Thoroughly Modern Shmoo

It's funny when I think of what I think.

I grew up wanting to be just like my daddy, or at least my idea of who he was.

I wanted to have a rack of pipes sitting next to an aromatic can of tobacco, a library filled with books in leather bindings and old yellowed pages, polish my shoes every morning, shave with an old straight razor, have a big brown desk full of important papers I was writing and students calling, or dropping by from time to time to discuss some weighty topic relating to literature, or history.

There are many reasons these things never came to pass. Most of them very good, but one very important one that has always bothered me.

Whereas my father was driven by some inner need to study, or I assume he was, he never said otherwise; I am often driven simply by curiosity, or my love of another human being. Someone asked me where my interest lies when getting ready to send me some of their work and I didn't want to say, "In you." But that was the truth. The central, uniting point, in our conversations was the person.

I am like a dog. I am loyal to a fault. If I love the person I am working for, no job is too much, or too menial. If I don't, I have difficulty even caring beyond not humiliating myself. Had my teachers ever really wanted to reach out and snag me, all they really had to do was make me fall in love with them -- and many did that. I am embarrassed to say that I am kind of like a shmoo whose ability to perform is terribly limited.

Still, my curiosity touches on the edges of academia's true quest and I often pass for almost literate.

And these are some of the things I think.