David Knows What’s Up: Back to School Sense Memory Suckas
David Knows What’s Up:
Back to School Sense Memory Suckas
By David Marchese
Shit, Time, you’re a strange muhfuh. I’ve been finished with formal book learning for like five years now, and it took till September 2010 for me to be approached by an academic institution to pass smarts on to some youngins. (Class of 2014, you done got lucky.) I tried to swing a deal where I could e-Teach, but that didn’t fly, so I’ve been spending mas hours on campus lately. It’s weird, man.
I’m in my early late-20s, so I knew I’d feel Bible old walking into lecture halls amidst co-ed kiddies with their eyes locked in on their iPads and Tamagotchis and what have you. Wasn’t even particularly sure how to handle the threads issue. Do I get my Professor on and spring for some tweed and vests and a pipe? Or do I go straight-up affluent summer camp schlub and rock flip-flops and sweats? Neither. I had to be true to myself; to what I believe. First day, I wore a Rolling Stones lips and lolling tongue t-shirt and orange skeejees (that means skinny jeans, grandma).
Why did I care about how I looked? I never liked college. I was bored and lonely like half the time I was there. Once, I had to give a presentation in a history tutorial. I prepped hardcore. Wrote notes out on cue cards. Marked up the pages of the text with little colored sticky tabs. Morning of, I showed up way early to the gray brick building where the class was held. I walked the halls for maybe half an hour, going over my main points, then, five minutes before class was to start, I hotfooted it the hell out of there. Never showed up for another tutorial. Just couldn’t deal with it. Still nabbed a B minus.
But even though my main memories of college are skipping class – I got crazy good at snooker during my undergrad years — and showing up just to ace exams, being back in the Ivory Tower environs suddenly turns me all Belle and Sebastian wistful. Scanning tables of used books, hustling through leafy quads, putting in bleary-eyed late night bull sessions about Being and Time – those were/these are the days.
B.S., bub. My mind’s playing tricks on me. Last is past. A fella I know, a drummer and a bit of a guru, told me that. It’s a lesson you won’t find in no course reader. And I just gave it away.