I was twelve credits shy of graduating from Temple University in 1993 when all of a sudden my computer crashed. I was writing a paper entitled, Homosexuality in the Press. I wasn't gay or a journalist at the time, I was just a last year college student with a really bad case of Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder aka ADHD, or more commonly, ADD. The computer crashed and I didn't back up my work because if you know anything about someone with ADD, its a daunting task to focus on one thing for an extended period of time. It always turned out for me that writing was either one of two things for me; a late night rush of words that I can to get out of my head in a feeding frenzy or nothing and having to search for inventive, creative excuses for professors as to why my work was never finished. So rather than reboot the computer and try to salvage some of my work, I irrationally and impulsively (as most ADD'ers do) rented a 24 foot U-Haul truck, which was way over-sized for my needs but I knew would have a greater impact visually when I would pull up my parent's driveway. Within two 
days I was back in my old adolescent bedroom in my parents house. The posters of Billy Idol still wallpapering my four walls no longer looked appealing as they once were. I never would have thought that years later I would actually meet thee Billy Idol ten years later at a New York City strip club. But that's a story all unto itself.
So 13 years later, I am making my second attempt to go back to college. Even with my distraction for shiny things still at an all-time high, I think I can actually finish this time.
Below is my encounter on my first day back at school...
I forgot m
y iPod. How else could I possibly drown out the voice of the starched business man seated next to me on the Amtrak; a voice so irritatinglyy humdrum that I’d rather listen to the maddening drip of my kitchen sink. In fact, some restless nights when I listened closely, the drip would vary overtime, becoming more melodic and less familiar, a melody that would resonate well with the sound of Handel’s Allegro Deciso. OK, those are really late nights but Gordo, as he liked to call himself, had the same irritating intonation and sales pitch with every phone call he placed.
Why didn't any of his friends tell him that starch went out along with, Rogaine, Pokemon and Susan Powter, the diet and fitness eunuch of the 90’s? Was this guy so oblivious of his surroundings or was Gordo partially deaf or just plain rude? What if I tried reading? Perhaps the grating of his voice would fade into the soft train ambiance and I would no longer notice him. I reached down near Gordo’s feet (sporting size 10 Velcro Hushpuppies) and pulled out of my overstuffed shoulder bag, ah ha, the latest issue of my favorite magazine, Time Out New York. Here we go. As always, I flip first to the film section where I see a picture of what looks like three pretty white girls stuck underground in a coal mine wearing nothing but miner’s helmets and wet suits. Modern theater of the absurd? The UK thriller, The Descent, which I renamed, Three Pretty White Girls in Another Outlandish Situation, could have at least made them look more like Norma Rae or Paula Porifki from An Officer & A Gentleman than the next white girlie band. The cell phone rings.
“Gordo, here…hey Tomlinson…gotta tell you about this new policies dividends.”
Shake it off. Don’t hear him. Keep reading the review.
‘The Descent, directed by Neil Marshall, takes a shallow descent into a world of coal miners where bimbo’s run amock… if you like a crisp finish, spray heavily with starch. Use the spray starch, holding the can at an angle six to eight inches above the shirt. The heavier the starch, the stiffer the shirt will be, and therefore, the better it will hold its shape. Be aware that a heavily starched shirt may wrinkle more when worn and may feel uncomfortable at times’. Stop! I lost my focus again due to Gordo’s loud incessant chatter, this time sounding like a high school football player in the boy’s locker room. Gordo calls over his cell phone tucked tightly under his cheek, “Do you mind if I look at your magazine for a sec?” he asked me as he took the magazine from my hands before I can give him a yes.
“Dude, you did not hit that…she’s hot…what, she move to L.A…yeah dude, if she banged you, you know she banged the producer,” he said between Santa Claus chuckles.
As if perfectly on cue like a well-rehearsed Chekhov play I hear, ‘30th Street Station Philadelphia. 30th Street Station’ and I am saved by the train conductor. Today was my first day of college after a 13-year hiatus, a decade plus three years to be exact. 13 years is three rounds of high school and one year of college. 13 years is roughly the Vietnam War and Gulf War combined. Its been 13 years since Federal agents besieged the Texas Branch Dividian and since the first World Trade Center bombing. Gordo offers me back the magazine and I graciously accept it with a good-Samaritan smile. 13 years ago, I would have grabbed the magazine from Gordo, rolled it up and used is as a weapon of self-defense. My morning commute with this chump proved to me that this time around, things in college would be different.
