No Flashbacks: Trust Your Instincts

University professors. We love them, we loathe them: the personal stories, the idiosyncrasies, the elbow patches, the tenure, the old corduroys with rubber bands around the ankle, the power to crush souls and foster dreams, the tattered, Indiana Jones briefcases, the sit down bicycles with the tall orange flag. They have a cache about them, cushioned and propped up by years of extended study, education and a narrow, selective slice of exposure behind them. Oft so myopic in their scope, they can serve as one's personal guru, the know-all and be-all of Micronesian anthropology, nitrate film preservation or marine invertebrates; or, they can be the guy who has no idea who The Bluth Family is, who the Kia Hamsters are or the fact that the Haunted Mansion switches to a Nightmare Before Christmas overlay at Hallowe'en. Sad, really.

 

Go ahead. You tell him he's wrong. I'll wait.

No worries for these citizens of the quad; they have the benefit of rarely, if ever, being told they're wrong. Similar to the Green Blazer of Augusta, university professors, even the lowly associate professors, are bequeathed the Cloak of Pomposity: a golden shroud of turgidity that protects the wearer from the slings and arrows of correction and opposing viewpoints. College offers great opportunity for intelligent, sharing discourse and confidence building that gives you a priceless carriage and posture of character that will serve you through life. It can also beat you over the head with a sock full of condescension and feelings of inadequacy, especially if you're a nervous and shy sixteen-year old doing her best just to find the right classrooms and fight all her instincts to hide in the library until graduation. Walt Disney said, "With every laugh, there should be a tear." Professors dole out both with great efficiency.