Catching Up

First chance I've had in a few days to sit down and write something. All that end of the semester nonsense catching up to me all at once, like it always does. I'm in a state of what now must be called Chronic Procrastination. If there was a surgery I'd sign up.

Case in point. Last night I finished my 10-12 page paper at about 9 o'clock (it was due "that day" which I took liberally). I skipped on over from the library accompanied by Lori, ma fiancee, and Mike, a history Grad student here at UNH. Mike was reviewing my essay for what I can only assume was the quality necessary for us to remain friends and muttering something under his breath about "chavs". Mike, from Kingslyn, UK (which may be misspelled, as British English is even less phonetic than American English) is always muttering about chavs, which seem to be the same thing as "crackers". He seemed extra pleased that I had included references to a British poet in an American Poetry paper, though. Points for me.

So we reach the building where Prof. Simic has his office (his exact instructions were "Shove it under my door") and I grip the door handle with my typical friendly force, only to find it locked. I had been writing this paper all day (see chronic procrastination above) and wasn't about to be daunted by a door. I mean, I could always say I thought it was stuck, right?

Hence the security officer found me banging the thing back and forth like an enraged gorilla. I may have even grunted.

Now I had the normal reaction I have to rent-a-cops I always have...fear. Rent-a-cops don't have any sort of legal structure within which to work. Therefore they operate under some sort of Dark Age understanding of law that pretty much equates to that of a lynch mob. But then I looked closer. It was just one of those silly undergrad security guys. Piece of cake.

Me (imperiously): Why is this door locked?!!!
S.G: Excuse me?
Me: This door is supposed to be open. How else can I give Prof. Simic this paper?
S.G: Uh, I don't know. Let me get it open. I'm gonna have to follow you though.

Step one complete. Bully. Step two, convert.

Me (friendly and pretending to care): How long is your shift?
S.G: blah blah blah normal moaning bullshit
Me: Oh that sounds bad. Wanna find me a light?
S.G: Whatever you say.

He wandered off. It's amazing how well this technique works. I got to teach this stuff to my kids, particularly if they have larcenous tendencies, which at the moment I didn't. I shoved the paper under Prof. Simic's door and through several other "more on time" people's work.

Mission accomplished.

Today has been lazy, and while I'm packing, I'm not really doing much. I had lunch at an outdoor cafe, and people watched for a bit. There were the requisite stereotypes (pretty girl, girl with annoying dog, foreign shop owner offering free food to pretty girls, etc.) and in general, I was enjoying my kebab.

Then an old man walked up to me. "Hello!" he said, a foot from my face.
"Hello" I responded, being brought up in the South, where such salutations are normal, particularly from the elderly.
"Peepee!" he said, followed by maniacal laughter as he walked away.

This, ladies and gentleman, is why we need Social Security.

All y'all watch your collective six.