My college daze

 Oddly enough, I quite remember my college days.

This will come as a surprise to those cohorts who assumed I'd flame out soon.

I was at Outhouse College, which was an appendage of that institute of higher learning now more commonly known as Western University.

Only spent a year there, but it was an eventful year. I was simultaneously the captain AND the quarterback of the college drinking team. That's a tall order, and you can imagine the stress that involved. Nevertheless, we won a few championships that year.

I remember a few of my profs... Jeffries, McLarty, McPeck...

And this guy named Hansen, who for some reason, maybe because of his cliched good looks, was known as "Hollywood Hansen" back in the day.

Al Jeffries was a salt of the earth kinda guy. Never had any trouble with him. I learned in the fullness of time that he was on the team that vetted new admissions to Outhouse, and he'd cast the deciding vote on this candidate who was at best 50/50. Fifty percent chance of being a choice recruit; fifty percent chance this asshole would cause you no end of embarrassment.

And it's been fifty-fifty for a long time now.

McPeck was quite a guy. I think he was in philosophy. He made the headlines of the local paper because when he was out for his morning constitutional one day he spotted a couple of youngsters who had fallen into the River Thames.

He was only able to save one of them. You can imagine how that would haunt a philosophy prof for the rest of his life.

And it did.

But the real deal on McPeck was that he was a bit of an outlier at the time. Teaching "critical thinking" was a big fad in those days. McPeck had the unmitigated temerity to suggest that you'd actually have to know something before you could think critically about it.

I remember a few of my fellow students as well. There was Tanja, who came back from spring break to find her dad had been charged with attempted murder. I liked Tanja a lot, and it wasn't all about her very impressive rack. No, she was on the editorial committee for something called the "Outhouse College Arts and Literary Review," where I actually had a couple of short stories published.

And there was this Dolson guy, who I remember telling me; if the path of excess leads to the palace of wisdom, I should back up a bit and find the right exit ramp...

Not sure exactly what he was trying to tell me.

But I'm still here, Mr. Dolson!

And still kicking against the pricks!...

Then there was the colleague who, on being informed that I'd invested my student loans in a place called the "Oar House," surmised that said establishment was right next door to the "air cutting place."

Sounds a bit sketchy...

We even had field trips at Outhouse! I recall a trip to the (then) new CBC HQ in downtown Toronto.

A gang of us were waiting for the elevator in the lobby. When the elevator finally arrived it could only accommodate half our crew.

As we were waiting for the next elevator, I looked around and suggested to the left-behinds that perhaps we should find a bar somewhere instead of touring that stupid CBC building. I was taken aback by the enthusiasm of my classmates for this suggestion!

Long story short, about half the class of '94 got shitfaced in downtown Toronto instead of touring the new CBC digs.

Which ultimately led to a slip of the tongue I regret to this day. Somewhere along the route back to Outhouse, I felt compelled to announce, to all aboard the bus, "hey Hansen, eat shit and die."

Needless to say, I never ever did get a reference letter from Professor Hansen.


But I've done OK.

Credentialism

Credentialism is the feeding trough of the upwardly mobile.

The Farm Manager, in her capacity as a Educational Assistant in her day job, today took a one day course that rendered her a "Behaviour Management Systems Practitioner."

What the fuck does that mean?

In practical terms, nothing.

But she gets a certificate she can hang on the wall.

When one of my mentors in the world of commercial real estate, Vic Tucciarone, got his real estate license back in the '50's, it involved a five dollar fee paid at the Government of Ontario offices, and that was that.

No courses, no nothing.

Today an aspiring realtor has to take multiple courses that take many months and cost many thousands of dollars.

Does anybody really think this has given us "better" real estate agents?

I had a college prof, Al Jeffries, who warned us about this credentialism racket. Keep your resume to one page, he told us over and over again. Anything above that reeks of credentialism.

Then somebody dug up a copy of his resume.

It ran to fourteen pages.

The takeaway?

Credentialism pays!

I remember sitting in my dear uncle Werner's office at the University of Waterloo and admiring the many certificates/degrees/diplomas festooning the walls.

Tucked in amongst them was a Province of Alberta fishing licence circa 1962.

At least he had a sense of humour...

We're not hamsters; let's get off the hamster wheel

I remember, somewhere in the course of my peripatetic voyage through post-secondary education, a prof by the name of Al Jefrey. Might have been Allan Jeffrey... or Jeffries.

Fact is, I don't remember him for his name. I remember him for the few nuggets of wisdom he imparted.

If you've spent any time at all in post secondary education, you'll appreciate the fact that nuggets of wisdom are few and very far between.

Al was one of those profs you could have a beer with. Or a few beers. Or a "what the fuck, it's last call already?" number of beers.

But Al left me with a couple of nuggets.

Nugget number one.

I remember Al saying, and I don't remember how many beers we were into teacher-student bonding at the moment, that he'd rather get screwed over once in awhile than lose faith in humanity.

That made a lasting impression on me. I've adopted Al's philosophy.

I'd rather deal with getting fucked over once in awhile than give up my faith in humanity.

Al's philosophy has become mine.

I've certainly been fucked over more than a few times...

But I still believe, from the bottom of my heart, that everybody deserves another last chance.

Al's other nugget was this; in the global race for all that shit that the global race is about; efficiency, productivity, profitability... we've lost.

Let's face it. Kids in South Korea, who have academic coaches from the time they're two years old, who have tutors from grade three on, who invest 80 hours a week in their education all through their teen years, who strive and connive to get into the best universities and commit suicide when they don't, are always going to kick our butts in standardized tests.

SO WHAT???

How is that a model for anything we should aspire to?

Let's get off the hamster wheel and rediscover what it means to be human.

Bum a fag?

It's not something I brag about much up here in the back reaches of Bruce County, but I attended college once upon a time.

First day, a bunch of us were gathered in the smoking area, just outside the back door. Getting acquainted,  exchanging views on first impressions, and this voice booms out, "bum a fag?"

Alarmed glances all round. Bum a fag? Who is this guy?

This was back in the era of extreme political correctness. When I say extreme political correctness, I'm talking about the high water mark of militant feminism. We had a gal in our class who had some bad history in a previous relationship. Came to college and got hooked up with your professional man-hater crowd.

One night we're sitting in somebody's place, beer and pizza all round, a regular college good time, and one of the lads is talking about how he had a job as a prison guard and one night the prisoners had a riot and he got the crap beat out of him and was held hostage.

This was a college course for adults who were trying to improve themselves, so everybody already had a life story or two. Feminist gal had her shitty relationship. Buddy got held hostage. So after he tells that story, she says, "Serves you right. Women are held hostage and beaten up all the time. Now you know what it's like."

There followed a very long and very awkward silence. It went on forever. Averted gazes. No sound except a bit of discordant pizza chewing.

Then, "bum a fag?"

It was Professor Al. He'd been sitting quietly in the corner. Loved to hang with the students. Welshman. We figured out he was asking to borrow a cigarette.

That was Al.  Always borrowing and never giving back. Not the smokes anyway. Went way beyond in other ways. Found out later that he overruled the selection committee and got me into the place in spite of my sketchy resume.

Thanks for that, Al.

Can I borrow a cigarette?