Now at, gulp, 46 years as a journalist, it’s reasonable to assume I majored in journalism.
Actually, I took something called “Recreation and Leisure Studies” at San Francisco State. OK, stop laughing. I got a diploma for it.
This deal called “New Games” was all the rage back then – cooperative games where neither team won, like pushing the Earth Ball around a big field. Yeah, I did that. I also learned how to whittle in an art class and gave a demonstration speech on how to make a gin fizz. The speech wasn’t that good, but I got an A.
My cousin, Joe Faulkner, was in some of those classes. He was already living on his own, working part-time and was on the “eight-year” college plan, as he put it.
We sat in the back of the class and cracked wise. We had a professor named Johnson who had a nervous tick of saying “and what-not.” So we’d pass the time by counting his what-nots … 42, 43, 44. Seemed funny at the time.
We also delivered a pizza to a class years before Jeff Spicoli pulled off a similar feat in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” My cousin was there and can back me up on that –as can the guy we delivered it to except, well, he’s in prison. Separate blog.
Four decades-plus later, I’d have done things differently — would have gone to San Jose State and majored in journalism. But then I wouldn’t know how to whittle, an underrated skill in these uncertain times.
Main Street Dog 