A token male in Seneca's English department, I was eventually cashiered, stripped of epaulets, moustache and medals and sent out into the desert of Main Street like a badly behaved Legionnaire.
Ten years of teaching gives you an authoritarian complex, you've got to lecture, compare, explain.
Having no one to lecture to (my wife had had enough and had moved out) I went out to Fairy Lake there to lecture to ducks, geese and assorted racoons.
I went to Wilkinson's Studios and lectured there, and Bruce Wilkinson decided I might make a pretty good tripod for his cameras, albeit a little noisy.
What to do when you're a fallen professional?
I got into politics and they burned my house down.
Homeless, I went back to lecturing ducks. Some would shuffle notes around the grass. Others would look up with some interest, but would stop paying attention once they realized that I had eaten all the bread in my bag.
I went out to Frank Stronach's farm to lecture horses, but these were an elite breed, holding their tinted cigarettes between hooves and pasterns, adjusting their Sixties-style blinkers and commenting on my lectures with loud whinnies and horselaughs.
"Go back to ducks," seemed the message.
Unpublished horses and unskilled bongo players really piss me off.
Eventually I got a job in an auto parts department, upon which time my girlfriend at the time complained that my lovemaking had become somewhat mechanical and would I watch more Sue Johanson, that grandmother from Hell.
Was Sue getting some? Any?
I tried Sue Johanson's advice but soon found that I was using up all the batteries at Radio Shack and had to go high tech.
Yep, there's a real world out here. Mechanics know more than PhD's.
At the college, they used to call me Doctor.
At the Bonanza, when I am in my cups, they call me something out of anatomy. Rhymes with Courtney Love.
I'm afraid the good old days are only beginning.