Gibby

Each morning, after walking and feeding the mut, I sit down to a bowl of oatmeal and watch Morning Joe. Today, a clip that Willy showed really struck me. It was a shot of Kirk Gibson, former Detroit Tiger god, and presently manager of the Arizona Diamondbacks, walking out to dispute a call with the umpire. My picture of Gibson is always of a long haired stallion; a hard nosed slugger who could out run a horse. Unbridled passion. Vigor. Perpetual youth. To use an overused cliche, he always leaves it all on the field.

It was hard marrying that picture with the older gentleman limping stiff-legged onto and off the field. It hurt to watch the aging hero. I sensed my mortality, and rubbed my sore knee.

Lastimado,

P. Suave

El Viejo Cojo

Hay Pero Que Calor

Dear Readers,

Pepinoville received its first hot spell today - a high of 70- plus degrees. I pulled my shorts from the back of the closet, and bared my stilts to the world. The afternoon was spent out back putzing around with La Hija de Pastora, and my ladies. And the dog.

Now it is time to get back to school...

Sudando,

Peps

Estacionamento

There is no such thing as an extra-wide drive way, nor a two-car driveway. Just a driveway. You see, a driveway is like Chinese food; no matter how big the order, you still could eat more. My dear child bride and I have had a two-plus car driveway, a one-car driveway, and our present two car driveway. We drive compact cars. Still, we run out of room. You have a good twenty feed of smooth, dry cement, and then that sloppy strip of mud and gnarly grass chewed up by a compact car driven by a spatially impaired chofer. For this driver, the concrete slab is just a suggestion, a general target, a place to set a few of the vehicle's tires when parked.

Desaquilibrado,

P. Suave

1984

We moved last fall. La Casa Pepino sold quickly and cheaply mid-summer, and we moved to Hogar Pepino just before the school doors open. It is an 80 year old house, tastefully updated over the years, and offers plenty of room for family and the accompaning livestock (Angel gets the upstairs, Luna downstairs and a portion of the backyard for her thing).

It being spring break and all, I aim to tear through the basement and garage. School and cold began before I could fully unpack and organize these last two portions of the estate. This morning I was pulling apart some anceint shelving in the basement. I grabbed some old newspaper lining the top shelf and read the dateline: August 12, 1984. It was on the masthead for a page of advertising ("Meijer Thrifty Acre 50th Anniversary"). As I continued busting up boards and prying nails, I reminisced about that period in my life. Here is what I remember about the year 1984:

1. I was a sophmore at college with an undeclared major and mounting student debt.

2. I worked summers in the maintainance department at an apartment complex, and midnights as a security guard during the school year.

3. The Detroit Tiger won the World Series against the San Diego Padres. Joe, Pete, and I watched the post-series celebration/inferno from the rooftop of the apartment complex on Jefferson avenue.

4. I rented a $200 a month upper flat in Hamtramck and drove a 76' Malibu (silver/red cloth interior).

5. One semester of full-time tuition at the University of Detroit was roughly $1,500

6. "Owner of a Lonely Heart" Yes

7. "Dancing in the Dark" Bruce Springsteen

8. "Jump" Van Halen

9. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

10. Miami Vice

11. Hair, hair brush, and shampoo

Mucha nostalgia,

Peps

El Maestro Vergonzado

I bring shame to my name. While others have worked an entire calendar year, year after year, I sop up gobs of vacation time around holidays and summertime. While the Average Joe could lose his employment at whim, apparently it is harder to can me than it is to grow grass in a desert. I receive guaranteed pay raises, no matter if I produce or not, and I get free donuts each time one of my clients has a birthday. Although I have enough college credit to fulfill two PhD programs, I am an expert at zilch. Although both my customers and supervisors would rather have their jobs than mine, they offer unsolicited advice about how I could do mine better, cheaper, and longer. By virtue of my certification and academic major I am an underachiever, suspect of laziness, pedophilia, and ignorance. Were I to debate the above, add whining, too.

Here's the rub: I don't care. Sure, it is annoying and disheartening when the bashing hits a critical mass; when one cannot open a newspaper, scan the Internet, talk to a friend or relative, or overhear a restaurant conversation without absorbing the mass critique of the job (I would hazard to call it "the profession", only to illicit a smirk from Average Joe). I don't care. If I were to leave it behind tomorrow, I know I would miss it. Not miss it nostalgically, but miss it like an amputee misses an arm or a leg. The zillion irritating, mind-numbingly stupid, ourtrageously incompetent things that happen weekly on the job are only bearable because I know I'd miss it. I'd miss the potential of proving Average Joe wrong, whether he ever knows it or not. I'd miss the potential of actually teaching something, which has the same odds as a batter actually hitting a ball - only to leave me feeling most days like I've struck out. I'd miss a captive audience of people at their most precious stage of life - well before they become Average Joes. I'd miss the euphoria of walking the line between having the power to make or break a person's day, while at the same time having no real power at all. I'd miss the perverse daily dichotomy of the huge responsibility I have without any accompanying authority whatsoever.

I should be ashamed.

Con orgullo,

Profesor P. Suave