To my immense disappointment, none of you readers seem to be Hollywood producers. If any of you are, why are you remaking “Spider Man” instead an epic on one of my Byzantines? I am willing to compromise: the Justinian Code could be a kewl kid’s guide to dating at Constantinople High.
We now resume the ongoing satire known as my life. In the course of scrounging for writing assignments, I was asked to produce my college transcripts. (But human resource departments also reject supplicants if they sound like college graduates; the trick is to go to school without learning anything.)
Yesterday, while applying for my college transcripts, I discovered that Northwestern is unaware that it has a school of journalism. The online service was quite adamant that I was making up Medill. Since Medill did not produce Stephen Colbert or Ann-Margaret, the obscurity may be deserved. Being old-fashioned, I am familiar with the telephone and decided to notify Medill of its demise.
Its number had not been disconnected, and the human on the other end was also surprised to learn that the college did not seem to exist. She did promise to help me obtain my transcript but she would need some basic information from me.
Her first question: “Can you spell your last name?”
I replied, “Yes, otherwise I doubt that I could have gotten into Medill.” Five seconds later, she laughed. I then proved my literacy by spelling Finerman.
Her next question: “What year did you receive your degree?”
The answer was “1980.” She seemed stunned, and I felt obliged to fill the silence. “Yes, Guttenberg was on the faculty then.” She seemed shocked that anyone my decrepit age would ask for a transcript. Apparently, nursing homes and mortuaries don’t request them.
Ironically (what else), my request is a tribute to Medill. With all the benefits of its education, I am adequately literate and definitely penurious to keep writing.