About 'broward college book store'|Twenty Years Ago in Fort Lauderdale: RAP ON TRIAL - The Broward County 2 Live Crew "As Nasty As They Wanna Be" Obscenity Cases
Ｉ ｗａｓｎ'ｔ ａ ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒｌｙ ｈａｐｐｙ ｕｎｄｅｒｇｒａｄｕａｔｅ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ ｓｔｕｄｅｎｔ - ａｔ ｌｅａｓｔ ｗｈｉｌｅ ａｔｔｅｎｄｉｎｇ ａ ｙｅａｒ-ａｎｄ-ａ-ｈａｌｆ'ｓ ｗｏｒｔｈ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｃｌａｓｓｅｓ ｉｎ ｗｈａｔ ｔｕｒｎｅｄ ｏｕｔ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｍｙ ｍａｊｏｒ ａｎｄ ｕｌｔｉｍａｔｅ Ｂ.Ａ. ｄｅｇｒｅｅ ｐｒｏｇｒａｍ ｗａｙ ｕｐ ｎｏｒｔｈ, ｍｏｒｅ ｔｈａｎ ａ ｄｅｃａｄｅ ａｇｏ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ ｗｅｒｅ ｎｏ ｉｇｌｏｏｓ, ａｓ ｉｔ ｔｕｒｎｅｄ ｏｕｔ - ｂｕｔ ｉｔ ｗａｓ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ ｎｏｒｔｈ ｔｈａｎ ｍｕｃｈ ｏｆ ｏｕｒ ｎａｔｉｏｎ'ｓ Ｃａｎａｄｉａｎ-Ｕ.Ｓ. ｂｏｒｄｅｒｓ. Ｉ ｔｒｉｅｄ ｔｏ ｒｅｔｕｒｎ ｔｏ ｍｕｓｉｃ - Ｉ ｄｉｄ. Ｂｕｔ ｔｈｅ Ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｙ ｏｆ Ｍａｉｎｅ'ｓ ｍａｉｎ ｓｔａｔｅ ｃａｍｐｕｓ ｉｎ Ｏｒｏｎｏ (10 ｍｉｌｅｓ ｎｏｒｔｈ ｏｆ Ｂａｎｇｏｒ - ｐｒｏｎｏｕｎｃｅｄ "ｂａｎｇ-ｇｏｒｅ" ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｌｏｃａｌｓ, ｗｈｏ ｉｎｃｌｕｄｅｄ Ｓｔｅｐｈｅｎ Ｋｉｎｇ ａｎｄ ｈｉｓ ｎｏｖｅｌｉｓｔ ｗｉｆｅ, Ｔａｂｉｔｈａ, ａｌｓｏ ｔｗｏ ｏｆ ＵＭＯ'ｓ ｌｏｎｇ-ａｇｏ ｇｒａｄｕａｔｅｓ) ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ ａｃｃｅｐｔ ｍｅ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｕｎｌｅｓｓ Ｉ ｒｅｖｏｋｅｄ ｍｙ ｕｔｔｅｒｌｙ ｖａｌｉｄ ａｓｓｏｃｉａｔｅｓ' ｄｅｇｒｅｅ ｉｎ ｍｕｓｉｃ ｅｄｕｃａｔｉｏｎ (ｍｕｓｉｃ ｔｈｅｏｒｙ ｐｒｉｎｃｉｐａｌ), ａｎｄ ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ ｏｕｔ ａｌｌ ｏｖｅｒ ａｇａｉｎ ａｓ ａ ｆｒｅｓｈｍａｎ(!) - ａｎ Ａ.Ａ. ｄｅｇｒｅｅ Ｉ'ｄ ｌｏｎｇ-ｓｉｎｃｅ ｒｅｃｅｉｖｅｄ ｅａｒｌｉｅｒ ｉｎ ｌｉｆｅ, ｂｕｔ ＵＭＯ ｒｅｆｕｓｅｄ ｔｏ ａｃｃｅｐｔ. Ｗｈｙ? Ｉ ｗａｓ ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ ｔｏｌｄ ｔｈｉｓ: Ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｂｉｇ Ｂｒｏｗａｒｄ Ｃｏｍｍｕｎｉｔｙ Ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ ｉｎ ｇｒｅａｔｅｒ (ｎｅｖｅｒ ｍｉｎｄ ｐｒｅｔｔｙ ｄａｍｎｅｄ ｌａｒｇｅ ｉｔｓｅｌｆ) Ｆｏｒｔ Ｌａｕｄｅｒｄａｌｅ, Ｆｌｏｒｉｄａ, ｗａｓ ａ "ｓｏｕｔｈｅｒｎ ｓｃｈｏｏｌ" (ｑｕｏｔｅ-ｕｎｑｕｏｔｅ - ＵＭＯ-ｅｓｅ ｆｏｒ ｎｏｔ ｂｅｉｎｇ ｕｐ ｔｏ ｓｎｕｆｆ), ＢＣＣ'ｓ ａｓｓｏｃｉａｔｅ ｏｆ ａｒｔｓ ｄｅｇｒｅｅｓ ｗｅｒｅｎ'ｔ ｖｉｅｗｅｄ ａｓ ｖａｌｉｄ ｉｎ ｎｏｒｔｈ-ｃｅｎｔｒａｌ Ｍａｉｎｅ - ｗｈｅｒｅ, ｏｈ-ｂｙ-ｔｈｅ-ｗａｙ, ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ｃｏｎｃｅｉｖａｂｌｙ ａｓ ｍａｎｙ ｍｏｏｓｅ ａｓ ｔｈｅｒｅ ａｒｅ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ. (Ｉ ｓｕｓｐｅｃｔｅｄ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｗｅｒｅ ｅｖｅｎ ｍｏｒｅ ｃｏｏｎ ｃａｔｓ ａｎｄ ｌａｎｄｌｏｃｋｅｄ ｓａｌｍｏｎ ｉｎ ｔｈａｔ ｒｅｇｉｏｎ ｔｈａｎ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｗｅｒｅ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｂａｃｋ ｔｈｅｎ - ｊｕｓｔ ｔｏ ｍｅｎｔｉｏｎ ｔｗｏ ｍｏｒｅ ｏｆｆｉｃｉａｌ ａｎｄ ｉｎｄｉｇｅｎｏｕｓ Ｍａｉｎｅ ｓｔａｔｅ ａｎｉｍａｌｓ, ａｌｏｎｇ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｏｓｅ, ｔｏ ｂｅ ｆｏｕｎｄ ｉｎ ｔｈｏｓｅ ｐａｒｔｓ.) Ｃａｎ ａｎｙ ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｙ ｇｅｔ ｍｏｒｅ ｐｏｍｐｏｕｓ ｏｒ ａｒｒｏｇａｎｔ? Ｔｈｅ ｐｏｐｕｌａｔｉｏｎ ｏｆ Ｂｒｏｗａｒｄ Ｃｏｕｎｔｙ, ｗｈｅｒｅ ＢＣＣ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｆｌｏｕｒｉｓｈｅｓ - 1.3 ｍｉｌｌｉｏｎ ｈｕｍａｎ ｂｅｉｎｇｓ - ｒｏｕｇｈｌｙ ｅｑｕａｌｅｄ ｔｈｅ ｅｎｔｉｒｅ ｐｏｐｕｌａｔｉｏｎ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ Ｓｔａｔｅ ｏｆ Ｍａｉｎｅ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｅａｒｌｙ 1990ｓ. Ｆｏｒ ｍｅ, ｉｔ ｗａｓ ｌｉｋｅ - ｗｅｌｌ, ｋｉｓｓ ｍｙ ａｓｓ, ＵＭＯ ｍｕｓｉｃ ｐｒｏｇｒａｍ! - ｗｈｉｃｈ, ａｌａｓ, ｉｓ ｌａｔｅｒ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｃａｍｅ ｔｏ ｆｅｅｌ ａｂｏｕｔ ｉｔｓ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ ｐｒｏｇｒａｍ. Ｓｔｅｐｈｅｎ Ｋｉｎｇ ｈａｓ ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｄｏ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｉｓ ｔａｌｅ, ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｗａｙ - ｅｖｅｎ ｔｈｏｕｇｈ Ｉ ｒｅｓｉｄｅｄ ｉｎ ａｎ ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ ａ ｂｌｏｃｋ ａｎｄ ａ ｈａｌｆ ａｗａｙ ｆｒｏｍ ｈｉｓ ｍｕｌｔｉ-ｓｔｏｒｉｅｄ Ｂａｎｇｏｒ ｈｏｍｅ (ｔｈｅ ｏｎｅ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｅ ｓｔｅｅｌ ｓｐｉｄｅｒｓ ａｎｄ ｓｕｃｈ ｏｎ ｈｉｓ ｆａｍｉｌｙ'ｓ ｆｒｏｎｔ ｆｅｎｃｅ, ａｎｄ ｗｈｏｓｅ ｇａｔｅ ｗａｓ ｍｏｓｔｌｙ ｏｐｅｎ ｍｕｃｈ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｔｉｍｅ ｂａｃｋ ｔｈｅｎ - ｂｅｆｏｒｅ ａ ｆａｋｅ ｂｏｍｂ, ａｎｙｗａｙ, ｗａｓ ｄｕｍｐｅｄ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｆａｍｉｌｙ'ｓ ｆｒｏｎｔ ｄｏｏｒｓｔｅｐ ａｎｄ ｈａｄ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｄｉｓｍａｎｔｌｅｄ). Ｍｙ ｅｘ-ｗｉｆｅ, ｗｈｏ ａｔｔｅｎｄｅｄ ｎｅａｒｂｙ Ｂａｎｇｏｒ Ｔｈｅｏｌｏｇｉｃａｌ Ｓｅｍｉｎａｒｙ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｔｉｍｅ, ａｎｄ Ｉ ｕｓｅｄ ｔｏ ｗａｌｋ ｂｙ ｔｈｅ Ｋｉｎｇｓ' ｆａｍｉｌｙ ｒｅｓｉｄｅｎｃｅ ｄｕｒｉｎｇ ｏｕｒ ｔｗｏ ａｕｔｕｍｎｓ ｔｈｅｒｅ, ａｓ ｗｅ ｓｃｏｏｐｅｄ ｕｐ ａｎｄ ｍａｉｌｅｄ ｏｆｆ ｓｏｍｅ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ Ｋｉｎｇｓ' ｆａｌｌｅｎ ｔｒｅｅ ｌｅａｖｅｓ ｂａｃｋ ｔｏ ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ ｉｎ Ｓｏｕｔｈ Ｆｌｏｒｉｄａ, ｗｈｉｃｈ ｉｍｍｅｄｉａｔｅｌｙ ｗｅｎｔ ｉｎｔｏ ｋｅｅｐｓａｋｅ ｆｏｌｄｅｒｓ ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ ｌａｂｅｌｅｄ, "Ｓｔｅｐｈｅｎ Ｋｉｎｇ'ｓ ｌｅａｖｅｓ." Ｈｏｗ ｃｏｏｌ ｗａｓ ｔｈａｔ? Ｉｎ ａｎｙ ｅｖｅｎｔ - ａ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ｂａｃｋｇｒｏｕｎｄ ｈｉｓｔｏｒｙ ｉｓ ｉｎ ｏｒｄｅｒ ｈｅｒｅ - ｂｅｆｏｒｅ Ｉ ｇｅｔ ａｒｏｕｎｄ ｔｏ ｅｘｐｌａｉｎｉｎｇ ｗｈｙ Ｉ ｄｏ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｄｏ (ｗｈｅｎ ｓｃｒｉｂｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｅｓｓａｙｓ/ｓｐｅｃｕｌａｔｉｏｎｓ/ｃｒｉｔｉｑｕｅｓ) ａｎｄ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｈｏｐｅ ｔｏ ａｃｃｏｍｐｌｉｓｈ, ｓｏｍｅｗｈｅｒｅ ｄｏｗｎ ｔｈｅ ｒｏａｄ, ｂｙ ｈａｖｉｎｇ ｄｏｎｅ ｓｏ. * * * * * Ｂａｃｋ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｌａｔｅ 1970ｓ/ｖｅｒｙ ｅａｒｌｙ 1980ｓ, Ｉ ｗａｓ ａ ｆｅａｔｕｒｅｄ ｃｏｌｕｍｎｉｓｔ ｆｏｒ ａ ｎｏｗ ｌｏｎｇ-ｓｉｎｃｅ ｄｅｆｕｎｃｔ Ｓｃｒｉｐｐｓ-Ｈｏｗａｒｄ ｄａｉｌｙ ｎｅｗｓｐａｐｅｒ ｉｎ Ｈｏｌｌｙｗｏｏｄ, Ｆｌｏｒｉｄａ - ｗｈｉｃｈ ｌａｎｄｅｄ ｉｎ ｔｈｉｒｄ-ｐｌａｃｅ ｗｈｅｎ ｉｔ ｃａｍｅ ｔｏ ｒｅａｄｅｒｓｈｉｐ ｎｕｍｂｅｒｓ, ｗｅｌｌ ｂｅｈｉｎｄ ｂｏｔｈ Ｔｈｅ Ｍｉａｍｉ Ｈｅｒａｌｄ ａｎｄ Ｔｈｅ Ｆｏｒｔ Ｌａｕｄｅｒｄａｌｅ Ｎｅｗｓ/Ｓｕｎ-Ｓｅｎｔｉｎｅｌ (ｎｏｗ Ｓｏｕｔｈ Ｆｌｏｒｉｄａ Ｓｕｎ-Ｓｅｎｔｉｎｅｌ). Ｍｙ ｃｏｌｕｍｎｓ ｒａｎ ｔｈｒｅｅ ｏｒ ｆｏｕｒ ｔｉｍｅｓ ａ ｗｅｅｋ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｆｒｏｎｔ ｐａｇｅ ｏｆ Ｔｈｅ Ｈｏｌｌｙｗｏｏｄ Ｓｕｎ-Ｔａｔｔｌｅｒ, ａｎｄ ｍｙ ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌｌｙ ｂｌｏａｔｅｄ ｉｍａｇｅ ｅｖｅｎ ａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ ｏｎ ｎｅｗｓｓｔａｎｄｓ ａｌｏｎｇ ｍｙ ｆａｖｏｒｉｔｅ ｂｅａｃｈｅｓ. Ｔｈｉｓ ｗａｓ ｔｈｅ ｎｅｗｓｐａｐｅｒ ｂｅｓｔ ｋｎｏｗｎ ｆｏｒ ｂｒｅａｋｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ Ａｄａｍ Ｗａｌｓｈ ｋｉｄｎａｐｐｉｎｇ ｓｔｏｒｉｅｓ, Ｉ ｓｈｏｕｌｄ ａｄｄ, ｗｈｉｃｈ ｔｏｏｋ ｐｌａｃｅ ｄｕｒｉｎｇ ｍｙ ｆｉｎａｌ ｙｅａｒ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｐａｐｅｒ. Ｉ ｅｖｅｎ ｗｒｏｔｅ ａ ｆｏｒｇｅｔｔａｂｌｅ ｃｏｌｕｍｎ ｏｒ ｔｗｏ ａｂｏｕｔ ｗｈａｔ, ｓｏｍｅ ｍｏｎｔｈｓ ｌａｔｅｒ, ｐｒｏｖｅｄ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｔｈｅ ａｂｓｏｌｕｔｅｌｙ ｗｏｒｓｔ ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｅ (ａｎｄ ｔｒｕｌｙ ｈｏｒｒｉｆｙｉｎｇ, ｎｅｖｅｒ ｍｉｎｄ ｈｅａｒｔｂｒｅａｋｉｎｇ) ｅｎｄ ｒｅｓｕｌｔ: ｔｈｅ ｄｉｓｃｏｖｅｒｙ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ 8-ｙｅａｒ-ｏｌｄ'ｓ ｄｅａｄ ｂｏｄｙ. Ｂｕｔ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｐｅｒｓｏｎａｌｌｙ ｍｉｓｅｒａｂｌｅ ｄｕｒｉｎｇ ｔｈｉｓ ｔｉｍｅ, ａｎｄ Ｉ ｈａｄ ｎｏ ｉｄｅａ ｗｈｙ. Ｉ ｗａｓ ｌｏｓｔ, ｌｏｎｅｌｙ, ｓｅｌｆ-ｄｅｓｔｒｕｃｔｉｖｅ ｉｎ ａ ｍｉｎｄｌｅｓｓ ｗａｙ, ａｎｄ ｄｒｉｎｋｉｎｇ ｗａｙ, ｗａｙ ｔｏｏ ｍｕｃｈ - ａｎｄ ｔｈａｔ ｌｅｄ ｍｅ ｉｎｔｏ ａ ｍｏｎｔｈ'ｓ ｗｏｒｔｈ ｏｆ ｒｅｈａｂ ｆｏｌｌｏｗｅｄ ｔｈｅｒｅａｆｔｅｒ ｂｙ 10 ｓｏｌｉｄ ａｎｄ ｔｒｕｅ (ａｎｄ ｐｓｙｃｈｏｌｏｇｉｃａｌｌｙ ｄｅｅｐｌｙ ｉｎｔｒｏｓｐｅｃｔｉｖｅ) ｙｅａｒｓ ｉｎ ｖａｒｉｏｕｓ 12 ｓｔｅｐ, ａｄｕｌｔ ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ ａｎｄ ｃｏ-ｄｅｐｅｎｄｅｎｃｙ ｐｒｏｇｒａｍｓ, ｗｈｉｃｈ ｂｅｃａｍｅ ｐｒｏｍｉｎｅｎｔ ａｎｄ ｉｎｆｌｕｅｎｔｉａｌ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ 1980ｓ. Ｉ ｃａｍｅ ｔｏ ｅｍｐｈａｔｉｃａｌｌｙ ｅｍｂｒａｃｅ ｔｈｅ 12 ｓｔｅｐｓ ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ, ｆｒｏｍ ｗｈｉｃｈ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｆｉｒｓｔ ｉｎｔｒｏｄｕｃｅｄ ｔｏ - ａｎｄ ｄｏｇｇｅｄｌｙ ａｂｓｏｒｂｅｄ ｂｙ - ｓｐｉｒｉｔｕａｌ ｇｒｏｗｔｈ (ａｌｂｅｉｔ ａ ｒｉｇｏｒｏｕｓｌｙ ｎｏｎ-ｒｅｌｉｇｉｏｕｓ ｓｐｉｒｉｔｕａｌ ｇｒｏｗｔｈ, ｗｈｉｃｈ ｉｔ ｒｅｍａｉｎｓ ｔｏ ｔｈｉｓ ｄａｙ). Ｔｈｅｎ, ａｆｔｅｒ ｓｅｖｅｒａｌ ｆａｒ ｈａｐｐｉｅｒ ｙｅａｒｓ (ｗｈｉｃｈ ｗｅｒｅ ｈｉｇｈｌｉｇｈｔｅｄ ｂｙ ｂｅｉｎｇ ａ ｓｕｍｍｅｒ ｄａｙ ｃａｍｐ ｃｏｕｎｓｅｌｏｒ ｉｎ Ｈｏｌｌｙｗｏｏｄ), ｔｈｅ Ｎｅｗ Ａｇｅ ｌａｎｄｅｄ ｉｎ Ｓｏｕｔｈ Ｆｌｏｒｉｄａ, ａｓ ｗｅｌｌ ａｓ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈｏｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｒｅｓｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ - ａｎｄ ｓｏ Ｉ ｊｕｍｐｅｄ ｒｉｇｈｔ ｉｎｔｏ ｉｔ, ｆｅｅｔ ｆｉｒｓｔ. Ｏｎｌｙ Ｉ ｎｅｖｅｒ ｂｏｕｇｈｔ ｉｎｔｏ ｉｔｓ ｔｅｎｅｔｓ ｆｕｌｌ-ｂｏｒｅ. Ｉ ｊｕｓｔ ｗａｎｔｅｄ ｔｏ ｗｒｉｔｅ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｖｅｍｅｎｔ'ｓ ｐｅｃｕｌｉａｒ ａｎｄ ｍｏｓｔｌｙ ｉｎｎｏｃｅｎｔ ｄｏｉｎｇｓ ａｎｄ, ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ, ｇｅｔ ｗｅｌｌ ｐａｉｄ ｆｏｒ ｈａｖｉｎｇ ｄｏｎｅ ｓｏ. Ｔｈａｔ, ｏｆ ｃｏｕｒｓｅ, ｎｅｖｅｒ ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ. Ｔｈｅ Ｎｅｗ Ａｇｅ ｎｏｔ ｏｎｌｙ ｄｉｅｄ ｗｉｔｈｉｎ ｆｉｖｅ ｙｅａｒｓ (ａｓ ａ ｓｏｃｉａｌ ｍｏｖｅｍｅｎｔ, ｓｕｃｈ ａｓ ｉｔ ｗａｓ, ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｅｎｄ ｉｔ ｈａｄ ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｂｌａｍｅ ｂｕｔ ｉｔｓｅｌｆ) - ｐｒｏｍｐｔｉｎｇ ｍｙ ｒｅｔｕｒｎ ｔｏ ｍｙ ｕｎｄｅｒｇｒａｄｕａｔｅ ｅｄｕｃａｔｉｏｎ ｉｎ Ｍａｉｎｅ. Ｔｈｅ Ｎｅｗ Ａｇｅ ｅｎｄｅｄ ｕｐ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｂｕｔｔ ｅｎｄ ｏｆ ｖｉｒｔｕａｌｌｙ ｅｖｅｒｙ ｗｒｉｔｔｅｎ ａｎｄ ｔｅｌｅｖｉｓｅｄ ｓｔｏｒｙ ｉｎ ｍａｉｎｓｔｒｅａｍ ｊｏｕｒｎａｌｉｓｍ, ｔｈｅ ｅｖｅｒ-ｉｎｃｒｅａｓｉｎｇｌｙ ｆｕｎｄａｍｅｎｔａｌｉｓｔｉｃ Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎｉｔｉｅｓ (ａ ｍｏｖｅｍｅｎｔ ｉｔｓｅｌｆ ｒａｒｅｌｙ ｗｉｄｅｌｙ ｃｏｖｅｒｅｄ ａｔ ｔｈａｔ ｔｉｍｅ, ｅｉｔｈｅｒ) - ａｎｄ ｉｎ ａｌｌ, ｂｕｔ ａｌｌ, ｏｆ Ａｍｅｒｉｃａ'ｓ ｓｅｃｕｌａｒ ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｉｅｓ, ｗｈｏｓｅ ｆａｃｕｌｔｉｅｓ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｎｅｖｅｒ ｂｅ ｂｏｔｈｅｒｅｄ ｔｏ ａｃｋｎｏｗｌｅｄｇｅ ｔｈｅ ｂｒｉｅｆｌｙ ｖｉｔａｌ ｍｏｖｅｍｅｎｔ, ａｎｄ ｉｔｓ ｃａｓｕａｌｌｙ ｃａｓｔ-ａｓｉｄｅ (ａｎｄ ｍｏｓｔｌｙ ｗｅｌｌ-ｍｅａｎｉｎｇ) ｐａｒｔｉｃｉｐａｎｔｓ. Ｓｏ, ａｓ Ｉ ｓａｙ - Ｉ ｒｅｔｕｒｎｅｄ ｔｏ ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ ａｓ ａ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ ｍａｊｏｒ (Ｉ ｈａｄ ａ ｌｉｆｅｌｏｎｇ ｉｎｔｅｒｅｓｔ ｉｎ ｏｎｅ ｏｆ ｆｏｒｍａｌ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ'ｓ ｓｕｂｓｅｔ "ｄｉｓｃｉｐｌｉｎｅｓ," ｍｅｔａｐｈｙｓｉｃｓ, ａｎｄ ｂｅｎｅａｔｈ ｔｈａｔ, ｓｔｒａｉｇｈｔ-ｆａｃｅｄ ｏｎｔｏｌｏｇｙ (ｔｈｅ ｎａｔｕｒｅ ｏｆ ｃｏｎｓｃｉｏｕｓｎｅｓｓ ｉｎ ｒｅｌａｔｉｏｎ ｔｏ ｇｒｅａｔｅｒ ｒｅａｌｉｔｙ). Ｂｕｔ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｅｎｃｏｕｎｔｅｒｅｄ ａｃｕｔｅｌｙ ｓｔｕｎｎｅｄ ａｎｄ ｖｅｒｙ ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ ｔｈｅｒｅａｆｔｅｒ ｓｉｃｋｅｎｅｄ ｍｅ: Ｓｏｍｅ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｒｅ ｖｉｓｉｂｌｅ Ｎｅｗ Ａｇｅ ｓｐｅａｋｅｒｓ ｍａｄｅ ｍｕｃｈ ｍｏｒｅ ｓｅｎｓｅ ｔｏ ｍｅ, ａｎｄ ｓｏｕｎｄｅｄ ａ ｗｈｏｌｅ ｌｏｔ ｍｏｒｅ ｃｏｎｖｉｎｃｉｎｇ (ｂａｓｅｄ ｏｎ ａ ｌｏｔ ｏｆ ｍｙ ｐｒｏｎｏｕｎｃｅｄ ｓｐｉｒｉｔｕａｌ ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅｓ), ｔｈａｎ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｒｅａｄｉｎｇ - ｂｏｏｋ ａｆｔｅｒ ｂｏｏｋ, ａｒｔｉｃｌｅ ａｆｔｅｒ ａｒｔｉｃｌｅ - ｉｎ ｆｏｒｍａｌ ｓｅｃｕｌａｒ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ - ｗｉｔｈ ｉｔｓ ｅｍｐｈａｓｉｓ ｏｎ "ｓｅｃｕｌａｒ," ｗｈｉｃｈ ｆｏｒ ｍｅ ｒｅｍａｉｎｓ ｆｏｒｍａｌ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ'ｓ ｇｒｅａｔｅｓｔ ｂｉａｓ, ａｎｄ ｍｏｓｔ ｓｅｖｅｒｅ ａｎｄ ｙｅｔ-ｕｎｄｉａｇｎｏｓｅｄ ｆａｉｌｉｎｇ. Ｎｏｔ ｏｎｌｙ ｔｈａｔ - ｂｕｔ Ｉ ａｔｔｅｎｄｅｄ ａ ｆｒｅｅ ｏｎｅ-ｅｖｅｎｉｎｇ ｑｕａｎｔｕｍ ｐｈｙｓｉｃｓ ｓｅｍｉｎａｒ ｃｏｎｄｕｃｔｅｄ ｂｙ ＵＭＯ'ｓ (ｏｔｈｅｒｗｉｓｅ ｐｒｅｔｔｙ ｃｏｎｓｅｒｖａｔｉｖｅ) ｐｈｙｓｉｃｓ ｄｅｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ, ｗｈｉｃｈ ｎｏｔ ｏｎｌｙ ｕｎｉｎｔｅｎｔｉｏｎａｌｌｙ ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｙ ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔｅｄ ｃｏｕｎｔｌｅｓｓ Ｎｅｗ Ａｇｅ ｓｕｓｐｉｃｉｏｎｓ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｎａｔｕｒｅ ｏｆ ｒｅａｌｉｔｙ - ｂｕｔ, ａｓ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｄｉｓｍａｙｅｄ ｔｏ ｄｉｓｃｏｖｅｒ, Ｉ ｗａｓ ｔｈｅ ｏｎｌｙ ａｔｔｅｎｄｅｅ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｆｒｏｍ ＵＭＯ'ｓ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ ｐｒｏｇｒａｍ - ｂｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｓｔｕｄｅｎｔｓ, ｏｒ ｆａｃｕｌｔｙ ｍｅｍｂｅｒｓ. Ｈｏｗ ｏｎ ｅａｒｔｈ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ ｅｍｂｒａｃｅ ｈｅａｖｉｌｙ ｉｎｔｅｌｌｅｃｔｕａｌｉｚｅｄ ｅｘｉｓｔｅｎｔｉａｌｉｓｍ, ｆｏｒ ｅｘａｍｐｌｅ, ｂｕｔ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｂｌｏｗ ｏｆｆ ｍａｊｏｒ ｄｉｓｃｏｖｅｒｉｅｓ ｉｎ ｑｕａｎｔｕｍ ｐｈｙｓｉｃｓ (ｗｈｉｃｈ, ａｓ ｉｔ ｔｕｒｎｅｄ ｏｕｔ, ｗａｓ ｎｏｔ ｌｉｍｉｔｅｄ ｔｏ ＵＭＯ'ｓ ｆａｉｒｌｙ ｒｅｐｒｅｓｅｎｔａｔｉｖｅ ｃａｍｐｕｓ)? Ｓｏ Ｉ ｂｅｇａｎ ｔｏ ｒｅｂｅｌ ｉｎ ｓｅｖｅｒａｌ ｏｆ ｍｙ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ ｃｌａｓｓｅｓ. Ｉｆ ｍｙ ｐｒｏｆｅｓｓｏｒｓ ｗｅｒｅ ｉｎｓｉｓｔｉｎｇ ｏｎ ｅｒｕｄｉｔｉｏｎ - ｃｉｔｉｎｇ ｓｏｕｒｃｅ ｍａｔｅｒｉａｌ ｉｎ ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔ ｏｆ ｏｕｒ ｔｈｅｓｅｓ - ｔｈｅｎ Ｉ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｂｌｏｏｄｙ ｗｅｌｌ ｇｉｖｅ ｉｔ ｔｏ ｔｈｅｍ. Ｉ ｑｕｏｔｅｄ Ｊａｎｅ Ｒｏｂｅｒｔｓ' "Ｓｅｔｈ" ａｎｄ Ｊａｃｈ Ｐｕｒｓｅｌ'ｓ "Ｌａｚａｒｉｓ" - ｅａｓｉｌｙ ｍｙ ｔｗｏ ｆａｖｏｒｉｔｅ ｔｒａｎｃｅ ｃｈａｎｎｅｌｅｄ "ｅｎｔｉｔｉｅｓ" ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ Ｎｅｗ Ａｇｅ ｍｏｖｅｍｅｎｔ - ｔｏ ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔ ｍｙ ａｒｇｕｍｅｎｔｓ, ｗｈｉｃｈ ｗｅｒｅ ｏｎｌｙ ｉｎｔｅｎｄｅｄ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｔｈｅｏｒｅｔｉｃａｌ ｉｎ ｎａｔｕｒｅ, ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｆｉｒｓｔ ｐｌａｃｅ. Ｗｅ'ｒｅ ｔａｌｋｉｎｇ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ ｈｅｒｅ, ａｆｔｅｒ ａｌｌ - ｎｏｔ ｅｍｐｉｒｉｃａｌ ｓｃｉｅｎｃｅ. Ｉ ｆｉｇｕｒｅｄ ｔｈｅ ｔｒｕｔｈ ｗａｓ ｔｈｅ ｔｒｕｔｈ. Ｉｔ ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ ｍａｔｔｅｒ ｗｈｏ ｓｐｏｋｅ ｉｔ - ｈｅｌｌ, ｉｔ ｊｕｓｔ ｍｉｇｈｔ ｐｏｐ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｕｔｈ ｏｆ ｓｏｍｅ ａｘ ｍｕｒｄｅｒｅｒ… (Ｗｅｌｌ? Ｉｔ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｈａｐｐｅｎ.) Ｗｈｏ ｃａｒｅｄ ｉｆ ａｎｙｏｎｅ ｉｎ ｈｅａｖｉｌｙ ｂｉａｓｅｄ ａｎｄ ｉｇｎｏｒａｎｔ ｓｅｃｕｌａｒ ｅｄｕｃａｔｉｏｎ ａｇｒｅｅｄ ｗｉｔｈ ｍｅ ｏｒ ｎｏｔ, ａｎｙｗａｙ, Ｉ ｄｅｃｉｄｅｄ? Ｓｐｉｒｉｔｕａｌｉｔｙ ｗａｓ ｏｆｆ-ｌｉｍｉｔｓ ｉｎ ｆｏｒｍａｌ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ. Ｉ ｄｉｄ ｔｈｉｓ, ｉｎ ｐａｒｔ, ｔｏｏ, ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｐｒｅｔｔｙ ｓｕｒｅ ｎｏｎｅ ｏｆ ｍｙ ｐｒｏｆｅｓｓｏｒｓ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｋｎｏｗ ｔｈｅ ｆｉｒｓｔ ｔｈｉｎｇ ａｂｏｕｔ ｓｕｃｈ ｓｏｕｒｃｅｓ, ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ ｔｈｅｙ'ｄ ｕｎｉｆｏｒｍｌｙ ｉｇｎｏｒｅｄ ｔｈｅｍ - ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｗａｓ ｖｅｒｙ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ｗｉｄｅｓｐｒｅａｄ ｓｏｕｒｃｅ ｍａｔｅｒｉａｌ ａｓ ｙｅｔ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ Ｉｎｔｅｒｎｅｔ ｏｆ ｔｈａｔ ｅｒａ. Ｉ ｗａｓ ｊｕｓｔ ｐｌａｙｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｉｒ "ｇａｍｅ," ｔｏｏ - ｓｏ ｔｈｅｙ ｊｕｓｔ ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ ｕｐ ａｎｄ ｆａｉｌ ｍｅ. Ｍｙ ｇｒａｄｅｓ ｓｕｃｋｅｄ - ｓｕｒｐｒｉｓｅ, ｓｕｒｐｒｉｓｅ - ｂｕｔ ｔｈｅｙ ｗｅｒｅ ｇｏｏｄ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ ｔｏ ｐａｓｓ. Ｂｕｔ ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｔｉｍｅ Ｉ ｇｏｔ ｍｙ ｄｅｇｒｅｅ ｉｎ Ｍａｙ, 1992, ｎｅｉｔｈｅｒ Ｉ ｎｏｒ ＵＭＯ'ｓ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ ｄｅｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ ｆａｃｕｌｔｙ ｗａｎｔｅｄ ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ ｍｏｒｅ ｔｏ ｄｏ ｗｉｔｈ ｏｎｅ ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ. Ｔｈａｔ Ｉ ｓｐｅｎｔ ｍｙ ｎｅｘｔ ｙｅａｒ ａｔｔｅｎｄｉｎｇ ｓｅｍｉｎａｒｙ ｃｌａｓｓｅｓ ｐａｒｔ-ｔｉｍｅ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｐｌａｎｅｔ'ｓ ｏｎｌｙ Ｑｕａｋｅｒ ｓｅｍｉｎａｒｙ - ｊｕｓｔ ｔｏ ｓｅｅ ｉｆ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｅｆｆｏｒｔｓ ａｔ "ｃｅｎｔｅｒｉｎｇ ｄｏｗｎ" ｔｏ ｒｅｃｅｉｖｅ Ｇｏｄ'ｓ ｐｕｒｐｏｒｔｅｄ ｇｕｉｄａｎｃｅｓ ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ ｄｅｍｏｎｓｔｒａｔｅｄ ｓｕｂｓｔａｎｃｅ (ｆｏｒ ｍｅ, ｔｈｅｙ ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ) - ｐｒｏｖｅｄ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｍｏｒｅ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｓａｍｅ ｆｏｒ ｍｅ, ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｔｉａｌｌｙ. Ｐｒｅｄｉｃｔａｂｌｙ, ｎｏｎｅ ｏｆ ｔｈａｔ ｓｅｍｉｎａｒｙ'ｓ ｆａｃｕｌｔｙ ｋｎｅｗ ｄｏｏｄｌｅ ｓｑｕａｔ ａｂｏｕｔ ｃｏｎｔｅｍｐｏｒａｒｙ ｔｒａｎｃｅ ｃｈａｎｎｅｌｅｒｓ ｏｒ ｐｓｙｃｈｉｃｓ, ｅｉｔｈｅｒ. Ｆｏｒｇｅｔ ａｂｏｕｔ ａｌｉｅｎ ａｂｄｕｃｔｉｏｎｓ. ＬＯＬ. Ｉ ｗａｓ ｎｏｔ ｏｎｌｙ ｎｏｔ ａｌｌｏｗｅｄ ｂａｃｋ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｆｏｒ ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ ｓｅｍｅｓｔｅｒ, ｂｕｔ ｏｎｅ ｏｆ ｍｙ ｆａｃｕｌｔｙ ｒｅｆｅｒｅｎｃｅｓ ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ ｗｒｏｔｅ ａ ｓｃａｔｈｉｎｇ "ｌｅｔｔｅｒ ｏｆ ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔ" ｔｏ ａ ｔｈｅｏｌｏｇｉｃａｌ ｓｃｈｏｏｌ ｏｕｔ ｉｎ Ｃａｌｉｆｏｒｎｉａ, ｗｈｉｃｈ ｉｍｍｅｄｉａｔｅｌｙ ｔｕｒｎｅｄ ｄｏｗｎ ｍｙ ａｐｐｌｉｃａｔｉｏｎ. Ｌａｔｅｒ, ｈｅ ｓｕｇｇｅｓｔｅｄ ｔｏ ｍｅ (ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ ｗｉｍｐｉｓｈｌｙ) ｔｈａｔ ｈｅ ｗａｓ ｓｐａｒｉｎｇ Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎｉｔｙ ｆｒｏｍ ａ ｓｅｒｉａｌ ｈｅａｔｈｅｎ. Ｔｈｅｒｅａｆｔｅｒ, Ｉ ｄｅｃｉｄｅｄ ｔｏ ｈｅｌｌ ｗｉｔｈ ｆｏｒｍａｌ ｅｄｕｃａｔｉｏｎ ｗｈｅｎ ｉｔ ｃａｍｅ ｔｏ ｍｅｔａｐｈｙｓｉｃｓ - Ｉ ｗａｓ ｇｏｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｇｏ ｏｕｔ ｔｏ ｇｒａｄ ｓｃｈｏｏｌ ｉｎ ｃｒｅａｔｉｖｅ ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ/ｓｃｒｅｅｎｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ ｉｎ Ｏｒａｎｇｅ, Ｃａｌｉｆｏｒｎｉａ (ｗｈｉｃｈ Ｉ ｄｉｄ ｔｈｅ ｎｅｘｔ ｙｅａｒ), ｗｈｅｒｅ Ｉ ｗｒｏｔｅ ｍｙ ｆｉｒｓｔ-ｅｖｅｒ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｉｃａｌｌｙ ｏｒｉｅｎｔｅｄ ｓｃｒｅｅｎｐｌａｙ (ｄｒｅａｄｆｕｌ ｔｈｏｕｇｈ ｉｔ ｗａｓ), "Ｐｌａｎｅｔ ｏｆ Ｄｒｕｎｋｓ." Ｂｕｔ ｂｙ ｔｈｅｎ, ｎｏ ｏｎｅ ｓｅｅｍｅｄ ｔｏ ｈａｖｅ ａ ｃｌｕｅ ａｂｏｕｔ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｗａｓ ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｐｕｔ ｆｏｒｔｈ ｉｎ ｍｙ ｗｏｒｋ, ｏｒ ｗｈｙ - ｎｏｒ ｗａｓ Ｉ ｕｐ ｔｏ ｅｘｐｌａｉｎｉｎｇ ｉｔ ｗｈｅｎ, Ｉ ｔｈｅｎ ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ, ｏｆｆｅｒｅｄ ａｎｙ ｏｆ ｔｈｏｓｅ ｒａｒｅ ｏｐｐｏｒｔｕｎｉｔｉｅｓ ｔｏ ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ ｄｏ ｔｈａｔ. Ｉ ｈａｄｎ'ｔ ｙｅｔ ｐｕｔ ｍｕｃｈ ｏｆ ｉｔ ａｌｌ ｔｏｇｅｔｈｅｒ. Ａｎｙｗａｙ: ｔｈｅｒｅ ｒｅｍａｉｎｓ ｎｏ ｄｅｆｅｎｓｅ ｉｎ ｓｅｃｕｌａｒ (ｏｒ ｒｅｌｉｇｉｏｕｓ) ｅｄｕｃａｔｉｏｎ ｆｏｒ ｒｅａｄｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｌｉｋｅｓ ｏｆ ａ Ｊａｎｅ Ｒｏｂｅｒｔｓ - ｎｅｖｅｒ ｍｉｎｄ ｃｉｔｉｎｇ ｈｅｒ ａｓ ｅｒｕｄｉｔｉｏｎ. Ｆｏｒｗａｒｄ ｔｏ ｔｈｉｓ ｙｅａｒ, 2006. Ｔｈｅ Ｎｅｗ Ａｇｅ ａｐｐｅａｒｓ ｔｏ ｈａｖｅ ａｒｒｉｖｅｄ - ｏｎｌｙ ｉｔ'ｓ ｄｒｅｓｓｅｄ ｉｎ ｓｏｍｅｗｈａｔ ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ ｃｌｏｔｈｉｎｇ ｔｈａｎ ｍｏｓｔ ｉｎｄｉｖｉｄｕａｌｓ ｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄ - ｅｘｃｅｐｔ ｍａｙｂｅ ｆｏｒ ｔｈｅ ｌｉｋｅｓ ｏｆ "Ｌａｚａｒｉｓ," ｔｏ ｃｉｔｅ ｏｎｅ Ｎｅｗ Ａｇｅ ｃａｒｒｙｏｖｅｒ, ｗｈｏ ｈａｄ ｔｈｉｓ ｔｏ ｓａｙ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｌａｔｅ 1980ｓ - ｗｈｉｃｈ (ａｎｄ Ｉ'ｌｌ ｐａｒａｐｈｒａｓｅ ｔｈｅ ｑｕｏｔｅ) ｍａｄｅ ｎｏ ｓｅｎｓｅ ｔｏ ａｎｙｏｎｅ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｔｉｍｅ, ｉｎｃｌｕｄｉｎｇ ｍｅ: "Ｔｈｅ ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍ ｉｓ ｎｏｔ ｔｈａｔ ｙｏｕｒ ｗｏｒｌｄ ｉｓ ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｔｏ ａｎ ｅｎｄ. Ｔｈｅ (ｒｅａｌ) ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍ ｉｓ ｔｈａｔ ｉｔ ｉｓｎ'ｔ," Ｉ ｒｅｃａｌｌ Ｊａｃｈ Ｐｕｒｓｅｌ'ｓ "ｅｎｔｉｔｙ" (ｍｏｒｅ ｏｒ ｌｅｓｓ) ｓｔａｔｉｎｇ ｂａｃｋ ｔｈｅｎ. "Ａｎｄ (ｓｏ)," Ｌａｚａｒｉｓ ｃｏｎｃｌｕｄｅｄ, "ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｇｏｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｅｎｄ ｕｐ ｂｅｉｎｇ ｌｅｆｔ ｗｉｔｈ ａｌｌ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｍａｊｏｒ ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍｓ ｔｈａｔ ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ ｇｏｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｄｅａｌ ｗｉｔｈ." Ｔｈａｔ ｉｎｓｉｇｈｔ ｍａｄｅ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ｓｅｎｓｅ ｔｈｅｎ - ｂｕｔ ｉｔ ｄｏｅｓ ｎｏｗ, ａｎｄ ｉｔ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｐａｃｋｓ ａ ｗａｌｌｏｐ. Ｔｏ ｔｈｉｓ ｄａｙ, ｔｈａｔ ｑｕｏｔｅ ａｌｏｎｅ ｔｒｕｍｐｓ ａｌｍｏｓｔ ｅｖｅｒｙ ｑｕｏｔｅ Ｉ ｈｅａｒｄ ｃｏｍｅ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｕｔｈｓ ｏｆ ｈｉｓｔｏｒｙ'ｓ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ-ｋｎｏｗｎ ｅｘｉｓｔｅｎｔｉａｌｉｓｔｓ - ｍａｎｙ ｏｆ ｗｈｏｍ, Ｉ ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ, ｌｉｋｅｌｙ ｄｒａｎｋ ｔｏｏ ｄａｍｎｅｄ ｍｕｃｈ ｗｈｅｎ ｔｈｅｙ ｗｅｒｅ ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ. (Ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ ｗａｓ ｔｈｅ ｅｘｉｓｔｅｎｔｉａｌｉｓｔｓ' ｐｒｉｍａｒｙ ｓｏｕｒｃｅ ｏｆ ｅｒｕｄｉｔｉｏｎ, ａｓ ｎｅａｒ ａｓ Ｉ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｔｅｌｌ.) Ｆｏｒ ｔｈｏｓｅ ｗｈｏ ｅｍｂｒａｃｅ Ｔｈｅ Ｒａｐｔｕｒｅ - ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ｇｏｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｈｅｌｌ ｔｏ ｐａｙ, ｆｉｇｕｒａｔｉｖｅｌｙ ａｎｄ ｌｉｔｅｒａｌｌｙ, ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｗａｙ, ｉｆ ＩＴ ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ ｃｏｍｅ ｏｆｆ ａｓ Ｓｃｒｉｐｔｕｒａｌｌｙ "ｐｒｅｄｉｃｔｅｄ," ａｓ ｗｅｌｌ. Ｗｈｅｒｅ ｗｉｌｌ ｔｈｅ ｇｕｉｄｉｎｇ ｑｕｏｔａｔｉｏｎｓ ｃｏｍｅ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｅｎ? Ｔｈｅｒｅ ａｒｅ ｆｅｗ ｉｆ ａｎｙ ｃｏｎｓｉｓｔｅｎｔ ａｎｓｗｅｒｓ ｏｕｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｇｌｅａｎｅｄ ａｔ ｐｒｅｓｅｎｔ. Ａｎｄ ｉｔ ｉｓ ｔｈａｔ ｗｈｉｃｈ ｄｒｉｖｅｓ ｍｙ ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ ｅｆｆｏｒｔｓ. Ｉｔ'ｓ ｔｉｍｅ ｔｏ ｂｅｇｉｎ ｆｏｒｍｕｌａｔｉｎｇ ｓｏｍｅ. Ｗｅ ｎｅｅｄ ｔｏ ｔａｌｋ - ａｌｌ ｏｆ ｕｓ ｗｈｏ ａｒｅ ｔｈｅ ｌｅａｓｔ ｂｉｔ ｉｎｃｌｉｎｅｄ ｔｏ ｄｏ ｉｔ. Ａｎｄ ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｓｏｏｎ. Ｗｈｅｎ Ｉ ｗｒｏｔｅ ａｂｏｕｔ ｓｐｅｃｕｌａｔｉｖｅ ａｎｄ ｃｒｉｔｉｑｕｅ ｔｏｐｉｃｓ ｔｈｉｓ ｙｅａｒ, Ｉ ｗａｓ ｒｅｐｒｅｓｅｎｔｉｎｇ ｎｏ ｏｎｅ'ｓ (ｕｎｉｆｏｒｍ) ｖｉｅｗｐｏｉｎｔ ｂｕｔ ｍｙ ｏｗｎ. Ｈｏｎｅｓｔｌｙ, Ｉ'ｄ ｂｅ ｔｉｃｋｌｅｄ ａｔ ｔｈｉｓ ｓｔａｇｅ ｉｆ ａｎｙ ｒｅａｄｅｒ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｓｉｍｐｌｙ ｐｏｓｔ ｗｈａｔ ｔｈｅｙ ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｆｅｅｌ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈｉｓ (ｂｕｔ ｈａｖｅｎ'ｔ ａｓ ｙｅｔ ｅｘｐｒｅｓｓｅｄ): ａｓ ｉｎ, "Ｂｒｉｃｋｎｅｒ, ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｆｕｌｌ ｏｆ ｃｒａｐ - ａｎｄ ｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ｗｈｙ." Ｄｏｔ-ｄｏｔ-ｄｏｔ. Ｂｕｔ ｎｏ ｏｎｅ'ｓ ｄｏｎｅ ｔｈａｔ ｔｏ ｄａｔｅ, ａｎｄ Ｉ ｆｉｎｄ ｉｔ ａ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ ｓｃａｒｙ - ｆｏｒ Ｉ'ｍ ｂｅｇｉｎｎｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ Ｉ ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｍｉｇｈｔ ｅｎｄ ｕｐ ｌｉｋｅ Ｍ. Ｎｉｇｈｔ Ｓｈｙａｍａｌａｎ'ｓ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｅｒ ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ ｉｎ ｈｉｓ ｌａｔｅｓｔ ｍｏｖｉｅ, "Ｌａｄｙ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ Ｗａｔｅｒ." Ｉｎ ｔｈａｔ ｓｔｏｒｙｌｉｎｅ, ｔｈｉｓ ｇｅｎｔｌｅ ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ ｈａｓ ｗｒｉｔｔｅｎ ａｎ ｅｐｉｓｔｌｅ ｈｅ ｃａｌｌｓ "Ｔｈｅ Ｃｏｏｋｂｏｏｋ" - ｗｈｉｃｈ ｉｓ ｐｒｅｄｉｃｔｅｄ (ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｆｉｌｍ'ｓ ｔｉｔｌｅ ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ) ｔｏ ｉｎｓｐｉｒｅ ｏｎｅ ｋｅｙ ｆｕｔｕｒｅ ｌｅａｄｅｒ ｄｏｗｎ ｔｈｅ ｒｏａｄ ｗｈｏ, ａｓ ａｎ ｏｒａｔｏｒ ｌａｔｅｒ ｉｎ ｈｉｓ ａｄｕｌｔ ｌｉｆｅ, ｉｎｓｐｉｒｅｓ ｌｏｎｇ-ｏｖｅｒｄｕｅ ｏｖｅｒｈａｕｌｓ ｉｎ ｓｏｃｉｅｔｙ, ｌａｒｇｅｌｙ ａｓ ａ ｒｅｓｕｌｔ ｏｆ ｈａｖｉｎｇ ｒｅａｄ "Ｔｈｅ Ｃｏｏｋｂｏｏｋ" ｗｈｅｎ ｈｅ ｗａｓ ａ ｂｏｙ. Ｔｈｉｎｇ ｉｓ, ｔｈｏｕｇｈ: Ｓｈｙａｍａｌａｎ'ｓ ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ ｅｎｄｓ ｕｐ ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ ｍｕｒｄｅｒｅｄ ｆｉｒｓｔ ｂｅｆｏｒｅ ｈｉｓ ｐｕｂｌｉｓｈｅｄ ｂｕｔ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ-ｒｅａｄ ｃｒｉｔｉｑｕｅｓ ａｒｅ ｅｖｅｒ ｔａｋｅｎ ｓｅｒｉｏｕｓｌｙ - ｏｒ, ｆｏｒ ｔｈａｔ ｍａｔｔｅｒ, ｈｅ ｅｖｅｎ ｇｅｔｓ ｔｏ ｍｅｅｔ ｔｈｅ Ｍｉｄｗｅｓｔｅｒｎ ｆｕｔｕｒｅ ｏｒａｔｏｒ ｈｅ ｗｉｌｌ ｏｎｅ ｄａｙ ｓｏ ｐｏｗｅｒｆｕｌｌｙ ｉｎｆｌｕｅｎｃｅ. Ｈｅ ｗａｓ ｍｕｒｄｅｒｅｄ ｓｏｌｅｌｙ ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ ｈｅ ｗｒｏｔｅ ｔｈｅ ｐｕｂｌｉｓｈｅｄ ｂｏｏｋ ｔｈａｔ ｈｅ ｄｉｄ. Ｉｔ ｈａｄ ｍａｄｅ ａ ｌｏｔ ｏｆ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｕｎｃｏｍｆｏｒｔａｂｌｅ ａｎｄ ａｎｇｒｙ, ａｓ ｉｔ ｗａｓ ｅｘｐｌａｉｎｅｄ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｖｉｅ. Ｙｅｓ, ｏｆ ｃｏｕｒｓｅ - ｔｈｉｓ ｗａｓ ａ ｗｏｒｋ ｏｆ ｆｉｃｔｉｏｎ. Ｉ ｇｅｔ ｔｈａｔ. Ｂｕｔ ｃａｌｌ ｍｅ ｇｒａｎｄｉｏｓｅ ａｎｄ ｈｅａｖｉｌｙ ｄｅｌｕｄｅｄ - Ｉ ｓｔｅｐｐｅｄ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｔｈｅａｔｅｒ ｓｈａｋｅｎ, Ｉ ｈａｄ ｉｄｅｎｔｉｆｉｅｄ ｓｏ ｓｔｒｏｎｇｌｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈａｔ ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ. Ｍｙ ｌｉｆｅ ｈａｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｄｉｆｆｉｃｕｌｔ ａｎｄ ｕｎｆｕｌｆｉｌｌｉｎｇ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ ｈａｖｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｇｅｔ ｗｈａｃｋｅｄ ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ ｏｆ ｍｙ ｖｉｅｗｐｏｉｎｔｓ. Ｉ ａｌｓｏ ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅｄ ｉｔ ｗｏｕｌｄ ａｌｌ ｃｏｍｅ ｔｏ ａ ｈａｐｐｙ ｅｎｄｉｎｇ. Ｎｏｗ Ｉ'ｍ ｎｏｔ ｓｏ ｓｕｒｅ. * * * * * Ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅ ｄｕｒｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｍｉｄ-ｔｏ-ｌａｔｅ 1990ｓ Ｉ'ｄ ｄｅｃｉｄｅｄ ｔｈａｔ ｔｈｅ ｒｏａｄ Ｉ ｈａｄ ｃｈｏｓｅｎ ｔｏ ｗａｌｋ ｄｏｗｎ ｉｎ ｔｈｉｓ ｌｉｆｅ - ｐｕｓｈｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｓｅ ａｃｔｉｏｎｓ ａｓ ｍｙ ａｇｅｎｄａ, ｗｈｅｔｈｅｒ ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ ｗｅｌｌ ｒｅｃｅｉｖｅｄ, ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔｏｏｄ, ｏｒ ｎｏｔ - ｗａｓ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｇｏｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｄｏ. Ｉ ｓｔｒｏｎｇｌｙ ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅｄ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｔｉｍｅ ｔｈａｔ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｕｐ ｔｏ ｉｔ. Ｎｏｗ Ｉ ｏｎｌｙ ｄｅｓｐｅｒａｔｅｌｙ ｈｏｐｅ ｔｈａｔ Ｉ ａｍ. Ｎｏｔ ｓｏ ｃｏｃｋｙ, ａｍ Ｉ, ａｔ ｔｈｉｓ ｆａｄｉｎｇ ｓｔａｇｅ ｏｆ ｍｙ ｌｉｆｅ. Ｒｅｇａｒｄｌｅｓｓ, Ｉ ｎｏ ｌｏｎｇｅｒ ａｐｐｅａｒ ｔｏ ｅｖｅｎ ｈａｖｅ ｍｕｃｈ ｏｆ ａ ｃｈｏｉｃｅ. Ｗｉｔｈ ａ ｓｐｌｉｎｔｅｒｅｄ ｅｍｐｌｏｙｍｅｎｔ ｒｅｃｏｒｄ ａｎｄ ａ ｐｒｅｄｉｃｔａｂｌｅ ｓｅｐａｒａｔｉｏｎ ｆｒｏｍ ｆａｒ ｔｏｏ ｍａｎｙ ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ ａｎｄ ｌｏｖｅｄ ｏｎｅｓ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｍｙ ｐａｓｔ ｄｕｅ ｔｏ ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｃｅｓ ｉｎ ｏｕｒ ｗｏｒｌｄ ｖｉｅｗｓ (ａｎｄ ｗｈｏ ｍｏｓｔｌｙ ｒｅｍａｉｎ ｃｌｕｅｌｅｓｓ ａｓ ｔｏ ｗｈａｔ ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｓ ｔｏ ｄｒｉｖｅ ｍｅ ｉｎ ｔｈｉｓ ｎｏｎ-ｐａｙｉｎｇ ａｖｏｃａｔｉｏｎ), Ｉ'ｍ ｖｕｌｎｅｒａｂｌｅ ｔｏ ｂｅｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｔｙｐｅ ｏｆ ｉｎｄｉｖｉｄｕａｌ ｗｈｏ, ｌｉｋｅｌｙ ｎｏｔ ｃｏｉｎｃｉｄｅｎｔａｌｌｙ, ａｐｐｒｏａｃｈｅｄ ｍｅ ｖｅｒｙ ｒｅｃｅｎｔｌｙ - ｇｏｏｄｎｅｓｓ ｋｎｏｗｓ ｗｈｙ - ｗｈｉｌｅ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｑｕｉｅｔｌｙ ｅａｔｉｎｇ ａ Ｗｈｏｐｐｅｒ Ｊｕｎｉｏｒ ａｔ ａ ｌｏｃａｌ Ｂｕｒｇｅｒ Ｋｉｎｇ ｏｎｅ ａｆｔｅｒｎｏｏｎ ａｆｔｅｒ ｗｏｒｋ. Ｉ ｍｙｓｅｌｆ ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ ａｆｆｏｒｄ ａ ｒｅｇｕｌａｒ Ｗｈｏｐｐｅｒ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｔｉｍｅ, ａｓ Ｉ ｗａｓ ａｗａｉｔｉｎｇ ｐａｙｄａｙ, ｌｉｋｅ ｓｏ ｍａｎｙ ｍｉｌｌｉｏｎｓ ｏｆ ｍｙ ｐｅｅｒ Ａｍｅｒｉｃａｎｓ ａｒｅ ｆｏｒｃｅｄ ｔｏ ｄｏ ｎｏｗａｄａｙｓ. Ｃａｌｌ ｕｓ ｔｈｅ Ｗｈｏｐｐｅｒ Ｊｕｎｉｏｒ Ｓｏｃｉｅｔｙ. Ｏｒ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ, ｔｈｅ Ｅｘｐｅｎｄａｂｌｅ Ｗｈｏｐｐｅｒ Ｊｕｎｉｏｒ Ｓｏｃｉｅｔｙ. "Ｅｘｃｕｓｅ ｍｅ ｓｉｒ - ｂｕｔ ｈｏｗ ｆａｒ ａｗａｙ ｉｓ ｔｈｅ Ａｌａｂａｍａ ｌｉｎｅ ｆｒｏｍ ｈｅｒｅ?" ｔｈｅ ｗｏｍａｎ, ｗｈｏ ｔｏｌｄ ｍｅ ｈｅｒ ｎａｍｅ ｗａｓ Ｋａｔｈｙ, ａｓｋｅｄ ｍｅ. Ｗｈｅｎ Ｉ ｔｏｌｄ ｈｅｒ Ａｌａｂａｍａ - ａｎｄ ｓｐｅｃｉｆｉｃａｌｌｙ, ｇｒｅａｔｅｒ Ｍｏｂｉｌｅ - ｗａｓ ａ ｐｒｅｔｔｙ ｌｏｎｇ ｄｒｉｖｅ ａｗａｙ, ｓｈｅ ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ ａｄｄｅｄ, "Ｗｅｌｌ, Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｎｏｗｈｅｒｅ ｔｏ ｌｉｖｅ, Ｉ'ｍ ｒｅａｌ ｌｏｗ ｏｎ ｍｏｎｅｙ, ａｎｄ Ｉ ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ ｈｅａｄｉｎｇ ｗｅｓｔ ｍｉｇｈｔ ｍａｙｂｅ ｂｅ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｓｔ ｔｈｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ ｍｅ ｔｏ ｄｏ." Ｓｈｅ ｓａｉｄ ｓｈｅ'ｄ ｇｏｔｔｅｎ ｏｆｆ ｔｈｅ ｒｏａｄ ｔｏ Ｔａｌｌａｈａｓｓｅｅ ｆｒｏｍ Ｇａｉｎｅｓｖｉｌｌｅ, ｗｈｅｒｅ ａ ｌｏｃａｌ ｃｈｕｒｃｈ - ｗｈｏｓｅ ｍｅｍｂｅｒｓ ｈａｄ ｃｏｍｅ ｔｏ ｓｅｅ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｐｒｅａｃｈｉｎｇｓ ｗｅｒｅ ｆａｌｌｉｎｇ ｏｎ ｄｅａｆ ａｎｄ ｐｏｔｅｎｔｉａｌｌｙ ｈｏｍｅｌｅｓｓ ｅａｒｓ - ｃｕｔ ｈｅｒ "ｆｒｅｅ" ｆｒｏｍ ａｌｌ ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔ … ｏｒ ｓｏ Ｋａｔｈｙ ｃｌａｉｍｅｄ ｈａｄ ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ. Ｓｔｉｌｌ, ｈｅｒ ｆｅａｒ ａｎｄ ｂｉｔｔｅｒｎｅｓｓ ａｎｄ ｓｅｅｍｅｄ ｇｅｎｕｉｎｅ ａｎｄ ｓｕｂｓｔａｎｔｉｖｅ. Ｉ ｉｍｍｅｄｉａｔｅｌｙ ｆｅｌｔ ｄｅｅｐ ｅｍｐａｔｈｙ ｆｏｒ ｈｅｒ. Ｉｔ ｔｏｏｋ ｍｅ ｎｏ ｔｉｍｅ ｔｏ ｔｅｌｌ ｈｅｒ, "Ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｈｅａｄ ｗｅｓｔ ｆｒｏｍ ｈｅｒｅ, ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒｌｙ ｔｏｗａｒｄ ｔｈｅ Ｇｕｌｆ ｃｏａｓｔ. Ｔｈｅｙ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｈａｖｅｎ'ｔ ｇｏｔｔｅｎ ｂａｃｋ ｏｎ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｆｅｅｔ ｆｒｏｍ Ｈｕｒｒｉｃａｎｅ Ｋａｔｒｉｎａ, ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ'ｌｌ ｇｅｔ ｎｏ ｈｅｌｐ ｔｈｅｒｅ." "Ｗｅｌｌ, ｔｈｅｎ - ｃａｎ ｙｏｕ ｒｅｃｏｍｍｅｎｄ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｅｌｓｅ Ｉ ｍｉｇｈｔ ｇｏ?" Ｋａｔｈｙ ａｓｋｅｄ, ｓｅａｔｉｎｇ ｈｅｒｓｅｌｆ ａｔ ａ ｂｏｏｔｈ ｎｅｘｔ ｔｏ ｍｅ ａｆｔｅｒ ｉｎｔｒｏｄｕｃｉｎｇ ｈｅｒｓｅｌｆ ａｎｄ ｓｈａｋｉｎｇ ｈａｎｄｓ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ｎｏ ｎｅｅｄ ｔｏ ｇｏ ｉｎｔｏ ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ ｄｅｔａｉｌ ａｂｏｕｔ ｍｙ ｃｈａｔ ｗｉｔｈ Ｋａｔｈｙ (Ｉ ｗａｓ ｉｎ ｎｏ ｐｏｓｉｔｉｏｎ ｔｏ ｐｕｔ ｈｅｒ ｕｐ, ｂｙ ｔｈｅ ｗａｙ, ａｓ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｍｙｓｅｌｆ ｒｅｎｔｉｎｇ ａ ｒｏｏｍ ｉｎ ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ'ｓ ｈｏｍｅ) - ｏｔｈｅｒ ｔｈａｎ ｔｏ ｒｅａｌｉｚｅ ｌｉｋｅ ｓｏ ｍａｎｙ ｏｆ Ａｍｅｒｉｃａ'ｓ ｈｏｍｅｌｅｓｓ, ｔｈｅｒｅ ｗａｓ ｊｕｓｔ ｎｏ ｐｌａｃｅ ｌｅｆｔ ｆｏｒ Ｋａｔｈｙ ｔｏ ｇｏ, ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｈａｖｅ ｎｏ ｏｎｅ ｉｎ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｌｉｖｅｓ ｗｈｏ'ｌｌ ｐｌａｃｅ ａ ｒｏｏｆ ｏｖｅｒ ｔｈｅ ｈｅａｄｓ ｌｏｎｇ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ ｆｏｒ ｔｈｅｍ ｔｏ ｇｅｔ ｂａｃｋ ｏｎ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｆｅｅｔ - ｗｈｉｃｈ, ｂｅｓｉｄｅｓ, ｉｓ ｓｉｍｐｌｙ ｎｏｔ ｅａｓｉｌｙ ａｃｃｏｍｐｌｉｓｈｅｄ ａｎｙ ｍｏｒｅ, ａｎｙｗａｙ. Ｔｈｅ ｃｏｓｔ ｏｆ ｌｉｖｉｎｇ, ｔｈｅ ｓｉｍｐｌｅ ｃｏｓｔ ｏｆ ｂｒｅａｔｈｉｎｇ ａｉｒ, ｈａｓ ｖｅｒｙ ｎｅａｒｌｙ ｂｅｃｏｍｅ ｐｒｏｈｉｂｉｔｉｖｅ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ Ｕ.Ｓ. ｎｏｗ ｆｏｒ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ'ｍ ｇｕｅｓｓｉｎｇ ｉｓ ａｓ ｍｕｃｈ ａｓ ａ ｔｈｉｒｄ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｐｏｐｕｌａｔｉｏｎ. Ｍａｙｂｅ ｍｏｒｅ. Ｉ ｃｅｒｔａｉｎｌｙ ｒｕｎ ｉｎｔｏ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ ｏｆ ｓｕｃｈ ｉｎｄｉｖｉｄｕａｌｓ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｒｅｔａｉｌ ｓｔｏｒｅ ｗｈｅｒｅ Ｉ ｗｏｒｋ. Ｗｈｅｎ ｓｈｅ ｆｉｒｓｔ ａｐｐｒｏａｃｈｅｄ ｍｅ, Ｉ ｏｕｇｈｔ ｔｏ ｎｏｔｅ, Ｉ ｗａｓ ｔｈｉｎｋｉｎｇ ａｂｏｕｔ ｍｙ ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇｓ, ａｎｄ ｈｏｗ ｔｈｅｙ ｗｅｒｅ ｇｏｉｎｇ (ｔｈｅｙ ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ ａｐｐｅａｒ ｔｏ ｂｅ ａｃｃｏｍｐｌｉｓｈｉｎｇ ｎｅａｒｌｙ ａｓ ｍｕｃｈ ａｓ Ｉ'ｄ ｈｏｐｅｄ) - ｂｕｔ ａｔ ｌｅａｓｔ ｍｙ ｓｕｒｖｉｖａｌ ｗａｓｎ'ｔ ｂｅｉｎｇ ｔｈｒｅａｔｅｎｅｄ ａｓ Ｋａｔｈｙ'ｓ ｗａｓ. Ｆａｃｔ ｗａｓ - Ｉ ｗａｓ ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ ｂｙ ｐｒｅｔｔｙ ｄａｍｎｅｄ ｗｅｌｌ ｃｏｍｐａｒｅｄ ｔｏ ｈｅｒ. Ａｆｔｅｒ ｃｈａｔｔｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ ａ ｈａｌｆ ｈｏｕｒ - Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｎｏ ｉｄｅａ ｉｆ ｍｙ ｓｕｇｇｅｓｔｉｏｎｓ ｗｅｒｅ ａｎｙ ｇｏｏｄ, ｍｕｃｈ ｌｅｓｓ ｉｆ ｔｈｅｙ ｗｅｒｅ ｆｏｌｌｏｗｅｄ - ｗｅ ｐａｒｔｅｄ ｗａｙｓ. Ｔｈｅ ｌａｓｔ Ｉ ｓａｗ ｏｆ ｈｅｒ, ｓｈｅ ｗａｓ ｈｅａｄｅｄ ｔｏｗａｒｄ ｔｈｅ ｗｏｍｅｎ'ｓ ｒｅｓｔｒｏｏｍ. Ｓｈｅ ｓｉｎｃｅｒｅｌｙ ｔｈａｎｋｅｄ ｍｅ ｆｉｒｓｔ ｆｏｒ ｔａｋｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ ｔｉｍｅ ｔｏ ｌｉｓｔｅｎ, ｔｈｏｕｇｈ, ａｎｄ ｔｏ ｅｘｃｈａｎｇｅ ｇａｍｅ ｐｌａｎ ｉｄｅａｓ ｗｉｔｈ ｈｅｒ. Ｍｅ, Ｉ ｇｏｔ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｅｘｐｒｅｓｓｗａｙ, ｈｅａｄｅｄ ｂａｃｋ ｔｏｗａｒｄ ｗｈｅｒｅ Ｉ'ｍ ｎｏｗ ｇｒａｔｅｆｕｌｌｙ ｌｉｖｉｎｇ - ａｎｄ Ｉ ｂｅｇａｎ ｔｏ ｃｒｙ. Ｅｖｅｎ ｔｈｏｕｇｈ ｍｙ ｉｎｔｅｌｌｅｃｔ ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ Ｇｏｄ ｅｖｅｒ ｉｎｔｅｒｖｅｎｅｓ, Ｉ ｐｒａｙｅｄ ｗｈｉｌｅ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｄｒｉｖｉｎｇ, ａｓｋｉｎｇ ｔｈａｔ ｍａｙｂｅ Ｈｅ'ｄ ｍａｋｅ ａｎ ｅｘｃｅｐｔｉｏｎ ｔｈｉｓ ｏｎｅ ｔｉｍｅ ｏｎ Ｋａｔｈｙ'ｓ ｂｅｈａｌｆ. Ｂｕｔ Ｉ ｄｏｕｂｔｅｄ ｖｅｒｙ ｓｔｒｏｎｇｌｙ ｔｈａｔ Ｈｅ ｗｏｕｌｄ. Ｉ ｗａｓ ｂｏｔｈ ａｃｈｉｎｇ ａｎｄ ｔｅｒｒｉｆｉｅｄ ｆｏｒ ｈｅｒ. Ａｌｌ ｏｆ ｔｈｉｓ ｈｉｔ ｗａｙ ｔｏｏ ｃｌｏｓｅ ｔｏ ｈｏｍｅ ｆｏｒ ｍｅ, ｔｏｏ - ｎｏ ｐｕｎ ｉｎｔｅｎｄｅｄ. Ａｎｙｗａｙ… Ｂａｃｋ ｔｏ ｔｈｉｓ ｄｅｔｅｒｍｉｎｅｄ ａｖｏｃａｔｉｏｎ ｂｕｓｉｎｅｓｓ ｏｆ ｍｉｎｅ: Ｉ ｃａｎ ｓｅｅ ｗｈｅｎ Ｉ "ｒｕｎ Ｇｏｏｇｌｅｓ" (ａｎｄ ｏｔｈｅｒ ｓｅａｒｃｈ ｅｎｇｉｎｅｓ) ｕｎｄｅｒ ｍｙ ｆｕｌｌ ａｎｄ ｐｕｂｌｉｓｈｅｄ ｎａｍｅ, ｔｈａｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ ａｐｐｅａｒ ｔｏ ａ ｓｕｂｓｔａｎｔｉａｌ ｎｕｍｂｅｒ ｏｆ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｏｕｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ ｗｈｏ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈｏ-ｔｈｅ-ｈｅｌｌ Ｉ ａｍ. Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｎｏ ｉｄｅａ ｗｈｏ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｒｅａｄｅｒｓ ａｒｅ - ｂｕｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ａｔ ｌｅａｓｔ ａ ｂａｒｅ ｍｉｎｉｍｕｍ ｏｆ ａ ｔｈｏｕｓａｎｄ ｏｆ ｔｈｅｍ ｔｏ ｄａｔｅ ｔｈｉｓ ｙｅａｒ ｓｏ ｆａｒ, ｂａｓｅｄ ｏｎ ｍｙ ｍａｔｈ ａｐｐｌｉｅｄ ｔｏ ｐｒｅｓｅｎｔａｔｉｏｎ ｕｐｇｒａｄｅｓ ａｔ ｔｗｏ ｏｒ ｍｏｒｅ ｓｉｔｅｓ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｍｙ ｅｓｓａｙｓ ｒｕｎ. Ｒｅｇａｒｄｌｅｓｓ, ｏｎｌｙ ａ ｍｅｒｅ ｈａｎｄｆｕｌ ｈａｖｅ ｙｅｔ ｈａｖｅ ｐｒｏｖｉｄｅｄ ｍｅ ｗｉｔｈ ａｎｙ ｃｌｅａｒ ｆｅｅｄｂａｃｋ, ａｌｔｈｏｕｇｈ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ'ｖｅ ｈｅａｒｄ ｈａｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｆａｉｒｌｙ ｃｏｍｐｌｉｍｅｎｔａｒｙ. Ｓｔｉｌｌ, Ｉ'ｍ ｌｅｆｔ ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ ｓｕｓｐｉｃｉｏｕｓ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｖｅｒｙ ｌｉｔｔｌｅ "ｇｌｏｗ" ｉｎ ａｎｙ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｒｅｓｐｏｎｓｅｓ. * * * * * Ｃｌｏｓｅ ｔｏ ｃｌｏｓｉｎｇ, ｔｈｉｓ: ｔｈｅｒｅ ｉｓ ｎｏ ｈａｎｄｂｏｏｋ ｔｏ ｇｕｉｄｅ ｍｙ ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇｓ, ａｎｄ ｓｏ Ｉ ｗｉｎｇ ｉｔ, ａｌｍｏｓｔ ｅｎｔｉｒｅｌｙ ｂｙ ｉｎｓｔｉｎｃｔ, ｅｖｅｒｙ ｔｉｍｅ Ｉ ｓｔｒｉｖｅ ｔｏ ｇｅｔ ｐｕｂｌｉｓｈｅｄ. Ｔｈｕｓ, Ｉ'ｖｅ ｍａｄｅ ａ ｌｏｔ ｏｆ ｃａｌｃｕｌａｔｉｏｎ ｍｉｓｔａｋｅｓ - ａｓ ｉｎ ｒｅａｌｉｚｉｎｇ ｔｏｏ ｌａｔｅ ｔｈａｔ ｍｏｓｔ ｒｅａｄｅｒｓ ｗｉｌｌ ｒｅａｄ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｓｔ ｒｅｃｅｎｔ ｅｓｓａｙ ｆｉｒｓｔ, ｔｈｅｎ ｂａｃｋｗａｒｄｓ ｔｏｗａｒｄ ｔｈｅ ｏｌｄｅｓｔ - ｗｈｅｎ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ ｏｒｄｅｒ ｗｉｔｈ ｗｈｉｃｈ ｔｏ ｇｅｔ ａ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ ｈａｎｄｌｅ ｏｎ ｍｙ ｏｆｔｅｎ ｓｔｕｍｂｌｅｂｕｍ ｅｆｆｏｒｔ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ ｂｅ ｒｅａｄｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ "ｏｌｄｉｅｓ" ｆｉｒｓｔ. Ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｏｔｈｅｒ ｍｉｓｔａｋｅｓ - ａｓ ｉｎ ｒｅｐｅａｔｉｎｇ ｅｘｐｌａｎａｔｉｏｎｓ ａｎｄ ｓｕｃｈ, ｗｈｉｃｈ Ｉ'ｖｅ ｅｖｅｎ ｃｏｍｍｉｔｔｅｄ ｉｎ ｔｈｉｓ ａｒｔｉｃｌｅ. Ｔｈｅ ａｓｓｕｍｐｔｉｏｎ, ａｇａｉｎ, ｈａｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｔｈａｔ ｅａｃｈ ｎｅｗ ａｒｔｉｃｌｅ ｉｓ ｌｉｋｅｌｙ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｒｅａｄ ｂｙ ｒｅａｄｅｒｓ ｕｎａｃｑｕａｉｎｔｅｄ ｗｉｔｈ ｍｙ ｐｒｅｖｉｏｕｓ ｅｓｓａｙｓ … ａ ｊｏｕｒｎａｌｉｓｔｉｃａｌｌｙ-ｔａｕｇｈｔ ａｃｔｉｏｎ ｔｈａｔ ｍｉｇｈｔ ｎｏｔ ｐｒｏｖｅ ｃｏｒｒｅｃｔ ｉｎ ｔｈｉｓ ｉｎｓｔａｎｃｅ. Ｉ ｔｒｙ ｔｏ ａｄｊｕｓｔ ａｓ ｔｈｅ ｍｏｎｔｈｓ ｓａｉｌ ｂｙ, ｉｎ ａｎｙ ｅｖｅｎｔ. Ｉｎ ａ ｒａｒｅ (ａｎｄ ｈｉｇｈｌｙ ｖａｌｕｅｄ) ｃｈａｔ ｗｉｔｈ ａ ｃｏ-ｗｏｒｋｅｒ ｌａｓｔ ｎｉｇｈｔ ｏｖｅｒ ｍｙ ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ - ｗｈｉｃｈ ｈｅ ｃｅｒｔａｉｎｌｙ ａｐｐｅａｒｓ ｕｎｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄｌｙ ａｎｄ ｆｌａｔｔｅｒｉｎｇｌｙ ｔｏ ｈａｖｅ ｒｅａｄ ａ ｌｏｔ ｏｆ - Ｉ ｃａｍｅ ａｗａｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｉｓ: ｎｏ ｏｎｅ ｓｅｅｍｓ ｔｏ ｆｕｌｌｙ ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ'ｍ ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ, ｏｒ ｗｈｙ Ｉ ｂｏｔｈｅｒ ｔｏ ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ ｉｔ. Ａｎｄ Ｉ ｓｅｎｓｅ ａ ｃｏｎｓｉｓｔｅｎｔ ｄｉｓｃｏｍｆｏｒｔ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｅｎｄ ｉｎ ｅｖｅｎ ｔａｌｋｉｎｇ ａｂｏｕｔ ｉｔ. Ｕｌｔｉｍａｔｅｌｙ, Ｉ ｗａｎｔ ｔｏ ｉｎｄｕｃｅ/ｉｎｓｐｉｒｅ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｉｃａｌ ｄｉｓｃｏｕｒｓｅ, ａｎｄ ｌｕｒｅ ｉｔ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｉｅｓ, ｗｈｅｒｅ ｎｏｎｅ ｏｆ ｉｔｓ ｐｒｏｐｏｎｅｎｔｓ ｅｖｅｒ, ｅｖｅｒ, ｅｖｅｒ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ａｎｓｗｅｒ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ ｗｏｒｌｄ (ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ, ｔｈｅ ｏｎｅ ｔｈａｔ ａｐｐｅａｒｓ ｈｅａｄｅｄ ｄｏｗｎ ｔｈｅ ｓｐｉｌｌｗａｙ) - ｏｒ ａｓ ｔｏ ｗｈｙ ｃｌａｓｓｉｃａｌ ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ ｈａｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｓｏ ｉｍｐｏｔｅｎｔ ａｎｄ ｉｇｎｏｒｅｄ ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ ｏｆ ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ. Ｏｎｅ ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ａｇｒｅｅ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｅｘｐｒｅｓｓｅｄ ｉｄｅａｓ - ａｎｄ Ｉ ｋｎｏｗ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ ｔｈａｎ ｔｏ ｅｖｅｎ ｈｏｐｅ ｆｏｒ ｓｕｃｈ ａｎ ｏｕｔｃｏｍｅ. Ｉｔ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｊｕｓｔ ｂｅ ｔｅｒｒｉｆｉｃ ｉｆ ａ ｆｅｗ ｍｏｒｅ ｒｅａｄｅｒｓ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｓｉｍｐｌｙ ｓｔｅｐ ｏｕｔ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｓｉｌｅｎｃｅ, ｔｈｏｕｇｈ, ａｎｄ ｒｅｓｐｏｎｄ. Ａｎｄ, ｌｉｓｔｅｎ - ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ ｇｏｏｄ ａｎｄ ｐｉｓｓｅｄ, ｗｏｒｋｓ ｆｏｒ ｍｅ. Ｗｈｅｎ Ｉ'ｍ ｊｕｓｔ ｐｌａｉｎ ｉｎｃｏｒｒｅｃｔ - ｐｌｅａｓｅ ｉｌｌｕｍｉｎａｔｅ ｍｅ. Ｐｌｅａｓｅ. Ｔｈｉｓ ｌａｔｅ ｍｉｄｄｌｅ-ａｇｅｄ ｍａｎ ｗｏｕｌｄ ｖｅｒｙ ｎｅａｒｌｙ ｂｅ ｔｈｒｉｌｌｅｄ. # # # Ｄｏｎａｌｄ Ｃｒｏｆｔ Ｂｒｉｃｋｎｅｒ ｍａｙ ｂｅ ｒｅａｃｈｅｄ ｆｏｒ ｑｕｅｓｔｉｏｎｓ, ｃｏｍｍｅｎｔｓ ａｎｄ ｒｅａｃｔｉｏｎｓ ａｔ: ｄｃｒｏｆｔｂｒｉｃｋｎｅｒ@ａｏｌ.ｃｏｍ. |
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