you? Of course not, because I have taste. (Interested Mamas, photo to eds.!)

I had a dream.

I was a new university student. I showed up in suit and tie, ready to pursue my degree. I waited in long lines, and eventually I came before my academic advisor. He seemed sincerely interested in my academic career, so I trusted him.

The semesters rolled by. I took all the classes my advisor suggested. I delivered forms to him and signed my name at his command. Each semester presented a unique array of classes: Pig Latin, French Horn, Prosthetics, Tae Kwon Do, Robotics, Knitting, Zoology, etc. I aced everything.

In my dream, I walked out of my Vandalism class for the last time and found myself crossing a stage in a flowing robe. A bearded man winked at me, handed me a scroll, shook my hand, and said, "First one ever! Congratulations." What a funny smile, I thought.

At the edge of the stage, I stopped and unrolled my scroll. I had been awarded a Bachelor of Sorts degree in Direction Following. I was flabbergasted! I ran to my advisor's office and caught him and his friends in the middle of a lamb-sacrificing ritual. I screamed at him, "Mr. Advisor, you did me wrong!"

All his hooded friends turned to me and began laughing hysterically. My advisor came forward. "What's the problem, Mr. Darnell," he asked, as his head did a complete 360-degree spin.

"You made me get a degree in Direction Following!"

He laughed and rolled his eyes back in his head. "I always wanted to do that to someone. You're the first one ever, you know."

"Who will hire me," I begged of him.

"Any fast food joint or department store," he answered. "You're a shoo-in for government work. You could be a dog catcher...."

I woke up. I went to campus, to my real advisor's office. He looked up. "Hello, Mr. Darnell. Did you check on that Vandalism class?" I slammed his door shut, hammered in 20 nails, and welded the door handle. I don't know where I'll go for advise from now on, but it was worth locking him away. Someone had to save the lambs.

It's a foggy Fall morning and I'm late for school. I pile in my car and take off, through the maze of side-streets that I choose over the packed major thoroughfares.

My course winds me onto a rural road which has always afforded quick, peaceful travel without the reminders of a building city. Suddenly, in the distance, I see a strange orange beacon signaling me through the fog. I slow the car a bit and approach with caution. A road-sign appears and I read CONSTRUCTION AHEAD. My God, they're here!

I brace myself for the lurking danger ahead. The fog obscures my vision, but I begin to make-out the shape of a man holding a SLOW/STOP sign. Something's not right here -- I can't tell whether to slow or stop; the guy's spinning the sign on his shoulder while he digs in his pouch of Big League Chew. SLOW - STOP - SLOW - STOP. I'm confused! I'm angered by progress's invasion of my road! I'm enraged by the knowledge that this flag man makes more money than my college professors, and has better benefits! So, I make the only rational decision: I try to run him over.

Now I'm in the fog again and Bob's Barricades wink smartly at me as I fly past them. I whiz past a truck full of road workers and holler, "Go back, go back!" Several drop their McBreakfasts in fear of the voice from the fog. I roll on.

My next target approaches: The second flag man comes into view. He has fallen asleep leaning on his sign and a line of stopped cars extends back into the horizon. I spin my car around the jump out. A flying drop-kick knocks the guy flat and I stand towering over his disoriented form. "Take your friends and get out of here," I tell him. "You're not wanted." The flag man stumbles to his feet and runs screaming toward the truck where his co-workers await. The people in the stopped cars cheer and honk their horns as they resume their peaceful drive. Back in my car, I feel proud to have taken a stand.

A few miles down the road I see another sign: WELCOME TO GEORGIA. I was too late; the road crews have struck again!

"Mom! Stop the car -- you just hit a butterfly!"

As a kid, I remember how horrible I used to feel when I would sit helplessly watching the droves of bugs and butterflies disappear into the grill of our family auto. Even today, when I find myself stomping the life out of a bug, I feel a pang of remorse.

Recently, after having used chemical warfare to kill a column of admirable ants marching through my kitchen, my emotional response prompted a philosophical question: Is it right to kill?

Should the answer be NO, I decided that my fate is securely sealed. When the end of my life arrives, I will be given two choices: To rot in hell for eternity; or to serve the just punishment for the lives I will have taken. The latter will require me to live the life of every creative I've killed, up to and including each fated rendezvous with the heel of a shoe, the choking suffocation of a chemical agent, or the scattered pellets from a shotgun. Thousands of times I will be called upon to hatch from egg to larvae, sprout wings as a lovebug, begin in-flight copulation with a fly-girl, and then turn instantly into a 1985 Mustang's windshield smear.

I suppose there's a chance the Creator of all things has lenience toward the whims of human kind in controlling his environment. Maybe the All-Powerful recognizes the insignificance of certain organisms and doesn't mind our devious designs in halting their existences.

Let's hope so. If not, I'll have centuries to spend as a blade of grass, finding weekly decapitation at the passing of a sharpened rotary blade.

It's a windy Fall day and you approach your classroom prepared to sit through another sleepy lecture. Looking up you see a classmate pouring over her notes. A flash of panic occurs, and when your classmate looks up and asks the rhetorical question, "Did you study for the quiz?", you can hardly hear her for the pounding of your heart.

Assuming that you have missed the previous "Review" class, have been too busy to do any of the reading, and also have not had a single cup of coffee all day, you may feel at this point that your grade is ruined.

Have no fear -- all is not lost! Here are a few last-minute tricks you might try.

If you still have a few minutes, you can try to run to your instructor's office, make sure he's in there, and prop a chair against his office door.

Then run back to the classroom and instigate a walk-out: "He's two minutes late, let's get out of here!"

If the instructor's on the way, intercept him and try this approach: "Sir, the department asked me to catch you and tell you there was an error made on your answer key. If you'll give it to me, I'll take it to them and have it corrected for you."

On the outside chance that this doesn't work, the informal University Student Educational Dilemma (USED) rules apply. Contact the publisher for a copy at $3.50, or pay $97.50 at the University Bookstore.

On a True/False quiz, a question which uses "always" or "never" is unquestionably FALSE. How could something be absolute in this world of relativity? Also, USED rules cite a study by MIT which concludes that an answer of TRUE will be correct 59.347% of the time, all variables being constant.

MIT's results also offer insight into Multiple Choice quizzes: When in doubt, bet on answer C.

Essay quizzes are perhaps the most challenging, and attempting to take one without prior ingestion of some source of caffeine is totally discouraged as it may cause brain damage. When the quiz is upon you and you must perform, it is important to remember that a restatement of the question will often win you at least partial credit. Example: Q: What is paramecium? A: A paramecium is a paramecium. How can they argue with that?

Remember, when the quiz is over you can forget all about the class until next time. Keep these rules handy and you'll do fine.

I remember how easy it used to be when I was a kid; Halloween was the pre-Christmas highlight of the year. It meant wearing a neat costume and getting free candy -- I loved this country!

Slowly I grew... time passed. Then, one day, I became aware that Halloween had changed for me. No one would give candy to a 17-year-old Dracula. I couldn't even get a rock.

I learned that trick-or-treat meant something new: The trick was to find a girl that would accompany me to a spook-house; the treat was that I could wake up on Nov. 1 without a stomach ache from eating candy. Oh well.

My first Halloween date was very memorable. My date's name was Amy, and she knew what she wanted in a Halloween date: to see how well her man could protect her. She wouldn't let me stop at the Jaycee or the Kiwanis haunted homes, as they were "too staged." She asked me if I really wanted to get a real rush of fear. "Sure," I lied.

We parked behind a building I'd never seen before. Amy asked me to be a real man and let her blindfold me before we went in. How could I resist? She put the blindfold on, and led me into this special haunted house, where I would get to show her what a man I was. Did I mention I was in costume as a Genie?

I heard noise, a crowd was gathered. I was feeling a little sick, wondering what would happen if I wasn't man enough to impress my girl. I felt Amy touch the blindfold. No sense in worrying, I told myself, I was about to find out the answer.

Amy pulled the blindfold off: OH MY GOD -- WE'RE IN A COUNTRY AND WESTERN BAR! In the next few seconds, manliness, courage, and my image as the young Tom Selleck shattered, as my draped-in-shiny-sheer-clothing-with-velvet-body-pieces form broke through the door and ran to the car, climbed in, and drove far, far away from that place.

Ever since, I've thought about that incident with lots of disappointment. Amy was obviously unimpressed, as I never heard from her again. All the phone calls from curious cowboys haven't been much consolation, either.

Quite frankly, the little phone book is the cutest thing since Garfield. If you haven't had the pleasure of seeing one yet, you have something to look forward to. It looks amazingly like a phone book, only it's small; neat; cute.

The phone book is only the latest thing in our ever-shrinking world to downsize. You may not even be aware of the vast number of entities which used to be regular-sized, and which now are More Economical (small), More Convenient (small), and/or New (small).

Apparently, marketing specialists are targeting their products toward kids, which is smart because most kids get anything they want. Sure, when we were kids we may have liked the Muppets. But not until the Muppet Babies were invented did we have four-year-olds stealing the family car to go to Toys-R-Us for their stuffed likenesses.

Even today, the Flintstones hold special meaning for me. Perhaps someone can explain why it took fifteen years for them to turn into kids. Yes, for those of you under ten, the Flintstones used to be different: Fred slept with Wilma, Barney with Betty. Shocking.

Turn my favorite cartoon characters and Muppets into pint-sized fakes, I don't care. But let's talk about stunted paper towels. What could Rosie do with one of these little things?

The most obvious example of a shrinking material object must be the dollar. Measure it some time. Unfortunately, even the dollar is smaller... as evidenced by the fact that our phone book is now one-quarter the size it used to be. It sure is cute, though.

I was standing alone under a tree one day when a friend emerged from the shadows. "Roj," he asked me, "Are you an environmentalist?"

"I like to think I am," I replied. "I can't say I'm actually involved with any of the organizations, but I do feel pretty strongly about the exploitation and destruction of our planet's resources."

"Would you ever consider joining those organizations?"

"Sure I would."

"Wouldn't you feel kinda' funny preaching to people about saving our resources, when you aren't really an environmentalist?"

"Excuse me?"

"First of all, I mean a true environmentalist wouldn't put 500 miles a week on a car that pollutes our atmosphere with hydrocarbons. As it stands, you're as responsible for the environment's destruction as anyone. You'd be a hypocrite."

"Yeah, but I have to drive."

"Okay, you have to drive. But even without driving, it's tough for anyone to be any kind of environmentalist besides a hypocritical one. Beyond destroying our atmosphere, you also contribute to the waste stream that gets buried in the earth and turns into poison that kills plants and animals, and may even find its way to a playground to give cancer to some kids."

"What do you propose, my friend?"

"Start with yourself. And certainly don't preach to others until you can show yourself to be more than a hypocrite."

"You've got a deal. I tell you what: If you'll let me borrow your bicycle, I'll give you a dollar to call my professor and explain why I'm late."

Something weird is happening here. UCF has taken years to develop a flawless, zero-downtime touch-tone registration system (TRS). I don't mean to scare anyone, but a few glitches (gulp) have appeared in the system.

Now, it's entirely ridiculous to believe these glitches could have resulted from equipment and/or human error. This is UCF, and our systems are the best in the world. No, really.

The problem is obvious. UCF has an Orlando address. So does Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker's business. Unfortunately, Orlando has served the Bakkers with an eviction notice; now the population must pay. In the souls of the Bakkers the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

Their first target was Orlando's downtown celebration, "Light-Up Orlando". With omnipotent ease and Letterman-like agility, the Bakkers changed the event to "Lock-Up Orlando", and great fences grew from the earth to cage the hapless street-partiers. The event was ruined; a bad time was had by all.

We now stand amidst the next tremor of their rage: UCF's world-acclaimed TRS, they decided, must not stand unmolested. Don't expect your invoice to have the proper classes on it when you pick it up; to think it will is to doubt the power of Jim and Tammy Faye, and that's what started all this.

As yet, claims that Jim and Tammy Faye will extinguish Central Florida Thanksgiving celebrations appear unfounded. Just in case, a hot-line has been established to collect back-rent for the Bakkers, so they can keep their location and get back amongst the Fortune 500 companies where they belong.

To send your help, just pick up the phone. If the Lord answers, ask Him for details.

For many breathless students, graduation looms near. The resumes are being cranked out by the hundreds -- paisley neckties and panty hose are becoming scarce. For the particular few out there that feel kind of funny about becoming a number in some stuck-away department, there's hope.

If you're normal (oh no!), you will slide through the ceremony right into a job, where you'll be guaranteed the minimum starting salary. Soon after beginning, you'll meet your supervisor for the first and last time until your review. If you get credit for college at all, you may receive your own cubicle, complete with a Dixie Cup dispenser. You'll get a paycheck and fight for limited gains. Inevitably, there will be monstrous people on the hill above you, and we know what runs downhill, don't we?

If any of this is true, you might as well do something for yourself.

My suggestion: Bite off a chaw of gumption and do your own thing. If you start a business, you'll need money, persistence, and savvy. The experience is always worth the risk. Perhaps you can pool resources with some friends having complementary specialties and talents.

Another avenue awaits. Small businesses already in existence need people exactly like you. How do you find them? Try the smallest listings in the yellow pages' section of your chosen field. Show up at the right professional meetings and associations. Become a freelance contractor; you'll meet other enterprising people and your ultimate boss will be... you.

At any rate, keep your dignity. Don't drop your pants, so to speak, at the first minimum salary that comes along.

While trapped in line at a store in the mall recently, I overhead a woman say, "I don't care if you get me anything; I'm getting you something." As I listened, it seemed to me an extremely caring gesture. It appeared that the true Christmas spirit was alive and well; there are still those who believe, I told myself, in the advantages of giving over receiving.

As I turned to see the couple, I noticed that the man was sweating bullets and looking helplessly off into space.

Ah -- I'd been mistaken. Apparently the remark was something less than a noble plea of unselfishness. It was an artful manipulative dig -- a perfect example of the innate human ability to instill guilt in another. And it appeared the arrow had found its mark.

In my mind, I guessed what the nice lady really meant: You'll never be happy again if I don't have a present from you by December 26. By brandishing such an offer, she had gathered the purse strings of her destiny, and her smug expression revealed her pleasure. Only she knew her offer consisted of a single stick of gum. As far as he knew, her gift might be Excalibur itself.

It was now up to him to guess the gift and to equal or better its value in a return gift. But how? I caught the question in his vacant eyes. He swooned and staggered, and I caught him as he fell.

"Fine," his escort stammered, her heals pounding loud clicks off into the mall, "If you don't want anything, I'll get something for myself!"

I shook the guy to bring him around. He stirred a bit, then looked up at me. "You all right?" I asked him.

He winked at me. "That was a close one," he whispered, as he slowly climbed to his feet, brushed himself off, and followed the lady out the door.

So I walked into my first class and realized, once again, that I was ill-prepared for that most primal of academic challenges: Where should I sit?

Several seats remained on the front row. Scenes from first-days past flooded my mind and I remembered how, as a naive freshmen, I had taken my place there to receive the instructor's words of wisdom directly. What I failed to realize was that the wisdom becomes questionable and the novelty of college soon wears off. And, as in high school I had tended toward "clownism," I felt the old humor sparking up. But a front-row humorist is short-lived, as the instructor has only to reach out and grab one by the neck. So, based on experience, I thought beyond those first vacant seats.

I noticed a few familiar faces on one side of the room. These faces belonged to the students responsible for the elimination of the entire college-notebook-paper endowment my family had established for me.

There were only a few seats left in the back of the room where the Back Row Bruisers sit. Apathy being the only condition of inclusion in this group, members are afforded ample insulation from the instructor. Even the sharpest of criticisms reach him as only a general disrupting murmur. Am I bold enough to take my place among these pioneers?, I asked myself, as the last seat amongst them was taken.

One seat in front of the pulpit and one in the middle of the room surrounded by attractive girls remained. I thought, why not sit before the instructor and give him my erudite and clever opinions on any unsavory assertions he may venture?

Maybe next lifetime, I told myself, as I sprang across the room to beat a freshmen to the seat amidst the ladies.

"Anybody out there headin' for Homestead?" came a call over my CB radio as I was headin' for Homestead. I tried to ignore it, but my curiosity rose.

A few minutes later, when the call came again, I answered. The man's voice came back, the sound of a big diesel engine throttling in the background. "Yeah, buddy, I got this lil' gal here headin' for Homestead. 'Sposed to meet some friends down there. But I'm not goin' that far, wonder if you could give her a lift?"

Silence. I'd never heard hitchhikers use radio advertising before, and it was quite unnerving. On the quiet road, as the semi's headlights appeared and enlarged in my rear-view, I figured I was as good as dead if I didn't answer the trucker's plea to help his friend.

I pulled over and the big truck followed. I got out to help the fragile child, and as I saw the tattooed leg issue forth from the passenger side, I realized I'd made a mistake. I turned to jump in my car and break for it, but the driver was there, loading her bag in. "Sure 'preciate it," he said, and he was gone. Air brakes popped and the big truck quickly pulled away.

We climbed into the car, and I took off. "Hey," my ancient, sun-hardened, road-dirty, sour-milk smelling travel companion nearly yelled, "Why's your hair so short?" I explained that is was due to Air Force policies.

"Oh. Ain't that cute?!" she exclaimed, and leaned over.

"Aah!" I screamed. "Excuse me, ma'am, but I get car-sick and throw up if people touch me when I'm driving." As I held my breath for the next two hours, she entertained me with stories of how she'd left for Key West from Texas that morning and gotten rides all day. "You wanna know the definition of gross?" she asked.

"No! Really!"

We got to the Homestead exit and she dummied up. "Where am I supposed to take you?" No answer. "Are your friends here?" Silence. The genius that I am, I suddenly realized that she was tricking me. I got back on the Turnpike and drove the twelve miles to Florida City.

In front of a Burger King, I pulled over, gave her a buck and pulled her suitcase out. She looked at me.

As I drove north toward the base dismantling my CB, the departing words of that sweet lil' gal kept running through my head: "Go *&%@ yourself, ya' short-haired faggot."

Money problems... isn't it embarrassing to have to tell people about them? From time to time, an invitation comes along that a person suffering from a lack of funds will have to turn down -- and the turning down is the bad part.

It's difficult to even seem successful when you have no money. You certainly don't want to grovel before a crowd of people that all have car phones. Not having money can often destroy a person's motivation, self-esteem, and attitude.

It helps to realize a couple of things. First, people with money never really seem happy. "If I had my way," they exclaim, "I'd rather be poor. It brings out character." So, by this argument, people without money are immediately more colorful.

Next, people with car phones are probably in debt up their hands-free microphones. It's just a matter of time before they'll have wasted more money on a fancy antenna than the hard-pressed person will have spent on worldly education.

Due to stretched finances, I've been forced to turn down many a good invitation. In the process though, I have learned a few dance steps that make voicing financial straits much easier.

When you tell someone, "I can't, because I don't have any money," you create a definite impression. However, when you say, "I can't, because all my money is tied up in investments," the impression is much better. What are you investing in? Yourself, of course.

When you think about it, you have a diverse portfolio: Stock (in yourself); savings (pocket change); bonds (a lease); and charity (taxes).

When money matters start to bother you, think of Shakespeare's words in Othello: "Poor and content is rich, and rich enough."

One night as my car rolled into a parking lot, I noticed four cars in a circle with their high beams on. As I approached, I noticed the cars had confined a terrible, wild, woolly, sharp-fanged beast. I stopped my car and got out. "What are you guys doing to that raccoon?" I inquired, as I walked past them toward the monster.

"I wouldn't go too near it; it may have rabies!" a guy in shirt and tie shouted. I backed off. "We just called animal control. They're gonna come get it," he continued.

A lady stood at another car frightened to near epilepsy. The terrible creature reacted to her fear by calmly stalking under her car. The crowd went crazy. The business man leapt to the back of his car, opened the trunk and pulled out a tire iron. In a fit of heroism he must have decided that if that thing came after him, he was not going down without a fight.

"You're not gonna hit that raccoon!" I implored. "Look, if you want to get away from it why don't you get in your cars and leave?" Just then, out of nowhere, a man every bit as natureful and robust as Grizzly Adams appeared. He walked up next to where the beast was standing. "Look out!" the crowd screamed.

In response, he stomped his foot, then hollered at the raccoon, "Get over here!" The animal looked up at him. The crowd swooned.

"Is that your pet?" I asked.

"He kinda hangs out at my house," the man said off-handedly. "He's just over here for some attention."

Grabbing the devil by the scruff of the neck, the burly man lifted it to his shoulder, where it stood up and clawed insanely at the air -- or, rather, the cute rascal waved good-bye to the friendly people who had afforded him all the attention. It all depends how you look at it.

In the scrubby terrain of the countryside surrounding UCF, an ecological phenomenon is occurring which could alter the ecosystem for years. Signs posted along Buck Road give the first warnings, reading LOST BEAGLES. The implication, of course, is that the notorious Beagle Boys are on the loose again.

The chills of our short winter give way to the warming sunshine of spring, and in the dusty fields a cloud rises -- its only characteristics an echoing collective yowl and random floppy ears. As a pack, their keen senses combine to give them advantage over the small creatures who feel their wrath: Frogs, turtles, badgers, opossums, armadillos, rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, and -- their favorite prey -- cats.

In the few months since the signs have been posted, the mortality rate among wild cats has more than doubled, most of them scared to death by the hell-bent mob. In their incessant mischievous frenzy, the Boys have caused the emotional imbalance of lesser creatures to sky-rocket. Something must be done to curb their frolicsome threat.

Should you look up one day to see the tornado-like approach of the noisy bandits, take cover, find a phone, and call animal control. Whatever you do, don't let them near your cat.

The numbers of the Beagle Boys seem to grow daily. Reports received so far conflict; some say there are six, others report hundred of the foot-tall flop-eared hell-raisers.

That the former captors of the Boys allowed them to escape is infuriating. It is up to us, the noble citizenry, to S.T.O.P.P. -- Stand Together Opposing Puppy-Power. Should we fail to end their reign, the entire population of small creatures will disappear into a sea of beagles. We must end the rampage of the Beagle Boys; we must silence the heinous howls!

In a small midwestern town, a boy named Tiny grew up tending his widower father's peach orchard. Despite his name, Tiny was an over-sized boy. No one worked harder than he, and no father was ever more proud. On Tiny's twenty-third birthday, a late winter freeze came to the midwest, and Tiny's old dad passed with the same cold wind that bore away the fruits of the orchard. Tiny took to the road. For years he wandered, ever eastward, toward the ocean shores.

In the chills of a foggy winter morning, Tiny happened on a road-side stand near the sea, wherein stood a wisp of a girl named Valera selling fruit to the passing fishermen. This morning, as the large unkempt Tiny ambled past her, she shrilled out, "Good mornin' sir. Say, a peach'll put the sweetness in your soul this mornin'." Tiny turned toward the first friendly voice, it seemed, he'd ever heard. On seeing the peach in her outstretched hand, he broke down in tears.

The lovely girl was soon at his side. In his bewildered state, Tiny was helpless. He opened up, and as the morning passed the two exchanged stories and became open-hearted friends. Valera explained the loneliness of her life, and Tiny felt a stirring in his giant heart. He took to sleeping outside the village and spending his days with Valera. He was in love.

One morning, a friend of Valera's father returned from the sea. As Tiny rounded the bluff, he saw the man holding Valera and kissing her sweet cheeks. Tiny was destroyed. He tore through the woods down to the beach and threw himself into the crashing surf. Suddenly, Valera appeared. She sliced through the water and dove town to catch Tiny's sinking mass. She pulled him to shore and brought him around. "You silly man, you could've drowned!" she cried. "Y' want me to be a lonely wretch forever?" Real tears streamed down her wet face. Panting, Tiny humbly told her of his feelings. "Oh -- I love you too, Tiny!" she rejoiced.

Witnessing the exchanging of vows that morning, the fishermen went home with glad hearts. The couple's story spread, and the village adopted a holiday in celebration of their sincere love. Ever since, on February 14, the townspeople have greeted one another with, "Happy Val and Tiny's Day!"

George Washington was said to have had common sense lifted to the level of genius. Indeed, in 1990, it seems like the man may actually have been as big as the face on Mt. Rushmore portrays him. However, we know George was once a little, truth-telling boy. Two-hundred and thirty years ago, he was also 28-years-old, married to a rich widow, and owner (by inheritance) of one of the wealthiest estates in America.

What that means to many of us is that it may not be too late in life to make a great big lasting impression on our country. Here are a few simple suggestions, based on the early history of our country's first president, that may land your face on Mt. Rushmore in a century or so.

First, inherit lots of money and land. This will afford you the luxuries of dignity and social status. When you meet people, they'll respect you more when if you can buy and sell them.

Second, marry rich. Again, the money thing, but the case is clear-cut. Every see a front-page story on the daily activities of a poor person? If it seems wrong, just remember you're doing it for your country.

Go about securing an education, so you'll be able to side-step the news people or waltz with them, as the need arises.

If you're following this, you now have unlimited wealth and power. The only other magical ingredients George carried with him were a nation-sized dose of responsibility and a true passion for adventure. For these, watch intermittent episodes of Hee Haw, World War II documentary programs, and Rambo and Indiana Jones movies.

George Washington was probably one of the most noble and important Americans to ever live. Somehow, however, it's comforting to know that it wasn't just God-given talent that made him great. I guess you can afford to run around and start a country when you've got power. You can't always keep the kids from pulling your pigtails, though.

It never fails. When March arrives each year I find myself thinking about how time flies and wondering where I'm going in life. And then, for the last eight years or so, Spring Break rolls in, and the only future becomes the elusive "week on the beach."

During my senior year in high school, that week had become the only reason for existence. I worked hard, showing up to nearly all my classes just before the break began. Then, my happenin' little truck broke down. I spent the whole week in south Florida digging ditches to earn the money to fix it.

Last year, a buddy and I had a plan to make up for all the other anticlimactic Breaks. We took off on a Friday with a couple of days' worth of bucks. We had libations aplenty and slept in the car in a parking lot near the beach that night. The next day we made all the beach scenes and bopped from hotel to hotel meeting people. I'll never forget seeing my pal in a jeep full of girls, as they drove away down the strip. If you were at Daytona Beach, you may have seen me; I was the guy in shorts freezing my butt off all night beside a locked car.

So, here it is, March again. I'm showing up for nearly all my classes, and when I lie in bed at night, I can hear the ocean. I can't help thinking that maybe I'm getting too old to get all silly just because it's Spring Break. The week at the beach always seems to get fouled up. It gets real crowded, and people get real crazy. Water, sun and uncola. And all those contests.

And then I wonder what "too old" is. I know one thing: I don't like the sound of it. Indeed, if I was too old, I defin-itely wouldn't be anywhere near a crowded beach this Spring Break.

Regarding where I'm going in life, I can't seem to concentrate right now. Give me a call in a couple of weeks. Surfs up!

If your elementary school was anything like mine, on St. Patrick's Day everyone went around pinching the kids that weren't wearing green. If you had green on, it was a real neat game. When I was in fourth grade, St. Patrick's Day slipped my mind, and I arrived home at its end an angry and pinch-pocked little boy.

A couple of weeks later I had a dream. In it, my mother told me about a cool new holiday called Green Thursday, which worked just like St. Patrick's Day. I woke up and, indeed, it was Thursday. I put on a green shirt and headed to school-- and guess what: Green Thursday had slipped everyone else's minds! I spread the word quickly around class before recess.

On the playground, I gathered up the few green-clad kids and gave them their orders: "You know what to do. It's Green Thursday." Soon the playground was alive with running, screaming, pinching and screaming kids. It was great. I was in a vengeful flight across the merry-go-round in pursuit of a kid that had bruised me on the previous holiday when, across the playground, I saw little Kathy telling on us. As the teacher bent down, Kathy pointed a purposeful little finger, and the teacher's scornful countenance fell upon me. I was busted.

In the lunch room, I was interrogated at the teachers' table. When I told the teacher that Green Thursday was a Mom-sanctioned holiday, she got furious. "Well, if that's true then your mother won't mind writing me a letter to explain it." As I sat at the table, I began to wonder if mom really would've told me to come to school and pinch people. The class filed by and made faces at me as they passed.

I knew I couldn't bring the letter in, so I just took my punishment. As I sat in detention writing sentences ("I will not make up a holiday and blame my mother for it"), I thought about what I'd learned. You can't just make up a holiday, especially one where people get pinched. But, I thought to myself, if you're willing to take the heat, you can really mess with people. Incidentally, you might want to wear green this Thursday.

The April Fools weren't nearly as naive as history paints them to have been. They were four men that, together, represented every race and nationality. It was by pure coincidence that they met in a tavern in rural England in 1619 as each involved himself in trying to secure passage to America. Embroiled in their talk, they carried it into the water closet, which happened to be the one designated for women, and were promptly trounced from the tavern as drunkard idiots.

In attempting to secure finances, the four took to business together. However, nothing seemed to work. Everything they took a part of went to pieces, except a jigsaw puzzle they invented. Everything they tried sunk, except an anchor they made. Finally they scraped together all their money and bought a small ship fashioned out of potatoes by an Irish craftsman.

They set sail at the same time as the Mayflower, but it was their store to suffer the long winter at sea. They survived by eating the fish that feasted daily on their ship, and finally by eating the ship itself. In late March of 1621, the four swam ashore at Plymouth.

For April 1, Plymouth's Governor William Bradford staged an elaborate if quirky festival which commenced with the unveiling of The Oppressor. A stage was built which looked out over the ocean, and the ritual involved a white curtain being lifted to reveal the view, which symbolized nature as the only true oppressor. The four fools were completely surprised when, upon climbing a bluff and mounting a platform, a curtain was drawn back and they saw the shocked mass of citizens staring at them. The four were nearly stoned to death on their retreat. Today, discussions of All Fools Day are still frowned upon in some Protestant sectors.

Alas, the fools had profound impact on American society. In America, they submitted patents for Pop Rocks, Joy Buzzers, and Condoms. Modern society has recognized them by carving their faces in Mt. Rushmore. Thousands of tourists cross the country annually to pay homage to the April Fools.

There's been a lot of press lately about year-round school for kids. Isn't summer vacation the motivating factor behind going to school in the first place? When are kids supposed to actually apply what they've learned during the year (like what to say to drugs and what condoms are for)?

I suppose since schools like UCF have made up an idiotic summer enrollment requirement, it's good for kids to lose their summer vacations in elementary school. They may as well get used to it.

When I try to figure out the reasoning behind the requirement, the following scenario comes to mind.

School Administrator: "Ha ha, I have summers off."

Senator: "Wait a minute, I have to work. That's not fair! Guess I'll have to pass a bill."

S.A.: "Me and my big mouth! Well, at least I can take it out on the students: Mandatory summer school!"

It could also be a communist plot: project "Cattle Trail". The result, in twenty years, will be a generation of Americans who have spent so many years in year-round school that they'll be unable to do anything but follow directions.

Some people can afford to speed up the educational process by attending in the summer. Granted, it's a cool option, but it's a silly requirement. Of course, you can appeal it, but don't think it'll be approved. UCF administrators undergo treatment to make them blind to 'Approved' blanks.

So I've decided to stay in school for the rest of my life. The only work I'll do will be for unpaid internships. When I'm 65, I'll begin paying back my student loans with social security checks. My friends will have to be patient while I go the withdrawals -- I've been addicted to summer vacation and money for a long time.

Through your trials and tribulations here at UCF, it's highly possible that you'll run into quite a lot of pessimism and closed-mindedness. Don't be scared; the fact is it's everywhere. I'm sure I'm not telling you anything, but it seems that most people get by on trying to make sure no one gets by them.

It's never a completely bad thing to have people shoot down your ideas, because it makes you reassess and qualify your beliefs. Success can always stem from failure, as evidenced by the story of Stubby Brier.

Stubby looked a lot like Chubby from the Little Rascals, and in fact would have borne his name had the nurse not made a typo on the birth certificate.

Stubby was a mean, molish, mad-at-the-world corpulent beast throughout his early life. No one ever supported a single idea he had, except the one about him just shuttin' up from now on.

One day, Stubby met a professional wresting manager that liked Stub for what he was (a mean 290-pounder).

But Stub had ideas, and quickly grew tired off the manager's "don't think" remarks. It was then that Stub threw a figure-4 leg-lock on academia. In three short years he emerged as UCF's most visible alumni.

Therein, my friends, lies the key to success: Determination and persistence in seeking out one's true destiny, despite resistance.

When that prevalent showering of pessimism rains on your parade, think of Stub, or tune-in to see him.

Even if he did marry his old wrestling manager, he's still the best wrestling ref to ever give a three-count -- and a downright cheerful guy these days, I must say.

When I was a very little boy, my family lived in a yellow house between lots of ever-expanding fields in rural Illinois. Every morning my brother got on the school bus, and after I overcame the disappointment of not being able to go along, I ambled into my own kind of school with our dog Monday.

In the fields grew corn, beans, and midwestern grass and weeds. I liked the grass fields best, except for when our neighbor came by on his tractor to cultivate or disk, because he didn't cultivate the grass. When I heard him coming, I'd run to the edge of the planted fields, wave, then watch him cross the fields and stop so I could climb on. I bounced, steered, and listened to the blaring Allis Chalmers' AM radio.

Later, Monday and I would go to the sand box. It had wooden railings, and in some spots those midwestern weeds would take root. Digging out the vehicles and construction implements, I stayed busy recreating Mayan temples, cities, and pyramids, and trying to make caves that always caved-in.

There was a tire on a rope in the front yard for hanging upside-down in and spinning, looking up at the sun through the leaves of the trees. There were flowers in the sun where lady bugs gathered that never grew tired of hearing me tell them to "fly away home." Considering their dire situation (house on fire, children alone, if you know the song), their irresponsibility intrigued me.

Mom would call, and it was time for lunch, a nap, Sesame Street, and the school bus delivering my brother.

Those days didn't really seem like school to me; I just enjoyed the daily lessons in farming, construction, imagination, botany, zoology, adventure, companionship, and reality. Here's hoping your summer holds the same opportunities for learning and enjoying life that my slice of early country living afforded me. By the way, if you figure out how to make a good cave in the sand, let me know.

In the spring, I took a class called Communication as a Behavioral Science. When I signed up for it, I knew I was in for a scientific approach to a basic human function. Quite honestly, I dreaded it, and with good reason.

One of the lectures relayed to our class of 100+ apathetic students the ins and outs, ups and downs and all-arounds of human relationships. In a nutshell, the dialogue traced through the outline of our reading material, and we learned that relation-ships go through six stages: Initiation; Exploration; Intensification; Formalization; Redefinition; and Deterioration.

Wow! Really? Deterioration is the last stage? Well, in the book it was.

Now, it's my opinion that most of our coursework was very boring, and that when the content finally came to something people could relate to, they sat up in their seats and began taking good notes, knowing full-well that their astuteness in this particular area could lead to future success in their personal relationships. And what was the last line they wrote in their notes at the end of a page that had as its heading the word "Relationships"? The letters spelled DETERIORATION.

How depressing.

Well, to those of you who sat in the class, and to those of you following along now, relax; the book is wrong. They forgot to write-in the following footnotes:

1. Everything in this book could be wrong.

2. Deterioration is a possibility, not an inevitability.

3. There is such thing as "happily-ever-after."

I called the text's editors to try to straighten them out, but it seems they aren't speaking to each other. I guess I should have contacted them earlier.

I can't just sit back in class and go to sleep. Perhaps it's due to the fact that I've been in school for most of the last 19 years that I've become so comfortable in the classroom setting, allowing me to really listen to the information that's handed down and to interact with it, rather than just letting it play straightforward into my notes.

There are days when I'm sure the instructors who've dealt with me for a session are quite fed up and would welcome an opportunity to throttle my neck a bit, or at least to throw their grade books at me.

I would ask these purveyors of wisdom to hasten a moment: Remember Socrates and the gadfly. The unquestioned life is not worth living, and, therefore, the patience of one who is paid as a trainer must be sufficient to get the job done.

Granted, the distractions of an arrogant student can breach good taste and the rules of fair play. But I've seen people like myself handled well by fleet-footed instructors wise enough to wear their senses of humor as robes over their genuinely-concerned-with-students'-best-interests underclothes. Anger at times is inevitable, but a constantly foul demeanor is indicative of a bad career choice. And frankly, students do care to learn and grow, challenge and be challenged. Closed- mindedness doesn't belong in academia.

With that, I hope to have justified my actions in the faces of many instructors who have frowned upon them.

At this point, this discourse may perpetrate a certain rebellious, bold, confident image for the columnist. I admit, I like having the chance to tie-up my past behaviors into a smart-seeming bundle so as to make them travel better.

However, I'll also admit to being wrong many times, allowing over-zealousness in clowning to cloud the learning environ-ment, and, once, to falling over backward in my chair in front of my entire class and two instructors from the college of my major.

Lying on the floor during that last incident, I realized that no matter what I get involved in, no matter how worked-up I get in communication, fabrication or education, it always helps to have one's brain along.

Therein lies, perhaps, an understanding we can all agree to.

I hope I speak for the majority of college students when I say to administrators and other faculty members of the higher places of learning: Show me yours and I'll show you mine (brain, that is).

I didn't really consider the trivial fact of my having no money sufficient reason to keep me from helping my friend out of a tight spot. My Discover card didn't seem to mind either, and afforded me a $500 cash advance to buy my friend's Honda 500 Interceptor. From that point on, the plan was simple: Clean it up a bit and sell it. Some-where, not far away, a vulture screeched.

A couple of months and nearly $400 later, it ran. I was a little concerned when the clerk at the fix-it shop told me they'd lost my gas key, but the fix-it guy himself took the situation in hand. After 20 minutes of drilling and hammering, he handed me the twisted bit of wreckage that had been my gas cap along with a rag to take its place. I rode my bike for the first time that day, but it still wasn't any cleaner, and I was really going to have to work to make it worth my investment. Further, I didn't feel quite as saintly about helping my friend anymore.

Here's where it gets kind of exciting. See, even though I considered the bike an investment, I couldn't help considering how fast it might go, how much fun it would be to ride it, and how cool I would look on it. The days of cruising sans appropriate license began accumulating, but, buried deep within my smiling face, my intuition cried out in dread fear of the day when the wrath of the law would fall upon me.

On that fateful day, the law wore Oakleys. The law was a blond-haired, steroided-out Oakleys-on-his-head young Orange County Deputy Sheriff. Half an hour and four tickets after seeing him, I was pushing my investment home. But I knew I was innocent, and I looked forward to my day in court.

I walked into the courtroom and saw, silhouetted from all other elements in that room, a pair of Oakleys nestled in some short blond hair. Immediately below them, I came to see a smugly intent cop, waiting to do his duty. Apparently his duty was to do what it took to convict me, as his embellished account of my alleged infraction rendered a character composite of me bearing strong resemblances to that of Ted Bundy.

In the course of these busy days, as the sting of $292 worth of tickets wears away, I often close my eyes and imagine the breeze in my face as I lean into a turn, jumping on the engine through a tight curve. And then the vulture of finance flies over and winks at me. "I thought you were going to sell that thing," he taunts. Throwing rocks at him, I contemplate the day a friend will offer me far too much money for the bike. At that point, I'll take the money and just write-off the rest of my investment to a good time.

When you were a kid, you were probably taught that criminal activities lead a person down life's toughest routes. It's usually assumed that crime is bad, and that punishment is undesirable. However, once a month I behold the convicts of white collar crimes that are serving their sentences at Homestead Air Force Base -- and begin considering their lifestyle as a viable, desirable alternative to the hustle and bustle of our careers as "free" individuals.

If you're that special kind of criminal, practicing in such areas as perjury, racketeering, embezzlement, drug trafficking, etc., or if you're a good plea bargainer with a flare for the con, you may qualify to serve your sentence at Homestead Resort in lovely south Florida.

That's right: You'll spend your sentence in the newly renovated Shackled Arms Hotel -- but don't be misled by the name. It's hard to tell you're doing time at the Shackled Arms, with the air conditioned rooms, a highly-polished new Nautilus-equipped workout room, tropical gardens, and a lovely courtyard for receiv-ing guests.

These accommodations have been designed with you, the fully-deserving-of-opulent-living-conditions type criminal, in mind.

It's easy to forget stealing that money from your company's pension fund as you stroll around the track or buy smokes from any of your over-supplied buddies. And, when meal-time comes, rest assured there'll be no waiting. In fact, active duty service people are "out of luck" when you and your friends come through the messing facilities. Stuffing your face to the utmost, as well as generally exploiting the government-sponsored resources, is encour-aged. Masters degrees are available in Giving the Government a Reach-around, for those willing to file the tuition assistance forms and pay the modest fee (two cartons of Marlboros).

Also, there's no need to worry about aggressive people trying to push rehabilitation down your throat during your stay. The friendly folks appoint-ed to watch over you, and subsequently to manage the black market, are just like you... only just a bit smarter. They've realized that the best way to screw the government is to be its employee, up until they're caught doing something illegal (if ever). This intelligence keeps them slow, stodgy, and overweight. Friendliness, however, is never at question.

Indeed, when I look upon the Shackled Arms and its guests -- when I wait an extra hour in line to eat the crumbs left behind by these convicts -- I wonder what wrongful force developed "Scared Straight" to brainwash me into thinking jail is bad.

It turns out that jail can be quite a nice vacation -- just the place to get away from the busy, murderous mob of angry, pensionless employees while the nest-egg gathers interest in that Swiss bank account.

The wind tried in vain to raise a rustle in Jimbo's matted hair, and it seemed that the vagabond's attempts to scrape up twenty-five cents were just as hopeless. "Excuse me, sir, would you happen to have a dime or a few cents?"

"Piss off, bub. Why don't you get a job or something."

The comment slipped right past Jimbo, and he lent his ear to the slow street to see if any promising patrons adorned it. The sun burned down on the July morning, and behind his sunglasses Jimbo squinted his eyes against the blare. The sidewalk burned like a beacon before him, making him feel every ounce of the stifling heat. White light and steamy air engulfed him, and, there on the sidewalk in the full-blown sun, his numbed mind churned back, to another time....

A blast of light lit Jimbo's young face as he climbed off a train. Fresh from high school, his shy step took him into the city, and into his first job. He'd thanked providence for landing him the post of wine taster... but, soon enough, he was thanking passers-by for their patronage. It was like the street had dibs on Jimbo, or maybe it was the liquor.

The light persisted through his squinting eyes, and Jimbo saw an angelic image of himself in a mirror. It was a ghost from romance past appearing in the haze of the day's heat. Sweet as it was to look upon, it was painful, too. Then Jimbo's keen hearing picked up on footsteps in the distance, causing the sweltering illusion to pass.

"Excuse me, sir, do you have a little spare change this morning?"

"Hey, Jimbo," came the man's sure, bustling voice. "You oughtta find some shade, man. Gonna be a scorcher today." Jimbo heard the 'ting' as the man's thumbnail hit the edge of the quarter and sent it spinning, end over end, into the air. Jimbo gracefully plucked it out of the brightness mere centimeters above the ground.

"Thank you, sir."

Jimbo found his feet and, his walking stick tapping the way, ambled around the corner into the shade. Purposefully, he crossed a small square to the edge of a building where a few of his acquaintances idly passed the morning. Jimbo found the pay phone, dropped in his shiny token, and dialed-in a memorized sequence.

"Yes, Mr. Johnson, please....

"Hello there old man!" Jimbo said, laughing. "Happy Father's Day!"

You're not really going sit there and pull your hair out because of that unjust grade your teacher put on your latest, greatest academic achievement without doing something about it, are you? Let's face it, the teacher probably forgot about your effort as soon as his marking pen swooped across its face. But the grade you take so personally could well have been affected by such conditions as your teacher being: Out of cof-fee; tired of reading about the theme you've chosen; sexually frustrated; aware of the cost of your clothes; in love; etc. Therefore, the time when your grade is on the line is not the time to mope melancholy mad -- you must approach the bench and make your appeal.

Any person having once passed judgment is inclined to support that judgment. However, you shouldn't put your own ego aside just to appease that of your teacher. The answer you wrote on that paper, you'll remember, was the result of your best facultative reasoning. So, although your mentor may be intolerant of your questions (assuming that just-ate-a-sour-caterpillar countenance), stand fast! Don't give ground until you understand exactly why each red mark was cast.

Friends, these are not idle words issued by a columnist committed to writing for its own sake. I may never again have a go at this topic, so it's important that the seeds be sewn. Don't be run over! And have faith: Grades improve once your teachers know you care. But you must mark your territory and defend it as if your life depends upon it.

I make it a point each semester to cause my mentors to think before applying their judgment. As an individual, however, I believe my impact upon these teachers whom so often choose to leap before they look will be fleeting. Therefore, it's incumbent upon you to incur a well-fitting education, one that doesn't swim off without you.

Finally, to those teachers whose eyes don't roll back mockingly in their heads each time their faces issue the word, "students," I applaud you. Many of you have made great sacrifices in order to occupy the position of educator. I also believe you realize what sacrifices we students are making in order to become educated. Perhaps you'd be willing to pass it on, too.

Have you ever heard of Ben Dover, typical college student at the University of Central Florida? You nay not have noticed him in a crowd; even his parents didn't. You may never have seen him studying in the library until the small hours of the night; the library wasn't open that late. But he was just naive enough, and just weak enough, to think his voice was insignificant, and to be overrun by powerful political systems -- making him as apathetic as the next student at the institution. Ben made a name for himself by becoming a martyr to students across the nation. He really thought he had a good thing going in the summer of 1990, when he worked real hard to make enough money so that, in the fall when classes started, he'd be able to afford to have the electricity turned on in his apartment. As fate would have it, however, things didn't quite turn out the way Ben had hoped.

Fact of UCF-Life One occurred: Tuition increase. Much to his dismay, Ben found himself paying a lot of money for his classes each semester. The state Board of Regents, having studied Ben's earned-versus-spent income, knew they were going to have to do something to keep him behind the 8-ball. With a lightning flash and a hearty, "Hey, Ben Dover!" tuition shot up by ten percent.

Fact of UCF-Life Two followed, and Ben's only blanket was repossessed as a result of his failure to plan for the cost of the athletic fee. The repo-man came in the night, leaving Ben in the cold. The fee was paid, and, to honor Ben's sacrifice of warmth in order to pay for something he didn't even believe in, members of the athletic department gathered on the green one day and solemnly pledged, "Ben Dover! Ben Dover! You won't be looked over!" They subsequently made it a battle cry at each student protest of the athletic fee.

Many of the people that really knew Ben began to worry at this point. Then, Fact of UCF-Life 3 came along to do him in. The price of parking decals rose by over 60 percent. It may have been the long, cold nights, it may have been the inability to afford rent or gas, but Ben passed-on one night. Naked, except for a parking decal stretched across his privates, Ben Dover died in a parking lot.

This is not the story of an ordinary guy; it's that of Ben Dover, patron of all student fees and associated costs. It was Ben's poor lot that the school's authorities made him the example, hoping to break student will-power. In the end, through their increases of fees and malicious attacks upon students' meager savings, they were allowed to make each student Ben Dover, and Ben Dover each student.

"I'm sorry sir, but could you repeat that?" the freshman asked, eyeing her academic advisor suspiciously.

"One more time. You work for a company for nothing. Divide the number of hours you work per week by 3, and that determines the number of semester hours you'll earn towards your degree, as well as the amount you'll pay for tuition. Haven't you ever heard of an internship before?"

"Oh, is that what an internship is? Sounds more like an insurance policy that pays the school by making sure its students get work. And the students pay the premiums. I bet if I worked for a company for free for 15 weeks I could get a job whether or not I was paying a university for the privilege!" Storming out of the advisor's office, she felt a little embar-ras-sed. It wasn't her advisor who made the rules.

Outside the building, she found a tree and sat down against it. All at once, she was rushed by the memory of her friends back home. They were all laughing at her as she explained her reasons for going to college.

"Look guys, I'm gonna learn how to think for myself." Under the tree, she couldn't help laughing along with her friends. Her time at college thus far had all been spent as part of group, moving from building to building from hour to hour at the prompting of a university logo-clad escort. I guess asking questions you're told to ask and moving lemming-like about a compound doesn't exactly constitute free thinking, she told herself.

The heat persisted and she felt her eyes grow heavy. Leaning her head back, she started to nod off, but was suddenly distracted by what sounded like the approach of a rabid ostrich with metal banquet trays on each foot. Opening her eyes, she saw that it was a guy on the squeakiest, oldest bike in the world. As he approached, his chain happened to fall victim to an epileptic seizure, throwing the lad over the handlebars onto the sidewalk's unfriendly surface. Bloody kneed, the youth sprung to his feet quickly and immediately began repair upon his bike. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'll live," came his calm reply. Embarrassed, his dirty face looked up, his shaggy hair in his eyes. "Thanks for asking." After introducing themselves, the conversation lulled.

"Say, have you ever done an internship?" she asked.

"Just one. I started as a copy boy. Pretty soon, I became mail room manager, then accountant, then systems analyst, then production supervisor, and then, finally, C.E.O. It was all-right."

"Wow, really? What'd you do with all the money you made?"

"I bought this bike and then gave the rest back. Having it around ruined my grant eligibility. School's more fun than work anyway -- it's all reward and no challenge out there. If you ever want a good night's rest, you'll do an internship. Makes you feel honest." With that, he hopped on his bike, bid her adieu, and squeaked off into the distance.

The grass around her grew. The tree she leaned on stretched toward the sky. Thunder clouds began accumulating, and a bird in the tree let-go a dropping, which fell onto her hand. Running toward the bathroom, she laughed, realizing that the guy's idiotic words made sense.

Six months later they were married. For their honeymoon, they interned at Niagara Falls. They and their grants lived happily ever after.

Why not give in and spend some of that money you've been working so hard for on a vacation? Oh, you don't have any money. Well, neither do I; but that doesn't keep me from sneaking away to the Florida Keys at least one weekend per summer. They're in reach, and, if you're like me, you have a friend with a time-share condo that you can move in on.

Indeed, I do look forward to the days when I'll be able to sit at some of the pool-side bars I've seen on brochures advertising hotels on the islands and in other far-away places. Maybe the day will dawn which will see me unpacking my tuxedo for a luxurious evening of fine dining and entertainment aboard the Love Boat. For the time being, however, it's a cramped little efficiency nestled along U.S. 1 on Marathon Key with a road-side presence so in-touch with the habitat that beer bottles seem to migrate there nightly. But the price is right, and there are pots and pans for cooking all the food I can catch. That's right: At this point I can't afford to pay for a room and food. So, during the daylight hours I pay homage to my prehistoric ancestry by hunting and foraging.

Most of my predatorial endeavors are undertaken under-sea. Having grown up in the amazed-by-Jacques-Cousteau generation, I've taught myself to overcome the panic associated with putting my flesh-and-blood human apparatus into the sea, which is always present in light my simultaneous occurrence in the Jaws generation. If you've ever seen the ocean's abundant, awe-inspiring life with your own eyes through a diver's mask, you can understand my passion. If you've seen the same thing on television, you may not understand my passion, but you're probably a lot smarter than I am -- and you still know how beautiful it is.

I usually coordinate my trip so as to put the lives of several lobsters at stake without incurring any unlawfulness. In the silky, luminescent light of the ocean I always feel the weight of being in a foreign world, and I fear that any wrongdoing on my part would lead to immediate punishment (like, Roger = Fish Food). So it's only in the most socially-acceptable manner that I take a wily old crustacean from his dwelling in order to favor myself with nourishment.

I must admit, at times, to nearly swallowing my snorkel at the sluggish passing-by of a sea turtle. After once swimming over a sand bed that, to my horror, quickly showed itself to be a manta ray with an over 7-foot wing span, I leaped 100 feet back to the shore. With experience, you get used to the shocks, and my eyes hardly even became dislodged recently upon encountering a hammerhead. Barracuda cease to make me faint. I was, however, frightened at seeing a goofy little remora swim up to me (you might know him as a pilot fish). The scary part was wondering where his big buddy was.

All in all, so far, the benefits outweigh the risks. I put my life on the line, and, as a result, get to eat during my vacation. Tell me, is it true that, in some weird cultures, people play golf and attend amusement parks on their vacations?

I remember seeing a Heinz ketchup commercial in which a guy leaned a ketchup bottle over and then placed his life on the line by moving the targeted hot-dog out from under that bottle. As "Anticipation" built in the background, I remember wishing the ketchup would spray out all over the wise guy, covering the counter, his shoes, his girlfriend. After all, that's what would happen to me if I tried it; but I wouldn't, because I have no patience, and anticipation only makes me climb walls. The fact I was taken romantically by the storm of a young lady who spent two months in Europe this summer makes this hate of wait more pointed. As we waved good-bye to each other, even in my sadness, I had no idea of the tortures I would compose for myself in the days to come.

There was a trip to Indiana, where I attended a school. It was good distraction during the day, but at night, left to myself, I felt completely lonely. So I took to the countryside. In order to maintain confidence and identity in an hour of desolation, a young man may become so desperate as to pursue the ghost of his youth. Not me, though. I just found the biggest tree I could and climbed up, up into the highest branches. In the mist of my cloudy thoughts, in the thin air, I was taken advantage of by every biting insect in the midwest.

The calamine kid returned home to postcards from Spain, France, Italy, Greece and Austria. I read again and again of how she missed me. She was within a few weeks of being inbound, and I hugged the stuffing out of a pillow adorned with her name.

The industrious frenzy I undertook in turning my thoughts rose to such heights that the benefactors of my efforts, at every turn, showered me with praise and gladly relit the candle when one end went out. Sun up till sun down I pushed myself –– that she would return the more quickly and save me from the grayness of my unredeemed emotions. Instead of sleeping, I danced, Lionel Richie-like on my ceiling, all night long.

I found myself in Miami, trying to escape into a foreign culture where I was ultimately insignificant. There, at my lowest, amongst some guys I met who called me Gringo Estupido, (I think it means valiant something), I was visited by a strange presence: Call home, it told me... call home.

I did. She was there! I raced to my car, my friends in hot pursuit. The median was lane enough for me, flying past the stodgy, speed-limit-abiding roadblocks to my love. But it was too much for my car, and it had a coronary around Boca. I drove it anyway, right into the ground on the outskirts of Orlando. I abandoned it and faced my aggravation like a real man: "Mom, I need a ride! Get here! No questions!"

And she obliged. Untying me at my front door step, Mom drove off as I was showered with kisses by the apple of my eye. "Did you miss me?" she asked. "A bit," I indulged, as my heart did backflips and handsprings. For, although I am modest, I have not the least amount of patience, and I wanted more kisses....

So what did you do this summer? Oh, sorry; I gotta go. See ya.

I am videotaping the rehearsals of a children's theater group a the result of not wanting to be at home, where homework covers the floor like an unshaven transient with a hangover. Anyway, I'm getting paid for the work.

Through the viewfinder I see the black and white image of a boy on a stage –– a single white light washes over him. His head hanging down, his body bent like a scarecrow, he begins moving his arm back and forth, as he sternly repeats the word, "Um-ringle-tingle." That is a word, isn't it?

Glancing quickly around the room, I realize that, to the other children and youngsters at heart poised about the stage, it is at least a word. Maybe something stronger.

I think it's weird.

A girl comes scooting out and grabs his arm. She bends to touch her toes, raises back up, then repeats the motion over and over, repeating, "Yoo-hooo!" Another child adds its body to the noisy gyrating machine. Then another. Etc. Pretty soon, I'm thinking, this thing is going to take off and smash through the ceiling.

What kind of hippie experience is transcending here, I wonder. My mind quickly flips through its own mental card catalog of entries, and finds a section marked Free Expression. The last record here, scrawled in bold type, relays an experience years ago in which I'd gotten so engrossed in a performance (swinging my wiffle bat (sword) at some lovebugs (little dragons)) that I'd lost touch with reality. It soon came back to me, however, as I realized, much to my horror, that I'd just struck a mighty blow to my father's unwary behind. When I came out of the coma I was a more reserved little boy.

"Stop, stop, stop!" screams the director. The voice of reason on this stage, he's like a children farmer: he gives them a little fertilizer and time and tends them as they grow. In two weeks, he'll have taken the self-expressions these kids have offered -- in regards to icky things, funny things, important things -- and sewn them into a play. Kinda abstract; primal; fun. His voice snaps and a piano starts plunking in the background. The machine dismantles and its pieces begin singing.

What I think is cool about this whole ball of wax is that, when the players play the fool, crawl around like a bug, sing like Pavarotti, everyone laughs with them. No one says, "What a queer!" nor exchanges sideways reproachful glances with some other disapproving judge. In fact, the only reaction amongst peers is an eager reactionary lunge toward doing something even more ludicrous.

Confidence. Flipping on through the card catalog, in the Confidence section, a piece of microfiche labeled "Grandparents" falls out. It occurs to me that if the world was run by grandparents, maybe this open stage of encouragement is what we'd all have in store. Mine have always listened to every word I've spoken to them. They always assume the best, and they require the least maintenance of any people I have a relationship with. If I had the confidence in myself that they have in me, I could probably beat Michael Jordan in one-on-one. Okay, bad example; but you know what I mean.

So, anyway, I'm beginning to regret having thought this stuff the kids are doing weird. In my grown-up, stuffy, concerned-with-matters-of-great-importance mind, I thought myself above free self-expression. I guess there isn't always an icy panic waiting at its end.

Lying on the floor looking up, the viewfinder I've stuck to my forehead reveals a mass of children crowding around. They're closing in as they tell me, all at once, what they did over the summer and what they're learning in the class. I see gapped smiles and am surrounded by giggles. I'm laughing my head off, because I'm getting paid for this. And ... just because.

I guess it's good training to be able to do something just because you feel it, without worrying about other people's reactions. The wise confidence these kids have in their actions shines out to me like a quarter someone's left in the coin return of a pay phone. Quickly, I sneak it into my pocket for later.

At home, I trip over the sleepy homework bum on my floor. I begin thumbing through the textbooks and notes ... not much room for confident self-expression. Maybe I should write something, I tell myself.

Raising himself on one elbow, the wretched vagabond looks at me through bloodshot eyes. "Can you spare a quarter for a cup of coffee?"

"Oh, my achin' thorax!" Doug moaned, his thin black legs holding fast to the paper bag he'd fallen onto at the end of his euphoric jaunt of the previous evening. "Never again. No more bug juice for me," he swore, rubbing his bent antennae. A slight breeze trickled through the alley and Doug surveyed his surroundings. Then he looked down between his legs. "Oh my God!"

Lisa hung listless, her little body extending out from where Doug's stopped. She stirred as Doug's clamor rose. "You finally get your life going in a direction. Then you wake up one day and you're attached; hooked together for life! It's not fair -- I admit I shouldn't have been partying so much, but come on! I'm a young bug. I don't deserve this!"

"Excuse me, but I'm hungry." Her petite voice startled him, and he squeezed his eyes against the departure of the freedom he'd always known. He saw her demands on him stacked up against his future, an insurmountable wall he would never be able to climb. Doug didn't want to look at her; the apprehension was too much. There was no doubt about it, though, he was stuck with her. What if, in broad daylight, she was a dog (so to speak)? She might have too many legs; she might be partially squashed; she might be cross-eyed! Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore, and he slowly looked down, down, down....

"Hi. My name's Lisa. I'm hungry." Wow! Is she cute, Doug thought, his little lovebug heart on fire. He wanted to take her in his thin arms and kiss her tiny orange head -- but, after all, she was hanging from his backside and his hangover precluded the gymnastics it would have taken to bring his face to hers. As it was, he didn't even care about the extra arm or her crossed eyes. He waved. "Doug. Doug Bug. I guess we'll rassle up some food."

Since he was the guy bug, Doug started the flying. But they didn't get far, and they fell very near a sewer grate. Doug angrily called out, "You don't have to fly anymore. Just steer a little if we need it. I'll do the flying." He saw her face and forgot his anger -- she was far too charming a creature to be mad at. The second attempt was more successful, and they awkwardly flitted through the city until they found some special lovebug food (which is a secret, explaining why you probably don't know what they eat). They got along great, each curling toward the other in an uncomfortable attempt to hold a normal conversation.

They talked about their lives; their expectations for their futures; their hopes. When the conversation turned to religion, Lisa explained that she was a life-long Herbieist. Doug had spent some time at an ivy vine college and had studied religion. "Now I have no doubt that Herbie the lovebug really existed; I've met enough credible folks who've seen the films. I also don't doubt that Herbie gave meaning and purpose to the lives of lovebugs for generations. You get an education, you hook up with a mate, you contribute to the future population, then you sacrifice yourself to Herbie.

"Now, if what I'm about to say got around, I think they might try to lock me up," he confided. Looking into his shining eyes, Lisa was enraptured. "But I don't think you're every-day, fly-of-the-mill lovebug on the street knows the difference between Herbie and, let's say, a school bus. In my short life, I've seen lots of guys get all excited about hearing their call and go sailing toward a highway. But I've never seen Herbie, and I've seen lots of windshield smears."

I think there's more to it. The reason I was drinking that poison last night was to try to bury these feelings. But I swear, if anybug believed in me, I'd fly straight for the stars." Tears were welling up in his proud eyes.

Lisa cleared her throat. Doug looked at her. Sternly, unabashedly, she told him, "I'm right behind you, Doug Bug." Fireworks went up -- and as the weight of the miracle spun around his head, Doug fell off the blade of grass he'd been clinging to.

They rolled in the dirt and laughed happily. As they brushed themselves off, Doug offered, "You know, Lisa, maybe Herbie's not here anymore. Maybe he's waiting for us, up there somewhere."

"Oh Doug," she swooned, fluttering her wings. "Take me."

They left the bustling world behind them that morning. Somewhere around 3,500 feet, Doug was surprised to hear a voice. "Say Doug, that's some fine-looking fly-girl you got there!" It was Luigi Lovebug, an old friend of Doug's father.

"Luigi, this is Lisa, my ladybug. What in Herbie's name are you doing way up here?"

"Oh, I just came up to get some air," Luigi replied. "Aren't you kids straying a little far from home?"

"We're going to the stars," Doug explained, exchanging a fond look with Lisa.

"Yeah, right. Well, I'll buy you a Bugweiser at the bar tonight. Bring the little lady along."

Amongst themselves, Doug and Lisa laughed. They weren't aware of it yet, but the adventure they'd taken up made them very special bugs, indeed. They would never be hungry again. Theirs would be a new, unexplored world... where no bugs had gone before.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, in the town of Orlando, millions of bugs completed their short life spans by sacrificing themselves to any windshield that came along.

And, sometimes, late at night, a skeptical crowd would gather around Luigi Lovebug, as he'd explain the reason why stars appear to twinkle at night. "That's Doug and Lisa Bug. They're looking for Herbie."

"Don't listen to that old drunk," one of them inevitably shouts. "Let's hit the road."

Regular features are pretty darned hard to come by in this column. One idea per week crystallizes and dances on my brain until deadline arrives--whence I put it to bed for once and always. But right now an old idea has somehow been summoned from the grave and is break dancing on my cranium. That's right, break dancing (I said it was old).

About this time last year, I walked up to a classroom a few minutes early for class. All my friends, who normally were engaged in some perfectly frivolous conversation, were quizzing one another on class notes. I started sweating. I looked around: other classmates were (you may not like this) READING THEIR TEXTBOOKS...

IN PUBLIC!

The final nail found its place in my coffin as the teacher rounded the corner with the unmistakably-filled-with-freshly-dittoed-pop-quizzes manila file folder under his arm, and a childish grin playing across his face. When the smoke cleared, however, my quiz was returned with a 'B' on it.

The result of this ordeal came in the form of a column I haphazardly hammered out for all my colleagues who didn't have the benefit that four years of higher education had afforded me in these high-stress, ill-prepared for class situations. For those of you who missed this fine feat of practical flexing of pseudoscientific test-taking muscle, the highlights included the following: when in doubt, bet on 'C'; any questions asserting absolutism must be FALSE; and, on essay tests, restatement of the question in the answer space almost always awards some credit.

This column of a Future past, indeed, changed my life. Unlike my other publishing endeavors (the 3 or 4 previous weeks' columns), this one actually resulted in feedback. Not only did I discover that my words were being read, but also I was publicly introduced by a professor. He gave me a free plug: "Roger's got some good stuff in here. You all should check it out." The following class he gave a pop quiz. On his multiple choice questions, choice 'C' had been whited out. No hint of an absolute assertion could be found in any true-false question. I looked up from the paper to find all eyes upon me; everyone was muttering something along the lines of "Blah-blah-asshole-blah-jerk-blah-blah-know-it-all."

Through time the wounds have healed, and my intentions to take all my friends along to Higher Callings prompt my humanitarian-in-spite-of-it-all morality to shine the light once more. However, this time I'll offer a little disclaimer.

The nature of the free press affords to any person willing to read an equal opportunity to profit from the material printed here. So if your teacher changes his/her tests after this knowledge becomes public, it's your fault for not getting involved to limit the free press and/or not breaking his/her glasses.

With that, I offer a few more select mental morsels for those who always have perfect justification for failing to adequately prepare for the course requirements they must fulfill in order to keep from performing an action similar to throwing handfuls of money into an incinerator. (1) Any choice for "All of the above" is correct 61.6% of the time, and nearly always when the question is odd-numbered. (2) Calling your professor over and asking what a question means usually affords information worth partial credit. (3) When the teacher reviews the test afterwards, getting your classmates all to say a question didn't make sense often gets it thrown out. (4) Finally, when in doubt, bet on 'B' (times be a-changin').

To further limit my liability in passing this info along, I would just like to add: Do not use after 3 days. That's about how long it takes to white out all the 'B' choices on a batch of tests. Good luck.

My favorite camping buddy and I stared on sleepy-eyed as the last couple in the group before us registered for their canoe. "You with them weirdo anthri- anthri-polygamists?" asked the scornful young registrar.

"Sociologists," offered the young lady.

"Weirdos!" returned the clerk. When he turned his back, I couldn't help intervening.

"You know," I said to the couple, "It's real important to be approved-of by the Canoe Rental Guy."

He was quick to spin us out of there, and Beth and I very soon settled into our own canoe. Paddling down the stream, we passed our tent and the smoldering remains of our campfire, out onto the mighty Wekiva. The day was beautiful and hot. We, in the occasional shade of trees, roasted and cooled at intervals, and worked well together in moving our vessel up-river toward the elusive Point B.

The anthropolygamists had a good lead on us, but there's something about the vulnerability of people in a canoe that makes it impossible to let your friends merely paddle along unmolested. As such, the river was lined with guerrilla-like science students lying in ambush. It was thus our fare, for a mile or so, to occasionally holler out, "You don't know us!", after which a few smiling faces smeared with charcoal would appear from the reeds, and we'd pass unharmed.

Beyond the science students, people from all walks of life, it seemed, had answered the call of nature and decided that the day was meant for canoeing. A camaraderie develops amongst people who share a river and are adorned with the common tools of a flat-ended stick and a big piece of uncomfortable, relatively unstable fiberglass wrapped around their respective behinds. We were greeted throughout the day, sometimes more enthusiastically than others. "Ooh-wee! Hey baby, how you doin'?" was the solicitous greeting offered by one boat-load of bumpkins, each with a ballcap which stated If you ain't from the South, you ain't shit!

"I'm doin' fine, fellas," I answered, warmed by their concern.

We took the spillways less traveled, and it truly made all the difference. Sure, sometimes we had to lie flat and pass under the giant foreboding web of a banana spider or clamor across a fallen tree, but we found ourselves the sole sharers of a pristine world of our own. We discovered several bent-up green shacks that explorers had etched out of the obtrusive jungle surroundings. On pilings they erected shacks, sometimes elaborate, that now seemed secret and utterly vacant. After a little surveying, it appeared to us that only lizards lived there, and, further, lizards didn't need all that firewood. So began a series of resourceful-minded efforts to gather pre-cut lumber from these shacks; however -- due to the inevitable A-HORRIBLE-MONSTER'S GONNA-GET-US sounds that occurred each time I placed a wary toe on their decks -- the effort was ill-fated.

The various critters churned on in their odd businesses, only mildly aware of our presence. That is, other than the many turtles, who were obliged, out of shyness or perhaps mere custom, to roll off whatever log they'd achieved into the cool cloak of water. We saw schools of mullet and the lone garfish. "Oh my God! A stingray," Beth said, pointing into the green-tinged water.

"You know, that thing shouldn't be in fresh water," I instructed. "It's a real freak occurrence that we should see one here when they only live in the ocean."

"Oh," she replied, consumed by my intelligence. Then, pointing again, "There's another one!"

Occasionally, a small tree would become a large heron. "I see you!" I'd tell him, but he'd ignore me. Birds and squirrels were everywhere, but we were out for true adventure.

"Where are the gators and snakes?" Beth asked.

So we looked for the more dangerous wildlife. Nothing surfaced. On up-river we paddled, roasting and cooling. The last souls we'd seen for hours had been a dad and a son, paddling confidently along, and a few minutes behind them a mother and daughter using the wrong ends of the paddles with their canoe skidding sideways down the river.

"AAAH!" We both saw it: 50 feet in front of us, a 10-foot alligator had just submerged. Beth was in the front. "All right," I said, "Let's go see him."

Beth's arms dissolved into two blurry, backward-paddling fans on her sides; her eyes were locked on the spot where the gator had vanished. "NO WAY! I'M IN FRONT! GO BACK!" Point B had arrived.

And so, although it took us a day to arrive, we were back at camp in 5 minutes. Therein lies one of the reasons, my friends, why Beth is my favorite camping buddy. Who needs an airboat?

The invitation I got in the mail described a leadership seminar that I, as president of a student organization, was privileged to attend. I would go to hone my leadership abilities, I decided, and to publicize my club a bit.

Early on the Saturday morning, gulping coffee, I passed through the crowd and was heralded. "I love your column."

"So you're the one," I smiled.

"Ugh. You write that column, don't you."

"Heh, heh, not me.... Namesake," I grimaced.

Taking our seats, we were asked to stand up and tell our name and organization. It was so methodical and sleepy that I was very tempted to liven it up by saying, "I'm Roger Darnell, and I'm an alcoholic." I tried to think of everyone laughing, including Dr. Altman, but some inkling of wisdom told me it wouldn't be nearly as funny as I thought.

"The topic we're covering today, obviously, is multicultural diversity," explained our first speaker. A little bit of coffee ran down my chin as I tried to figure out how I'd been hoodwinked into this. Only then did I notice the posters on the walls which targeted racism and pictured MLK, Jr. It's not that I wasn't interested in this multicultural thing, but, quite honestly, I was a little smug in my self-image of a genuinely nice guy, open to anyone interested in exchange. Looking around the room, it became evident that many cultures were flocked amongst themselves. Dr. Levester Tubbs, pointing out that oftentimes we just want to be around people like us, asked us to move our seats to be near people who were just a little more unlike us.

We all suddenly became individuals.

In our first exercise, we were asked to introduce ourselves to a complete stranger and, shaking his/her hand, explain, "I love to make mistakes, and further, it really makes me happy when people make mistakes about groups I belong to." After performing the embarrassing feat, my new friend and I quickly took to school-centered dialog. In response to my suggestion of a teacher he may have come across in his studies, my friend explained that name belonged to a jazz musician and quickly gave the teacher's correct name. As a small cloud of steam boiled off my forehead, I realized I don't really like to make mistakes.

We were then asked to exuberantly applaud and cheer for the various groups our leader announced. First, women. They stood up, and we clapped like crazy. Then men, American Indians, Canadians, African Americans, Koreans, etc. Groups were mentioned who weren't represented, and we clapped and shouted nonetheless. It was an unconditional positive response to people, regardless of their groupings or backgrounds. As you might imagine, other groups came into play, and those groups based on sexual preference were recognized. A room-full of people (who are so often classified as closed-minded, insensitive, selfish) applauded people who were other than strict heterosexuals. The point was to recognize diversity and celebrate it.

One of the attendees pointed out that there are some things a person just doesn't want to know. I recognized that feeling within myself. But, if I can't do anything to change people to be exactly the way I want them, why should I do anything but value what they do have to offer me? Besides, what in the world exists that I, as an "educated person" should be shielded from?

I looked around the room again to see all the different faces, and realized that those in attendance weren't even five percent of our school population. I was a lost face in this crowd. Yet every week I sit down to write a column that will touch every person who reads it without thinking of all the barriers I have to overcome to strike those common chords. I know it may sound a little sloppy, but I decided that something was needed besides my being willing to accept whatever, whoever comes my way; I need also to be willing to go forward and share what I have and overcome the barriers the world has built that keep people from being comrades.

At the close we were asked to think about what we could do to make our groups more open to the benefits of diversity, and then the lights faded. John Lennon sang, "Imagine there's no heaven...." and was followed by MLK, Jr.'s heart-rending recollection of a dream he'd had. I thought about how much I believe in that dream too, despite the fact that I'd almost made a joke out of alcoholism and would have lost face with a lot of people who had been touched by it.

The members of this non-partisan mass slowly drifted back to their fellow officers, and our blanket once more became patch-work. But there was a candle of interest burning in every eye, and one felt the warmth and fellowship. A note: Now might be a good time to join a club you're interested in, even if you don't know anyone. I have a feeling you'll be accepted.

Allowing people to give all they have to offer is much more than just being friendly. Of course, I'm not telling you anything new, just passing along something I was privileged to witness that you may have enjoyed. I realized that in order to get everything this life has to offer, I have to go out of my way to get it. Once there, however, I find it's not out of my way, at all.

In the magic land of Satire, county of Truth, Miles Mole stood before his bathroom mirror completely ignorant of the fact that his life was in danger. He heard a noise that, upon his investigation, appeared to be a clamor arising outside his hole. He climbed up through the tunnel and emerged into the day’s bustling sunlight, the towel around his waist flapping in the morning’s breeze.

At the base of his hill a small crowd was gathering. It wasn’t uncommon for his neighbors to stop by to admire Miles’ hill, as it was something of a wonder of the County that Miles, each week, sculpted the base of his hill into a sort of scene. One week, small animals playing together, the next, plants and leaves. Those who came upon his work for the first time were often surprised -- and, through time, a few folks had come to travel a little out of their ways just to get a look. Today, however, something was awry.

"Miles Mole, what’s going on with this molehill?" hollered Acorn Squirrel, whom Miles knew to be a bit of a troublemaker. Ducking back inside his tunnel, Miles threw the towel across his sofa and grabbed his new sunglasses before returning to the gathering mob. He overheard several comments.

"I just don’t get it. Who does he think he is?"

Approaching, Miles addressed them. "Top o’ the mornin’! Sure hope you’re all well. You might not have guessed, but you’re noisy as hell!" (It was a characteristic of his that he spoke in rhyme.) Two lizards, a gopher turtle and a dragon fly were listening as the squirrel put Miles on the spot, and a family of rabbits turned ears toward the affair.

"You know, I don’t know what you’re trying to do with this dirt, but something about it just pisses me off." Miles was taken aback -- this was the worst yet. "I start looking at it, and I don’t even care to finish. I don’t understand it at all!"

"I’m sorry to hear you’re not pleased, but assure you: it’s just a nice thing; you can go -- there’s no fare due! I don’t mean you’re wrong, and I’ll think of you next week; for now, it’s just dirt! Like or not. Mr. Fly, speak."

"Oh!" exclaimed the dragon fly, stroking it’s antennae thoughtfully. "Well, I think it’s... it’s... all right." And, pleased to have gotten off so easily, he decidedly added, "It’s very creative." The rabbits nodded to one another.

Miles looked at the lizards, and one bowed a bit. "That’s quite a mountain you’ve got there," the reptile offered.

"By most folks accountin’," Miles answered, "my molehill’s no mountain."

Acorn was beside herself. "Mountain? Ha! I admit I know nothing about art, but that’s not it!"

"Just a minute, Acorn," the tortoise chimed in. "‘E lives here. I can’t always figger ‘im out, but you shun’t insult ‘im." Acorn flushed.

Miles crouched on the ground and surveyed the controversial rendering he’d created in the dirt. It was a perfectly shaped valentine’s heart, quite simple, but well done and somehow suggestive of something more. The crowd broke up and, alone, he thought about them: the squirrel and it’s mean remarks; the dragon fly with it’s multi-arrayed vision and noncommittal reply; the turtle and it’s stability....

He arose and walked back a short distance to get a different view. "It’s done what I want: raised thought ‘midst the masses. I’'ll--"

Just then, the burning remains of a meteor crashed to the exact site where, for months before, his humble molehill had stood. It was now a small, smoking crater.

Dusting himself off, Miles quickly took up his senses and finished his thoughts. "I’'ll go to my friend’s.... Glad I saved my glasses!" And, adjusting his specks on his little mole nose, Miles Mole scampered off into the woods, safe again, for the time being.

In Maine, the leaves change color in the vaporous fog and sharply cold morning air. Ninety-two days and eleven minutes away (as the mosquito flies), the only things people see change color are images of the morning’s television news programs, which combine with dripping coffee makers to marshal in another day. It’s Florida, it’s 6:44 a.m., and while newscasters reveal worldly news stories, the state’s population is distracted by visions of encephalitic mosquitoes buzzing in their heads.

Hangovers, whiskers, plaque, dreams –– all are swept away by chemistry and duty. Hair dryers unknowingly unite to increase the area temperature by five degrees, until 7:15 becomes a muggy warm washcloth busy travelers are obliged to breathe through. Outside workers, already on-site, blow a steamy coffee-cloud off their Styrofoam cups and wonder if they should feel lucky that no mosquitoes have afforded them a vacation-delivering sting. People in cars itch their ankles at the slightest tickle, in a dread fear centering on the same theme.

Work begins, and mosquitoes take a lead role in small-talk throughout the day. Perhaps those occupants of that faraway Maine, in their crisp realm of brilliant metamorphosis and smart chilliness, can indulge in matters of worldly acclaim -- can pick up the Middle East crisis, inspect it, pass judgment -- can nail down the bastards who’re raising gas prices and refine violent vocal thrashings in their honor -- but we, we are suffered to be indoors and in-touch with our senses. Only work can turn our thoughts from the acute defense systems in place against the enemies. Getting through the business without being duped by a dirty little insect -- that’s the way you do it.

The life and death of a conversation:

"Hi, Sam. Brother still in Saudi?"

"Yeah. He writes there’re no mosquitoes there."

"Must be nice! Gonna vote?"

"I don’t know; the polls might not open... plus, gas prices."

"Hey, is that a mosquito?"

"YEOW! WHERE?!"

"See ya!"

The early evening, whence children used to play in the yard or pool while Mom fired up the barbecue grill and Dad hung out the laundry, is now a quiet sullenness which sees the group gathered around the all-in-one remote control. The new fall line-up, the best video-store products, even video games can’t overcome the horrific images the parents have necessarily built into their children’s minds in the process of explaining to them why they can’t play outside.

Meanwhile, the mosquitoes, feeling the sting of a bitter slander which has alienated their entire race and claimed all their possessions (homes, women, larvae, sacred burial grounds), have taken to dismal, low-key existences. In dark, damp spaces they collect, each wandering through the thin ranks in search of that one face that will remind him of another time, a proud time, when mosquitoes were Florida’s official state bird. Instead, in the warped faces, they see vacant fear of a deadly disease.

Where their government can afford it, little marrow kitchens are thrown together, and the blood lines stretch round them for yards. Many of the social workers talk with hope of new technologies and practices, but the old, even as they pine away to nothing, oppose change. Spirited battles wage around the new ideas of "safe biting" -- after all, biting a human is like kissing every mosquito she’s ever been probed by.

"But where are we gonna get those tiny little condoms?"

"Yeah! Where?..." the crowd demands. No answer comes.

"And how about those tiny little quarters to put in the machines?"

I predict a longer, colder winter. I think local candidate speeches, scheduled for outdoors, will be significantly shortened, more redundant, and will fail to do anything for the plight of the mosquito and the deadly disease crippling them. I believe the troubled insects’ numbers will dwindle in the impending doom; however, for those who survive the holocaust and nightly chemical warfare attacks, a new world shines in store. I can see a future where a few intelligent ones, like Dr. Ruth Mosquito, Donald Trump Mosquito, and their followers and off-spring, will form a nation where all creatures (even Bill the Cat) will be tapped safely, for fun and profit. Send your tax-deductible contributions to United Way.

Traveling north on I-95 Sunday, singing along with Boston, I happened to look into my rear view mirror to see a big LTD running cars off the road. "Freakin' clowns," I muttered, steering my car into another lane to avoid getting smashed. The big car streaked up beside me; I looked over to see the driver.... Suddenly, I broke into a fit of uncontrollable, riotous laughter as I noticed the red rubber nose, the green bushy hair and the pasty-white complexion of the driver. It was a car-load of clowns!

I struggled in vain to regain my composure as the clowns sped off before me. I just couldn't resist the cheap shots: "Hey, you clowns!" I howled; "Quit clowning around!" I gasped, tears streaking down my face.

And so I pressed on toward home with merry thoughts, until I noticed my personal petroleum shortage. The gas needle was just above E, and my trip-meter showed 380 miles. A pang of dismay shot through my mind as I remembered the number of trips I'd made in which I'd always easily cleared 400 miles on a tank of gas. What with the merriment of my demeanor, I opted to pass Ft. Pierce and go for Vero Beach, another 20+ miles. If I run out of gas, I told myself, I'll just deal with it.

Having heard my optimism, fate played one of those little jokes by evaporating my remaining gas -- leading my car to roll to a stop just after my trip-meter rolled off its 400th mile. I laughed a bit, embarrassed, but confident nonetheless. "It's a beautiful day," I smiled, beholding the cloudless sky. "And looking through these windows is just like more television. This'll be fun." I didn't even notice the buzzards.

The cars whizzed past, and I walked up the highway's shoulder. With my pride gleaming with the glow of adventure, I scoffed at thoughts of sticking my thumb out. Someone will stop, I assured myself.

After about 1/2 mile, sweat pouring off my brow, your weary adventurer stood road-side, sweaty thumb pointing north. People honked and stuck their thumbs out in jest, but none would stop. I trudged on.

Having climbed an overpass, I looked ahead to see more road and trees. Below, I saw the roof of a barn, and decided to seek assistance there. I surveyed my course -- I needed only to descend along a rather steep embankment, follow a ditch, cross a dirt road, and then find help. So I jumped the guardrail -- and promptly slid down the 50-foot, riddled-with-sand-spurs-and-cockleburs embankment on my back, and was saved from the stagnant ditch's depths only by the presence of mind which lead me to grab hold of a sticker bush in passing. "OUCH!" Looking around, I found myself in what appeared to me a perfect summer home for hungry reptiles, and I leapt about 75 feet to the dirt road.

Following the road, I soon beheld the barn I'd seen from the bridge and read it's sign: Do Nut Inter, Or Alse! Scratching my cocklebur-ridden head, I looked up to see a cloud of dust; I sighed, "Help has arrived." The pickup truck neared and I waved. The driver waved back and smiled, then drove on past me into the horizon. [EXPLETIVE! EXPLETIVING EXPLETIVE!]

I decided to take my chances back on the interstate. I climbed the embankment and, at its top, looked hatefully upon the road. Begrudgingly, I set to walking, and, rather than walking to the guardrail's end, decided it might make me feel better if I jumped it. I stepped on a wooden support beside it, which gave way under my weight and allowed the rail to deliver a sanity-shattering blow to my shin. I lain across the rail like a dead person on a horse, looking at the steaming black asphalt. "Look at that: a quarter!"

I plucked my injured self up and hobbled over to the edge of the road where a quarter was shining in the sunshine. I stooped to pick it up, but it had apparently baked into the road. As I focused all my worldly energies on making that quarter mine, a big LTD careened across two lanes to put me in its sights. H O N N N N K K!

"Aaah!" I screamed, diving back across the rail and down the length of the embankment I'd come to know so well. By the time I'd climbed back up to the road, the car had stopped, and about 20 laughing clowns stood beside it. I limped over to them.

"You guys are a little early for Halloween, aren't you?" I sarcastically asked. You've never seen a pack of clowns get so scornful so fast.

The green-haired driver spoke up. "You want a ride or what?"

We all got in and I thanked them for picking me up. "So, what are you clowns doing today?"

"Oh, mostly just running people off the road. We're all retired, so it's just another Sunday drive for us," Tipsy explained.

"Just... clowning around, huh?" I offered, which, it appears, wasn't very funny to them: Happy (the driver) sent the car into a spin and hit a button which simultaneously slapped a pie into my face and then launched me out of the back seat and into a field near a gas station.

I got a ride back to my car, but not before the clowns had paid me another visit. Driving home, pestered by honking station wagons and buses carrying cheering, laughing kids, I thought about the adventure I'd created for myself. Later that night, as I stood trying to peal the giant red rubber nose and mouse tail off my car, I promised I would never, not for any reason, ever run out of gas again.

By the way, does Super glue ruin car paint? (Freakin' clowns!)

If you're anything like me, you probably have a lot of responsibilities piling up on you these days. Low beneath the state of mind that attempts to take care of a day's business lies knowledge of the approaching holiday season. It's there, but buried by innumerable projects and the customary concerns of money, life and happiness. I'm sure you agree, however, that the approaching holidays afford at least three socially acceptable means by which to sedate and soothe those savage responsibilities. Traveling, shopping, and romancing, when offered in any combination for the use of defending your failure to attend to some responsibility during the holidays, are always greeted by unconditional, warm understanding.

Anyone with a grasp of history has, at one time, conjured a heroic image in his or her mind of some great explorer. You can still close your eyes on the word 'discovery' and see some rich land, its treasures abundant, its conquerors steeped in riches and reeking of good fortune. We all have our ideas of secret, far-off lands. Somehow, thoughts of traveling stir up primal feelings in all of us, and a change in the wind's direction can often call out our hidden desires to pursue nomadic dreams.

Granted, the coincidental conflict of your shopping and working schedules, at most times of the year, wouldn't earn you much understanding. But a little twist on the story will leave your audiences helplessly compassionate; for our common understanding of shopping centers at Christmas-time leads us to instantly respect anyone with the sense to "get some shopping out of the way early." It's nearly impossible to chastise someone bearing up this excuse, because, upon hearing it, our thoughts immediately turn to the mile-long list of purchases and preparations between ourselves and a happy new year.

The final sure-fire excuse for not doing what you're supposed to is espoused by the general heading of Romance.... Imagine the swooning, envious reviews you'd receive in passing this story along:

An ice-shiny glare from a distant window half-lit my face as I stood awaiting my ride to work. In the early heat the tiniest bead of perspiration rolled down the center of my back, and suddenly a cool breeze swept around me -- the mixed sensations braced my nerves, and I felt extraordinary. Turning over the endless pages of my mind's Rolodex, I turned to look into the glare. There. Someone was there. Approaching, eyes fixed on mine, I saw it was that face I've always looked for, attached to that body I've seen on the Bally commercials. I couldn't believe it. The eyes kissed me, and the ride I was waiting for wound up not being to work, after all.

So, back in reality, you can see how travel, shopping, and romancing excuses, in the holiday season, will allow you to sail right over those thunderstorms of conflict all your friends experience when they blow off duties. It may be a cheap shot to play on folks' sentimental souls, but it's all in good fun; further, if you subscribe to the philosophy of living each day to the fullest, I believe a romantic shopping tour, in all bets, wins out over a day of yard work.

What makes me any kind of authority on playing hooky? Heck, I've got so much homework due now I need to rent a back hoe to bind my desk. I have one week of executive responsibilities left for a student organization I started a year ago, and I have somehow to package the entirety of my management efforts to make them seem sensible. A military commitment sees me ensuring any loose strings that would keep me from traveling east are neatly tied, as well as practicing breathing through a gas mask. My lease is up this month. I have dozens of projects due, columns to write, and entries in my journal to catch up on.

Still, there probably wasn't a garage sale this weekend in the Orlando metropolitan area that I missed. Because garage sales blend all the elements mentioned above: Traveling around town, seeing the hidden, beautiful, brick Orlando and its endless lakes; shopping where there's always a possibility of finding that one stupid thing you just can't live without; and, spending a cheap but romantic day of exploration of a date.

If this all sounds like a bunch of malarkey to you, just try it one weekend. Saturday morning, rather than picking up that "to do" list, go out and find some garage sales. The weather's great these days, and once you're out, you'll find plenty of things to do. After the garage sales, yard sales, carport sales, and estate sales, you'll probably have driven by so many parks overflowing with company picnics that you'll be able to choose which ones to crash. If you listen to the radio, you'll hear about free things going on all the way through the weekend.

And, arriving home late at night with all you new used stuff and a slight sunburn, you'll drag your sleepy self happily into bed, and most importantly, have a perfectly clear conscience. For, although none of your work will be done, you'll have traveled, shopped, and romanced. You'll probably even outlive all your responsible friends.

The cool Texas eve settled in on the group of men who stood lined up in four rows in a pool of mercury vapor light, outside a prison-like building, luggage at their feet. All were in dread fear of the painful humiliation they would face in the upcoming weeks. All shrank at thoughts of the physical challenges they would soon suffer, including baldness. All were victims of an intense anxiety which resulted from imaginative renditions of their tough-as-rubber-poop drill instructor. All, that is, except Breeze.

His wry smile slightly tilted at the world, the jovial bumpkin slowly rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. The first of his family to escape the farm, he was eagerly anxious to perform great deeds for the military. The memory of his girl back home, and her promise that he would see her soon, laid submerged below dutiful mental meanderings; and, when the 'tap-tap-tap' of the DI's solemn step echoed from the darkness, the hairs on the back of his bony neck stood up in salute.

"A-Tench-Hut!" came the throaty cry, prompting the men to drop their smokes and otherwise clamor toward their respective ideas of what the drill instructor expected. In the chilly dimness, the DI tapped around the group, surveying them. He came to Breeze and saw the twisted grin. The group felt a spark and sensed that the DI, in one way or another, was preparing to rip Breeze's head off. A low rumbling noise commenced.

But, before it erupt, Breeze introduced himself. "Good evening, sir; J. D. Breeze here. Happy to meet you sir, and to be here. Why, just this mornin'--"

"WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? YOU PIECE OF *%&@! COUNTRY $#!* THIS IS NOT A BARNYARD! MILITARY BEARING DICTATES...." In this manner J.D. Breeze was introduced to the military.

Although he'd always gotten along fine back home, the young man couldn't get his act together for his country. Breeze could not march in time, left face, right face, nor about face. He couldn't run, sit-up, push-up, nor pull-up. He couldn't entertain a crowd with his stories, nor could he ever do anything to make a good impression upon anyone he met. Yet he never gave up.

Two-by-two the fully trained airmen marched before the panel of highly accredited marchability-expert reviewers. Fully aware of the significance of this last rite of passage, Breeze's heartbeat pounded. Half an hour later, at the affair's end, Breeze's partner nursed a scratched nose, a fractured kneecap and two bruised elbows, and looked over Breeze's comprehensive smudge job over the entirety of his previously highly polished military shoes. But the partner passed, while Breeze was asked to practice for a few weeks longer.

Through the course of his torture, Breeze had been unable to answer the many letters from home. He knew the folks who thought so much of him would be shattered to find out he was a loser. It was his determination to make good for their sake that he carried with him constantly -- yet, finally, it couldn't carry him through.

He was called into the DI's office one morning before chow. "Breeze, we've decided that you just don't aim high enough. Pack your stuff. Good luck."

Breeze was shattered. His motions carried him out the gate he'd entered with so much hope and pride, and from one airport to the next. But he noticed, ever since leaving the base, his old hand-eye coordination was back. "Figures!" he offered up to the ironic powers that be.

When he got to St. Louis, he looked for a phone booth to call home and get a ride to the farm. But as he crossed the terminal, someone tapped him on the shoulder, and, spinning around, he saw it was his girl. "Missy!"

He held her for a long time, and then realized that something strange was going on. "How'd you know I was coming home?"

"Well, J.D., you know the homecoming dance is Saturday night, and I couldn't stand for us to miss it, so I just brought you on home. I told you I'd be seeing you soon."

"WHAT KINDA... HOW in the world, girl, did you..."

"Oh, come on, now, Hon," she calmed him, pulling him out toward the truck. "You always knew I got into a little magic, right? Well, I made a little doll and I did what I had to to bring you home. Daddy's just struck oil, so he'll be needing your help around the farm. And you might've gotten killed!"

For the hundreds of thousands of men and women who haven't been saved from the vestiges of military duty by magic, the present-day realities of past duty may be somewhat short of glorious. For Veterans Day, wrap your sentiments in red, white, and blue, and do something nice for someone who's done something ultimately selfless for all of us.

Remember.

A long fall Sunday stretched out before me as I relaxed on my father's sofa. The home slowly came alive, and everyone glowed cheerfully in the morning's promise. My brother's friend, Bryan, had traveled from our northern homeland in pursuit of work with the family business –– and was available around the house outside of working hours. Unaware of the peril we would soon land ourselves in as a result of it, Bryan and I plotted out the day's possibilities.

"You guys ought to set out some trotlines on the lake," my father suggested. "Got some in the boat." So, it was settled; Bryan and Roger loaded up the boat, pulled it to the lake, and –– in the same moment as the boat's belly broke the glassy water's tension –– sealed their fate with the evil forces determined to darken their lives.

A breeze kicked up as we left the inlet. "Kinda windy, isn't it?" I observed, the waves ambitiously riddling our course as we slammed out over the water. Each of us keenly attuned our senses, eagerly pursuing the honor of discovering the ideally-suited-for-a-trotline haven of giant fish martyrs who had lived and grown only to be served at the fish fry Bryan and Roger had agreed to cater that very evening.

"There! By the reeds!" Bryan shouted into my ear.

"What?" I asked, deafened by the wind. Bryan pointed, and I had to agree that he had, indeed, found the perfect spot. I cut the motor, and we turned our energies to the hunt.

For those of you non-midwesterners (for they all know what a trotline is!), a trotline is a long twine with hooks tied-off from it at intervals. By using one, real fishermen can indulge in the true thrill of fishing (which, of course, is BS'ing and drinking beer), in between the eventual checks of the line. Unfortunately, our search revealed that we didn't have one. "Are you sure?" Bryan asked.

"Positive." I yelled. "Hey –– we've blown across the lake!"

Thence began a series of events which began with us being unable to start the engine despite the battery giving its life for the cause, and which ended with Bryan and I getting killed near the jungle's edge as we swam up from the lake, towing the expired vessel.

Okay, so we weren't killed. However, you must understand, after a couple hours of wading through a sharp, gritty pine forest taking turns to carry the sacred, heaviest dead battery in the world on our stinging sweaty shoulders, we sort of wished we had been. The plan was to cut through the woods to the house, recharge the battery, then return to the day's richness. The plan was miserably failing.

"You see anything?" I hissed up the tree toward Bryan, my parched throat squelching the hopeful plea.

He looked down at me. "We are really lost."

In spite of the DARNELL tombstone I couldn't blink out of my thoughts as we crossed the desert, we found Dad's house. I collapsed on the driveway, and Dad came over to hear our tale.

"You what?" he shouted. "Don't you know the Law of the Sea? If you find a boat, it's yours! You've gotta get that boat before someone takes it! GO GET THAT BOAT!" So Bryan and Roger set out with the truck's battery (the new heavyweight champ) toward the boat. And even though we aimed to follow the shore around, we very soon found ourselves back near the tree Bryan had scaled only hours before.

"We are really lost again." Don't get me wrong; it was a big lake... but somehow, as soon as we cut into the woods to get around a marsh, the lake upped and moved far, far away. It was simply nowhere in sight.

Standing only half as tall as we'd been that morning, Bryan and I looked across a fence at a concrete road which, it seemed to us, "just shouldn't be there." An hour's walk saw only one speeding car come past, but we soon caught up to it, to our glee, at a lakeside shack.

The owner gladly agreed to take us to our boat, after we offered to send him $100 and gave him Dad's VISA number. Bryan and I sat in the bow as the boat raced across the water, its driver telling us how stupid we must've been to walk 8 miles out of our way. Without speaking, we agreed to cut the man's fee to $95.

"The boat!" I screamed, joyous that it hadn't fallen victim to sea law. We were let off a few hundred feet from it, and, walking through the hip-deep mud with our hands covering our mouths, wondered if the man had intentionally dropped us off in official housefly breeding grounds.

As Bryan hooked up the battery, I performed the ritual pursed-face, swearing pessimist 'it's not gonna start' routine, head-butting the boat repeatedly. After about 30 such blows, my head began ringing, and I realized the boat had started! I collapsed.

Night took hold of the sky quickly as the winch clicked the boat from the water onto the trailer. The moon smiled a crescent our direction, and we grimaced back at it. The remainder of the weekend I sacrificed to the Lord of the Sofa, which, unlike the Boat God, never tangled my pathway to enlightenment. "It's a jungle out there Roj," it whispered in my chaffed ear.

Of course, Bryan moved back up north.

Two weeks short of graduation, I pause for a moment to gaze into the reflecting pond that's just swallowed a letter the wind decided to lift from my hands. The letter, from a class ring manufacturer, discussed prompt action, meaningless discounts, and indirectly addressed a condition some people have (namely, having far too much money), which does not bear upon me in the slightest way.

I watch the paper shrivel into its watery grave, and am suddenly overcome as the full deck of images my mind had been shuffling spills out across my vision.

I stand in the corner of a wrestling ring. It's me against them: a 5-man tag-team of UCF’s finest. Three of them, known as the Tenured Tomcats, are respected veterans of this ring, and their moves, though slowing, can easily trap the careless challenger. Another, the Masked Film-Department-Head, is dangerous, due to contract disputes which have denied him the plush amenities his manager promised. Steeped in such disillusionment, the MFDH must be feared. I squint across the ring at them, and suddenly, S L A M M! Having struck prior to the bell and from beneath the bottom ring-rope, the Adjunct Avenger has painfully taught me the danger of expecting fair play. Five grown men in tights are pinning me, and the B.A. belt is swirling from reach.

Swirling, swirling. Birds fly around an aircraft on a military base's flight line. Two daggers of light approach and freeze, and a blue school bus opens its doors for us to climb aboard. We drive through the darkness in a simulation of our last drive in the United States for a while, and park, in a simulation of disembarking, checking our bags, and boarding a flight for a sand desert of major current world infamy.

The dark waiting gives way, and I once more occupy the body which stares into the reflecting pond. One weekend a month for five years I've driven 250 miles each way to play war games and do good work for my country, only to be forced to put up with the malicious, ignorant browbeatings of stodgy, insecure senior enlisted throw-rugs each time my cowlick gets frisky. "Yes sir," I've heard myself smartly reply hundreds of times against my intelligence. I missed the meeting last month due to an accident. So, since throw-rugs dictate, this month I'll not have a bed and will be fined heavily, all in accordance with little regulations.

Regulations of Broadcasting. One of the classes I'm taking. Why aren't I doing better in these classes? The wrestling match is only a small part of my grades, and really it wouldn't exist were I a better student. Or, for that matter, were I to read half of the material for a given class. I consider talking to the instructors, explaining the days spent, the thousands of miles logged, in the cross-country housing search I've completed only today. "And I'm the sole financier of this life, sir," I imagine saying. Working, living, eating, creating, lining things up. It all takes a toll. "I know your material, but your test stunk. It doesn't allow me to show what I know."

"Look at the syllabus; you knew what to expect; you decide what's important; the tale's told in the grade book."

The tale is told. I remember Dr. Altman smiling at me, "Roger, U Can Finish!" Now he's in Europe somewhere testing Jacuzzi's while the university cuts classes to make it possible. Not enough teachers already! What do you mean 'not offered?!' A scratchy promise plagues my thoughts, "UCF will be one of the top universities in the country.... graduate programs.... national focus...." Thank you Madame Trash Heap, I'm only a stress attack and the rest of this column away from being done here.

Who in the world invented the graduation cap? What is it? Can I just cut off the stupid flat thing and wear the beanie? I promise not to put a propeller on it.

Propellers spin and my mind races as I wonder if I have a piece of paper pinned to my back that says "Ask me what I'm doing after I graduate!" Aha! I've found the answer: I'm going fishing. Indefinitely. But I truly thank you for asking and would love to hear from you.

I think of Dustin Hoffmann in The Graduate lying at the bottom of a pool breathing through a regulator. I think of all the people who work for this paper who have told me, "I read your column. But I don't understand it." I think of stodgy, closed-minded people everywhere and their slug-level senses of humor, afraid to be themselves and accept other people -- things -- for what they have to offer. I think of falling into the reflecting pond.

No. I have only to smile, and the authorities will tolerate me for a bit longer. In its dirty, littered wisdom, the reflecting pond reflects me accomplishing the goals I find important, and forgetting about a chance I once had to have a class ring at a reduced price. And to have some other things that are equally meaningless.

Always remember: No matter where you go... there you are. See ya.

Aug. 22, 1989: It's 1989...

Aug. 29, 1989: Crack a Smile, Gain World Peace

Sep. 5, 1989: Where Is Heard An Encouraging Word?

Sep. 12, 1989: Fund the Feline Freedom Fighters!

Sep. 19, 1989: Getting Around with Much Appeal

Sep. 26, 1989: More Than Just a Magnum Opus

Oct. 3, 1989: Academic Advisors Live in Dream Time

Oct. 10, 1989: The Road Back When...

Oct. 17, 1989: Who Will Pay for the Trillions of Bug Deaths?

Oct. 24, 1989: Step Number 1: Get Up and Leave

Oct. 31, 1989: Want to See Something Really Scary?

Nov. 7, 1989: It's Little, Yellow and Different

Nov. 14, 1989: Just a Lil' Environmentalist

Nov. 21, 1989: Jim and Tammy's Curse On Central Florida

Nov. 28, 1989: After Graduation, Real World Looms

Dec. 5, 1989: Christmas Presence

Jan. 9, 1990: Seating Search, or Tall Tail Tales

Feb. 16, 1990: Citizen's Band Raid-io Warning

Jan. 23, 1990: R.S.V.P.: Got Any Money?

Jan. 30, 1990: Wild Beast Contained by Local Heroes

Feb. 6, 1990: Beware of the Beagle Boys

Feb. 13, 1990: The Story of Tiny and Valera

Feb. 20, 1990: Hangin' with Home-Boy George

Feb. 27, 1990: Spring (Break) is In the Air

Mar. 27, 1990: You Never Heard of Green Thursday?

Apr. 3, 1990: Paying Homage to April Fools

Apr. 10, 1990: Summer School and Other Oxymorons

Apr. 17, 1990: Stubby's Angle on Forest and Trees

Apr. 24, 1990: Learning Should Be an Adventure

May 16, 1990: Deterioration, Not in My Book

May 23, 1990: I'll Show You Mine...

May 30, 1990: The Simple Art of Blowing Money, Take 1

June 6, 1990: Crime Pays

June 13, 1990: Duty Calls in the Midst of a Steamy June Morning

June 20, 1990: (De-) Grading Your Teachers

June 17, 1990: Portrait of a Student Who Learns Just the Facts

July 11, 1990: The Day in History When Internships Made Sense

July 18, 1990: Discovering the Florida Keys

July 25, 1990: On the South-Side of Chicago

Aug. 23, 1990: Where's the Land-Bridge When You Need It?

Sep. 6, 1990: Why Grandparents Should Rule the World

Life Beyond the Windshield: Bugs Who Dared

Top Secret Test Tips Revealed; Profs Spooked

Sep. 27, 1990: Hunting Snakes and Gators on the Wekiva

Oct. 4, 1990: I Thought I'd Just Have a Cup of Coffee

Oct. 11, 1990: A Day in the Life of Miles, Renaissance Mole

Oct. 18, 1990: The Decline and Fall of the Mosquito Empire

Oct. 25, 1990: It All Started With a Strange Bunch of Clowns

Nov. 1, 1990: Work, Duty and Fun in the Dawn of the Holidays

Nov. 8, 1990: The Retrieved Reformation of a Cool Breeze

Nov. 15, 1990: Maritime Madness, or It's a Jungle Out There

Nov. 29, 1990: Windy Fall Primer to the Eternal Fishing Trip