Right now I'm supposed to be in class. I'm not. I'm at home, sitting in a computer chair, typing on a keyboard. My schedule says 2:00-3:00 pm is designated time to learn about Developmental Psychology, but Dr. Shenkman hit me with the type of mind-bending observation that made me wipe my forehead and profess, "That's it, enough school for today."

School is linked to education is linked to smarts. And yet we all know that intellect and smarts include a plethora of other areas outside of learning in a classroom. We have book smarts, but we also have street smarts, people smarts, X-Box smarts, whatever.

You can go to school all your life. Search a university catalog and see how many degrees, undergrad and graduate work, exist. You could strive to be a living alphabet soup if you so desired: Mr. Johnson, BA, MA, MS, PhD, JD, MBA, CAPS, MD.

But if you go to school all your life, do you necessarily know more at 30 than another man who, at 30, has worked and raised a family for almost ten years? Many educated men live in a sterile, insulated world while going to their ivory tower of knowledge, and while book smart, they could arguably know less than the man who has lived in the real world during those years.

This made me look at myself, which was very easy considering I was chosen as a case example in this lecture. I may not get my first real job until I'm in my late 20s. By that time, I should be damn smart, but in what ways? I'll know the facts and skills that are necessary for my field, but I must make sure to remember that during that time it's essentially as vital to live as it is to learn. Knowledge comes indirectly from books... where knowledge truly develops is from experience. We respect our elders on this principle, because we know through their years they have lived more, which implies they are wiser.

I must remember that during graduate school, I should intake as many lessons outside the classroom as I do within. Take in life, live my mistakes, question what doesn't seem right, help my fellow man, have fun. With each day I can become infinitely smarter.

I'm already wiser than the person I was two hours ago.

After lecture, I waited for Doc to pack his bag and followed him out the door. I thanked him for the talk, which he appreciated and offered deeper advice on life and school. My next class had started 10 minutes ago, but I stood in the criminology hallway learning from a man who has extensive wisdom from his life as a cop, a basketball player, a professor, a husband, and a father.

On the bus ride home, I unfolded my crossword puzzle and filled in whatever boxes I could. I was also humming a song. I was humming a Rosie Thomas melody, the words escaped me. When I got home, I put the disc into my stereo, and played the track stuck in my head. For the first time, I actually heard the lyrics.

Gradually,
I will get wiser.
I will get stronger.
I will be bolder.
I will not settle.
I will fight back.
I will stand up, or I will sit back.

Gradually, I will get older.
I will get wiser.
I will move slower.
I will see clearer.
I'll overcome.
And I'll acknowledge how far I have come.

Lines I'd (almost) give my left nut to never hear in another song
>I'd walk 1,000 miles just to be with you tonight.
>Let's spread our wings and fly away.
>I didn't mean to make you cry.
>Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you?
>You're the air that I breathe.
>I can't breathe without you.
>Anything that has to do with breathing.
>You drive me crazy.
>You make me crazy.
>Rock your body, baby.
>I got lost along the way.
>You're always on my mind.
>I can't live without you.
>I'm not a girl, not yet a woman.
>I'll be there. (how could I forget that one?)

Anthony, age 7: Daddy, how do a boy and a girl have sex?
Dad: You just stick your boogers in them.

Dad: Ant, cut that out or I'll break your face!
Anthony, age 10: What? You do it all the time in my face too!
Dad: Yeah, but mine smell good. Like tomatoes fresh from the can.

Anthony, age 13: It's not fair.
Dad: Well, you can either stay here in bed feeling sorry for yourself, or you can get up and do something about it. Either way, we'll help you any way we can. That's what we're here for.

Dad: I cried a little bit on the way home.
Anthony, age 18: Really?
Dad: Yeah, I saw a McDonald's and it reminded me of you.
Anthony: What memories do we have at McDonald's?
Dad: I don't know.

Dad: So what are you doing tonight?
Anthony, age 19: I'm just making a cake right now with a couple of guys on the floor.
Dad: Oh wow, I've never been so proud! Evelyn! My son is baking with the boys on a Saturday night!

Anthony, age 21: I'm wondering if maybe I should stay another year and maybe get some work experience.
Dad: Oh yeah?
Anthony: Yeah, what do you think?
Dad: Well, I think that'd be kind of stupid. Sounds like you'd just be putting your life on hold for a year.
Anthony: I guess.
Dad: You just do what's best for you, but you asked my advice. You've got what it takes to keep going.
Anthony: I know.
Dad: Like I said, you just do what you think is best, and I'll support you. You'll make the right decision.

Dad: You're a great kid, Ant.
Anthony, all ages: Thanks. You're a great dad.

We've had some great talks over the years, dad. Happy 51st birthday. I not only love you, but I like you too.

Ouch! Ouch! OUCH!!!

The rush I get from ordering a new (or used) cd is a reflection of the experiences I anticipate will later come. And honestly--- and this is a trait I've inherited from my dad--- I can't figured out which I love more: listening to new music, or possessing new music. The obvious pleasure comes in the listening, but there's something magical in holding that jewel case, in setting up a long-term home for the cd in my rack (In my dad's case, this is an entire wall. Have I mentioned we have over 5,000 cds back home?), in scrolling through the pictures and liner notes of the album sleeve, in the mere knowledge that I have this fifty-minute sample of another person's art in my grasp.

In a few days, there will be times when Rufus Wainwright's voice is soaring out my car, times when Rosie Thomas's humming will distract my studying, and times when I'll be sitting in my bed just looking at the cds in my right and left hand. And I'm not gonna figure out if I enjoyed holding them or playing them more, because that's like trying to figure out how The West Wing won a fourth consecutive Emmy.

ShOrTyLiLsWeEtIe: Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

Monday, the beginning of the week, the blocker of sleep, the pimp to my call girl. I experienced quite an eventful Monday. As a matter of fact, all of the following happened. Except for one... I'm throwing in a fake. See if you can figure out which one it is.

1) I spilled garbage water all over my shirt.
2) A cd came for me in the mail... one I ordered a month ago.
3) A girl kissed me after I let her know that mangero is Italian for "I will eat."
4) I found out our water heater was broken the wrong way, by taking an ice cold shower in the morning.
5) One of my patients/students at the treatment center died of unnatural causes.
6) I took a one-hour nap naked, without sheets, and the fan on full blast.
7) My mom let me know that my cousin will soon go to prison for 5-10 years.
8) My team was victorious in our first intramural volleyball game.
9) With five minutes of free time, I watched five minutes of The Meateater.
10) I saw an ex-girlfriend who keeps getting hotter.

I don't think I've ever understood that it really is ok for me to look around and go out with more than one girl while no true feelings exist. I say this because I've never actively pursued girls, but the stars and the moon aligned in such a way that on Friday, I got the phone numbers of a few ladies, plural. I initially felt kind of like an ass, as if I were playing games with these girls, but then it hit me: I don't know them well, and I want that to change. If I begin to develop feelings for one, I have enough character to focus on what I really want. I don't have to justify what happened; what happened is inherently acceptable.

But none of this changes my goals, and I would still trade kissing 10 different girls for having just one fall asleep in my lap while watching a movie at home.

Vague One-Liner No One Cares About
I'm very curious as to how I feel about this whole situation when I wake up.

Every generation lives through a monumental event that changed the world, that cemented moment that's always in place when your grandchildren will ask, "Where were you when X happened?" To think that two years ago today, I thought our moment would be the OJ verdict.

My walk from Italian to Analysis of Police Organizations brings me through a crowd of library patrons and students looking for a lunch break across University Avenue. Every type of person walks through this passage; I can bump into a PIKE headed to MVP Sports Bar while overhearing the nasal singing of the Hare Krishnas. Today I recognized a guy walking in my direction, but I couldn't make a positive identification. He donned a baseball cap and sunglasses, and his attention was entirely devoted to the plain-but-attractive brunette by his side. I didn't strain my eyes to figure out who he was, but I knew that he had once been in my life. He and his female companion brushed by, and I heard him speak a few words to her.

The words were inconsequential; actually, they've already escaped me. It was the voice's timbre--- that nasal, subtly piercing tenor--- that brought me back to freshmen year, when Rob was my neighbor in East Hall. He was widely unpopular among the hall, partly for his odd eccentricites, partly for the non-stop cycling of Kid Rock songs from his stereo, but mainly for his remarkable anal retentiveness and intolerance of even the most faint outside noises. For reasons I can no longer remember, let alone justify, Rob once reminded me of my best friend from home, Andrew. When Andrew visited me freshmen year, the two met face to face. Andrew later informed me (jokingly) that he was offended by my comparison. I understand why.

Nevertheless, the mere vision and idea of Rob today made me think of Andrew. I spent last weekend visiting him in Pensacola, celebrating and reliving past memories. We involved ourselves in many of the same activities that made us best friends in high school: eating loaded potato soup at O'Charley's, watching The Meateater, discussing girls and religion, critiquing our old homemade movies. One of my personal favorites, one I did not appreciate until this weekend, has me sitting as a spectator as Andrew and my dad fire sarcastic insults toward each other, a battle my dad usually wins.

When Sunday morning came around and time had come for me to return to school, I gave Andrew a hand shake and hug, told him I loved him, and made sure he knew that I rarely want to ever see him again. If I rarely see Andrew again, I can be confident he is successfully chasing his dream. Tomorrow he takes a plane to New York and moves into his two-person, one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment. Andrew has been invited to join a theatre playhouse in Manhattan. He has never lived outside of Pensacola, but tomorrow he leaves everybody and everything familiar to pursue his acting career. Risky, terrifying, and exhilarating rolled into one chaotic ball.

Andrew was put on this Earth to perform. Dear friends are supposed to say such supportive things, but I put strong faith behind that praise. I believe him when he says that he will be happy in life if he can take masses of people and make them forget their problems in day-to-day life, if only for a passing moment. I'm sad but relieved to know he won't be a five-minute drive away whenever I go home. I may be losing proximity with a friend, but New York is gaining a passionate, delightful performer. The time has come for Andrew to share with the rest of the world what I have seen for sixteen years. I just hope the world is ready. And kind.

New look. Same, great taste.
--- Pepsi Campaign 1991

Thanks to Furio for the new design.

People are surprised when I tell them that I don’t cry. My friends know that I openly express my feelings, which is why it surprises them so much that all this time none of them have ever seen even a sole tear ride down my cheek. I’m a sensitive guy, somewhat emotional, but as for crying, I haven’t since 1996, when I felt my dog’s heart stop beating as the vet put her to sleep.

I know you won’t label me as some sort of freak robot for this, but I think I should explain that I have been close to tears a few times since 1996. The time my grandma, stricken with MS, got up from her wheelchair and took steps. The time I had to say goodbye to the girl I adored as she boxed up her belongings. The time we got the call that my childhood friend was shot and killed. The time I realized that my girlfriend would never love me the way I yearned for. Passion-entrenched times, enough for perhaps a sensing of my eyes filling with water, but never a physical outreach, never an emotional release. Never a shed tear.

Tonight I again caught myself on the brink of tears. This time no circumstances in my personal life were at focus. Actually I’m embarrassed to say what I was doing when it happened.

I was watching TV. And I haven’t even reached the embarrassing part.

I was watching “Legendary Nights,” a series that recaps classic boxing matches.

Tonight they recapped a 1990 bout, a fight I vaguely remember but whose memory will never escape me. Analysts widely considered Julio Cesar Chavez, undefeated after over 70 fights, the best fighter in the game. He was challenged by an up-and-coming Meldrick Taylor, with the winner well on his way to a legendary career.

The story of the fight goes like this: Meldrick Taylor dominates Chavez through the first nine (of twelve) rounds. All Meldrick has to do is be standing when the final round closes to be declared the winner. In the final round, Meldrick chooses to fight rather than dance around and secure his victory. With about 25 seconds left in the fight, Chavez unleashes a crushing blow to Meldrick’s head. He wobbles around for several seconds, trying to hold on for the bell. Chavez lands another vicious punch and knocks Meldrick down with about 10 seconds left. Meldrick is quite stunned but gets up to beat the count. Nevertheless, despite Meldrick’s wide lead on the scorecards and the virtual end of the fight, the referee stops the fight with 2 seconds left, declaring Chavez the winner by technical knockout.

These are the important details, the parts of the story I still remember, including the fury all boxing fans had toward the absurd call by referee Richard Steele. After that fight, Chavez continued a glorified career that will certainly place him in the hall of fame. Meldrick Taylor never reached the heights his career was two seconds away from reaching.

Tonight “Legendary Nights” replayed an interview with Meldrick Taylor, some thirteen years after the fight. I had long been curious as to his life after the Chavez fight. My dad had already seen this program--- I was watching a rerun--- and had warned me of the tragedy I would witness. No warning could prepare me for such a tragic display.

There Meldrick Taylor sat on his couch. He looked bloated, his eyes seemingly still swollen from a fight thirteen years ago. His mouth sunk, his chin nearly grazing his neck. Every word that came out of his mouth seemed to require all his effort and concentration. His once charismatic, loud-jabbing demeanor had deteriorated into a clunky, foggy trance. He expressed his thoughts at a plodding pace, his sentences so drastically slurred that executives must have pondered over the use of subtitles.

Meldrick Taylor is still boxing. He continues to distribute--- and absorb--- punches. He fights guys who weren’t worthy to hold his jockstrap in his prime. Sometimes he wins, sometimes he gets knocked out. But he continues to fight, not ready to give up on his dream.

Through all his stutters and fumbled language, Meldrick desperately attempted to convince the public--- and himself--- that he is as good a fighter today as he was in 1990. He still covets the championship that eluded him in that controversial defeat. He’s set on achieving the greatness he almost attained thirteen years ago. He will continue fighting. Even if it kills him.

This is a man who saw his defining moment confiscated by an outside party. He’s a destiny unfulfilled, a life unfinished. He will continue a hopeless quest to reverse time and reach conquest in a former life. He will never satisfy his purpose but refuses to search for any other journey. This is all he has to live for. This is all he will ever live for. We have already seen the future. His life is rapidly deteriorating. In another thirteen years he will have no quality of life, as he will either be a wheelchair-confined vegetable, or buried in the ground. All because he has yet to see his only apparent purpose in life realized.

It almost brings a man to tears.

If you decided to halt the normal progress of your life and fulfill every person's fantasy of becoming a full-fledged porn star, what would be your stage name? If you didn't know, there is actually a formula for a person's porn alias. Take your middle name, then stick the name of the street you grew up on at the end (omitting St., Rd., Dr., etc.). Bam... you're ready for a booming career in the video sex industry!

Tonight the boys of Country Village designed their porn posters, courtesy of Microsoft Picture It. If you'd like your own custom porn poster, send me your middle name, the street you grew up on, and a sexy portrait, because I'm totally down with making more of these to put on the marquee! For now, here are the rising stars of Country Village...