PROFESSOR ERIC DONALDSON

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Our family search has begun for a suitable institution of higher education for my son Andrew. Through my wife Sue's research, we found several computer apps, like CollegeProwler.com. With this program, an applicant's statistics are fed in and calculated with specific needs and concerns like; distance, cost, educational specialties etc., to find the most appropriate choices.

Once the possibilities are narrowed down, Sue bought a tome called the, "Princeton Review."

WHETHER YOU'RE A SKATER-DUDE OR A GOTH, A HARD LIQUOR KIND OF GUY OR A NERD, "THE PRINCETON REVIEW," WILL HELP FIND THE BEST COLLEGE FOR YOU.

This voluminous 825+ page volume, is chock-full of information on the top 373 USA colleges. It'll help you see minute differences so you can make a more informed decision between the likes of the Mighty Ground Squirrels of Watzamatta U. and the Maroon Space Cases of Whippy Tippy U.

The next step after eliminating 95% of schools, is to start visiting campuses of potential candidates. That is where we are now. We went to Ardmore Pennsylvania yesterday, to see Haverford College and the week before to Pennington New Jersey, to scout-out the College of New Jersey, (TCNJ), formerly Trenton State. SINCE 1833, THE ONLY WELCOMING ICON AT ULTRA-SNOOTY HAVERFORD IS THE DUCK POND.

At TCNJ's open house, our hectic morning started by parking behind Loser Hall. They say you only have one chance to make a first impression. So I thought that whoever endowed the university with enough money to get an entire building named after them, should have at least bypassed their actual name and used a nickname.

Loser Hall? I mean, really. What's next on the quadrangle, the D'Minus Gymnasium or the McPhail Observatory? Think about it, if they had named that building anything, say Snooki Hall, it would have provided mega-tons more positivism, even if only on a subliminal level...than leaving a "losing" taste in your mouth.

From the parking lot, like lemmings, we followed an endless caravan of others into the student union building. A thousand aimless people, representing high school juniors and their families were penned-up there. Until, a horde of happy, helpful student ambassadors clad in broad-banded blue and white rugby shirts came out of the woodwork to assist.

Together with about a hundred people, we joined a walking tour of the grounds. Our rotund guide was well versed in everything TCNJ. When someone asked about the origins of the name Loser Hall, I only felt slightly better when she roared with full Lion's pride, "The name is pronounced to rhyme with Hoosier."

The area of expertise that our guide really excelled in was, her in depth knowledge of the dining hall's offerings, (that night was one of her favorites, fried scallops). Like a computer, she also rattled-off nearby restaurants and supermarkets, plus, the most reliable pizza and Chinese food delivery services. If that wasn't enough, she knew the exact dates of the ethnic food festivals as well as the location of each campus convenience store and vending machine. She capped off her portion of our visit by dropping us off at a huge auditorium.

On the stage, a series of gifted speakers assisted by PowerPoint presentations and other visual aids, discussed and promoted various aspects of TCNJ life. A question and answer period followed that was led by three student ambassadors. These hand selected representatives weren't gifted public speakers. I was in the sixth row and barely heard any of them. Trust me, if they were alerting us to a fire, I wouldn't be writing this now.

The last stop Andrew, Sue and I made was to a classroom, to participate in a "workshop" on, "Selecting a Major." Workshop? I know a lecture when I hear one. I can prove it, because within fifteen minutes of this inspiration, I was magically transported back in time. That means, I nodded off. Yes, the more things change... Ironically, in my brief dream, I saw myself back in college.

In January 1973, I made a near fatal mistake by finishing high school six months early and starting college immediately.

NORMAL KIDS WHO GRADUATED IN JUNE, GOT THE BIG PRODUCTION NUMBER CEREMONY, DOWNTOWN IN THE ALBEE THEATER. KNUCKLEHEADS LIKE ME WHO FLEW THE COOP EARLY, GOT AN "EAT IT AND BEAT IT," BUM'S RUSH, IN OUR MULTI-PURPOSE ROOM BETWEEN TRY-OUTS FOR THE FRESHMEN ACAPELLA CLUB AND TWIRLER PRACTICE.

The way I arranged things meant, I graduated Canarsie High on a Friday. After a brief celebratory weekend, I started Brooklyn College that Monday. Therefore, I fell into the four and a half-year syndrome known as, Thirteenth Grade.

My early collegiate days produced lots of C's, so my scholastic highlights were well-spaced. I started as a sociology major but it didn't pan out. I realized that I had enough trouble getting out of bed every morning. Even showering, brushing my teeth and combing my hair...yes I still had use for a comb back then...were daily challenges. So the concept of dedicating myself to others wasn't a good fit.

When I switched majors to mass media, I put myself in a position to do what I was probably destined to do, (some aspect of television production). Unfortunately for me, this was thirteenth grade and the heat of my personal creativity light bulb was only forty watts. So my clogged pipes of sloth didn't melt in time to display my latent and still questionable talent.

The best part of my college experience was a course called, TV Criticism. It was a requisite for my major and only one person taught it. His name was Professor Eric Donaldson and he had a wacky personality. Today we call folks like that bipolar or at least polarizing. Some students hated him and others swore their ever-lasting allegiance to him. I was one of the latter.

Donaldson was a tall, gaunt Texan. His once blond hair was a dusty white and the deep-set wrinkles on his pasty face made him look much older than fifty. During my initial exposure to him, he announced to the class that he preferred a more intimate group. He mentioned the importance of openness and made several insulting remarks aimed at the superficiality of women. The most memorable of them was; if you are dissatisfied with a grade, ladies, don't parade your tits in my face...I'm a homosexual.

The shock value of admitting an alternative lifestyle back then was gargantuan. But it failed to thin out the herd. Then Donaldson, in the name of openness, stripped down to his boxers; they were thin, vertical, red, white and blue pinstripes, (odd the things our subconscious mind retains).

When he started, there was no response when he kicked off his shoes. However, the inflexible ones started hitting the exit when he removed his shirt. Our nutty professor continued his orientation as he loosened his belt. The exodus was in full regalia by this time and only two stragglers were left to witness his trousers come down.

In all, one third of the class, (all women) had gathered their belongings and left in a huff...thus he got his wish for a smaller group.

Donaldson gave me a B+ (Brooklyn College didn't use a plus, minus system). So, the plus aspect of my final grade was a symbolic compliment that he explained by saying, "I'm giving you the absolute highest grade possible...but you just didn't do quite enough for an A."

Beyond the curriculum and my grade, I developed a more analytical and critical approach to life. My blanket cynicism could no longer allow me to blither...that stinks or that's great. Through his tutelage, I discovered that we all need to support our reasoning...or our opinions become meaningless.

TV Criticism was like reading a self-help book. And the way he taught it, through intimacy and openness, I was also helped to accept my own flaws as well as people who were markedly different than me. Many students shared my appreciation of Donaldson and voted him, Brooklyn College Professor of the Year, (he managed to win without my vote).

To celebrate his victory, he invited all his students to a party at his Greenwich Village apartment. I saw him in his comfort zone and didn't like what I saw. But at least he had imparted in me the ability to accept his right to be different and to understand that his lifestyle had nothing to do with his professional identity and effectiveness as an educator.

I graduated thirteenth grade in June 1977.

MY ENTHUSIASM TOWARDS GRADUATING COLLEGE WAS THE SAME AS MY ATTITUDE FOR ATTENDING...BAD! IN FACT, I OPTED TO PLAY TENNIS THAT DAY. LUCKILY, I BUMPED INTO BIGHEAD-JOHN WHEN THE CEREMONY ENDED. HE LENT ME HIS CAP AND TOOK THIS POLAROID SHOT. IT'S MY ONLY MEMENTO OF THE OCCASION.

I took my college diploma to all three TV networks in Manhattan. I never got beyond the receptionist, there were no interviews, I filled out zero applications, my resume wasn't presented and they wouldn't even take my name or telephone number.

Next, I tried ten small TV production companies and got a Xerox-like negative response...without experience, we can't use you. My last stop was a beat-up warehouse off Twelve Avenue. This was the only time I ever spoke directly with an owner. I followed him back and forth between a messy office, a control room full of employees and a sound stage being disassembled. While talking with me, he was juggling other conversations, giving orders, answering phones, making notations on a clipboard and popping antacids.

He stopped suddenly and said, "You want a piece of this." I said, "Yeah." "Well, I need a PA." A production assistant (PA), is a fancy word for a gofer. He continued, "The pay is $165.00 a week." Even by 1977 standards, that was peanuts. But I took into account that I was living at home and would commute. Then I remembered what Professor Donaldson said about the importance of getting your foot in the door. I paraphrased him by saying, "Sir, I'll be the best damned PA you ever saw...but will you teach me lighting, sound?..." Before I could finish my statement he said, "Kid, I got no time and I make no promises..." He started yelling at a cameraman and I left.

A few weltschmertz-laden months later, I enrolled in the New York School of Gaming and set my sights on becoming a craps dealer in Las Vegas. (Weltschmertz, is the psychological term for the phenomena of a young man who after his schooling, is overwhelmed by his need to find his way in the world).

My short story, "THE HEAT IS ON," opens on January 5, 1978. I'm running from that dealer school with my diploma in hand, down West 32nd Street. For dramatic impact, I used a mixed metaphor to tie the fact that I was hurrying through a frigid, windy nine degrees with my impatience to break the chains of childhood. The true events included me hustling down the subway stairs in search of warmth. Suddenly, I was light-headed. I was sweating profusely and felt feint. My heart was racing as I paid my fare so I took off my coat.

When I got in the train, I still felt uncomfortable and dizzy. When I got off at Fourteenth Street to switch trains, my heart was pounding as I walked down a flight of steps. I was a afraid that I might black-out and stopped twice to rest. I was so preoccupied that I had forgotten to avoid the farthest westerly end of the LL station. In this deserted area, dozens of blackened, metal garbage bins were stored. These burnt cans were filled with trash and hundreds of rats were scavenging all over them. I was repulsed and retreated back up the short stairway to the landing and came back down the easterly fork. I felt a rush of nausea as my train pulled in.

FOURTEENTH STREET IN MANHATTAN WAS THE LAST STOP ON THE LL, (CANARSIE LINE). THERE WOULD BE A TEN MINUTE WAIT UNTIL THE CONDUCTOR WOULD BE READY FOR THE RETURN TO TRIP TO THE FAR END OF BROOKLYN.

I scurried onto the empty train. Just my luck, it was one of the few old-fashioned trains left, (see photo above). The unheated cars were filthy and smelled like stale urine. The hard seat covers were made of plastic, straw-like strands woven together to look like beads. Most of the seats were torn and it hurt to sit on them. I was willing to sit on the sharpest edge but the bee-hive of rats was only a hundred feet away. So, because the doors remain open until the train was ready to leave, I reluctantly trudged through three cars to the center of the train.

I was breathing hard as I collapsed in the corner seat. A heart attack crossed my mind as I thought I was going to faint. The doors closed for a split second and reopened as another passenger squeezed through...it was Professor Eric Donaldson. My morose mood vanished and my spirit brightened. I staggered over and introduced myself. We hadn't seen each other in a year so Donaldson pretended to be insulted because I thought he had forgotten me.

The early part of our conversation concerned itself with my failure to break into TV, my new career path and impending move to Las Vegas. When I was done, he told me that his life-mate had just committed suicide. In the few minutes of our ensuing conversation, my distress was forgotten. When the train slowed down at First Avenue, he got up and said, "Casinos are a baby of an industry...its like TV in the early 50's. Don't look back, few people make it big in TV. I think you're going to beat the system and do real well." We shook hands and he left.

I felt renewed. Looking back, I bet that's the exact moment I transformed into an adult. I sat back down and relaxed. After the Wilson Avenue station and before Broadway Junction, I stood up and walked to the first car. I was staring out the front window trying to pull my future closer when the train burst out of its black subterranean hole, rose up into the sunshine and became an elevated train.

Wherever Professor Eric Donaldson is now, I hope he reads this because he was right; I did beat the system. Casinos have kept me clothes for over thirty-two years and that's more than most of my contemporaries can say. As for Andrew, I just hope that his reality of; the more things change, the more they stay the same, comes true. Because I sense that he won't experience thirteenth grade, whether he attends Watzamatta U., Whippy Tippy U., TCNJ or a school we haven't checked into yet, like Rutgers. He is on the right track, destined to have a far greater purpose in life than I am capable of imagining.