I was the worst college student ever. But before we get to that, let’s start at the beginning. I attended the university in the fall of 1979. I was seventeen. I was an Olympic Weightlifting champion and a competitive bodybuilder with aspirations of going big–winning the Mr. Universe and Mr. Olympia titles and leveraging my fame to open a gym in the Bahamas. My goals were as clear as they were simple: I would have a beautiful body and my work environment would optimize my ability to maintain my beautiful body. As an added perk, I was comforted by the thought that living in the tropics would ensure that I would never have to wear clothes, only Speedos. Clothes made me so claustrophobic that the first thing I wanted to do after getting dressed was to rip my clothes off. The solution? Spend the rest of my life on an island in bodybuilder briefs with tanning oil slathered all over my shaved body.
Whenever I’d share my dream with my recently-divorced mother, she would say, “Don’t be a nincompoop. You can’t isolate yourself from the world on some tropical island.”
And I’d say, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be well connected. I’ll invite my friends–Frank Zane, Tom Platz, Robbie Robinson, Kalman Szkalak, Danny Padilla, Ron Teufel, Pete Grymkowski, and Rudy Hermosillo–to hang out with me. I’ll give them pineapple protein shakes and tell them how bodybuilding became a catalyst for my personal metamorphosis.”
“You sound ridiculous. For one thing, those aren’t your friends. They’re from your muscle magazines. I’m not stupid.”
Contradicting the stereotype of being a musclehead, I got straight As in high school, but my high school, like most public schools, was dumbed down to the point that getting a 4.0 GPA was meaningless. One of my classes, for example, was called “Money Matters.” We learned how to balance a checkbook and plan a budget so that we were saving more than we were spending. At best, you’re looking at first-grade math, a workbook full of simple percentages and fractions. Busy work like this was proof that our school didn’t want to educate us so much as keep us contained all day in an institution so our parents could take a breather from us. Public schools were part of society’s unwritten social contract with adults. Send your children to our schools so you can work enough to live in the suburbs and get a break from the headaches of parenting.
Another class was called “Popular Lit.” There were no lectures or tests. For the semester, we read any three books we wanted from the library and wrote three one-page book reports. You didn’t have to read the book. You could present chicken scratch on the book report form or make up some crazy dream you had. It didn’t matter. As long as you turned in the book report, you got an A. The teacher was a woman in her sixties who seemed determined to never engage with us. She told us to do “quiet reading” while she sat at her desk reading magazines, paying her bills, and clipping her fingernails. She was ghoulishly pale, she had long, uncombed dyed black hair, overly dark lipstick, and puffy bags under her eyes. No matter the weather, she wore wool coats that smelled of old sweat and bodily decay. Had you not told me she was a teacher, I would have assumed she was a homeless person scavenging the school for discarded cafeteria food from the high school’s trash cans.
My classes were so dumb I felt like I was in continuation school for juvenile delinquents. Clearly, the teachers weren’t preparing us to become members of the professional class. They wanted us to learn to follow rules so we’d stay out of prison and be satisfied with a blue-collar job or some minimum-wage gig in the service industry. As I heard one teacher say out of the side of his mouth in the corridor to one of his colleagues: “We’re training them to become burger-flippers.”
The teachers’ contempt for us and their pessimistic belief that only a small remnant of us would attend college meant nothing to me because college was not part of my master plan. Becoming an international bodybuilding sensation and operating a lucrative health club in the Bahamas was.
Signs of my imminent success were abundant. Not only was my muscular physique well developed for a seventeen-year-old, but I also had extraordinary networking skills that spoke well of my future business prospects. For example, at The Weight Room in Hayward, I was working out with NFL defensive end star John Matusak who had taken a liking to me. Between sets of bench presses, T-Bar rows, and seated behind-the-neck presses, we would sing along with the songs blaring from the gym’s radio. Watching the Tooz and I sing along with Nicollette Larson doing a cover of Neil Simon’s “Lotta Love” was a sight to behold. People spoke of the defensive end’s ill temper, but when Matusak and I trained, it was a constant Kumbaya moment.
You may have seen Matuszak on TV many times, but that would not have prepared you for what you would have seen in person. He was close to seven feet and 300 pounds. His long limbs made him appear slender yet huge at the same time. He had a beard, wild long hair, and the predatory eyes of a hawk.
One afternoon, Matuszak was sitting on the bench while the gym’s speakers played England Dan and John Ford Coley’s “Love Is the Answer.” Matuszak seemed offended by the song’s sentimentality. He curled his lips, looked at me, and said, “Bullshit,” before proceeding to rep 400 pounds while repeating his curse as if energized by it.
In addition to networking with Matuszak, I established a strong bond with fitness salesman and local legend Joe Corsi. In addition to being the number-one salesman of bodybuilding supplements and fitness equipment in the San Francisco East Bay, Corsi had appeared with Arnold Schwarzenegger on an episode of Streets of San Francisco. Corsi’s fitness store was next to The Weight Room and he would often stop by to pay his respects to me. He was in his late sixties. He wore a black single-piece Jack Lalanne-style jumpsuit with no sleeves and a gold zipper, unzipped to reveal his black hairy chest. His biceps were full, round, and veiny for a man his age though showing a bit of sagginess. His hair was dyed jet black. His eyebrows were black, thick, and shiny. His overall appearance was that of a former bodybuilder who had aged into a geriatric Dracula. Whenever he saw me training with the Tooz at the gym, he praised my amazing potential, said I had exceptional physical structure, and was a young man who clearly had the drive to become a world champion. I imagined it would not be long before Corsi would sponsor me the way Joe Weider sponsored Arnold Schwarzenegger. Soon, Corsi would have his people deliver an array of supplements, protein powders, and butcher-paper-wrapped T-bone steaks to my front door. When that happened, my mother would know that I wasn’t joking about becoming a professional bodybuilder for whom going to college was a big waste of time.
After I graduated high school, my mom bugged me every day about what I was going to do with my future. I told her I had a clear plan and that Joe Corsi would be my sponsor. She’d say, “This morning I got up, opened the front door to get the newspaper and I didn’t see a bunch of T-bone steaks on the front porch. You sure you’ve got a lock on this?”
In August, I came home one afternoon from my workout. I entered the kitchen and saw on the counter a yellow, slimy chicken. The plucked bird looked forlorn, a leper sulking on the cutting board. Mother was standing next to the chicken holding a cleaver. She scowled at the chicken like it was an adversary that needed to be put in its place.
“You need to learn to clean out this chicken,” she said, puffing on a cigarette.
“I don’t want to touch it. It’s disgusting.”
“You better learn to handle a raw chicken. Otherwise, you’ll never be able to achieve intimacy with a woman.”
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard, Mother.”
“You can worry about that later. Have you made plans for the fall?”
“What do you mean?”
“College. I’m thinking that’s your best option.”
I stormed out of the kitchen, walked into my room, turned on my clock radio full blast to the rock station, KYA-FM, and did some finishing-touch dumbbell curls. Listening to Roxy Music’s “Love Is the Drug,” I visualized myself being a world-famous bodybuilder living on a tropical island and drinking mango juice from halved coconuts while surrounded by hordes of beautiful women helplessly drawn to my masculine allure.
I was bathed in sweat when Mother walked into the room with an envelope.
“Your high school counselor sent you something. I think you should open it.”
She tossed the letter on my bed. I wiped off my sweat and tore open the letter. My counselor Mrs. Toscher congratulated me for my 4.0 GPA during my senior year and said it was a certainty that I could attend one of the local Cal States. I told Mother and she said, “Unless you’ve got other options, this is all you got.”
“What about Joe Corsi?”
“What about him?”
“He could be my ticket to bodybuilding greatness.”
“Unless you’ve got something in writing, you’ve got nothing.”
I figured I had one last chance with Corsi. The next day after my workout with Matusak, I paid Corsi a visit at his fitness store. He was sitting at his desk when I approached him.
“I hear you offer professional guidance to up-and-coming bodybuilders,” I said.
“Yes, I offer the best supplements in Northern California. I’ve got everything you need.”
“I’m only seventeen and I’ve come a long way.”
“You’re big for your age.”
“When Arnold Schwarzenegger moved from Austria to America, Joe Weider promoted him. They essentially made each other famous.”
“Yes, it’s a great story. I know both of them, by the way. Great guys.”
“Well, that’s where you come in. I’m available for promotion.”
“I see. I’ll tell you what I can do. Young man, do you have a valid California driver’s license?”
I nodded.
“Excellent. Here’s the deal. My brother Louie runs a meat business. Best cuts of meat you can get. Steaks, ground sirloin, turkey legs, Cornish game hens, prime rib, all-beef hot dogs. He even sells Philadelphia cheesecake, a big hit with customers. You sell them door to door, and you typically get a fifteen percent commission, but because you know me and because I want to support the local bodybuilding community, I’ll have Louie jack up your commission to twenty percent. I can say with the utmost confidence that if you show some hustle, you’ll pocket close to five hundred a week. You’ll have all the money you need for supplements and then some.”
“That’s a lot of money,” I said.
“Yes, but bear in mind, you’ll have to pay for the meat up front. But with profits being what they are, you’ll double your money in a week.”
“Did you say upfront costs?”
“You’ll need to come up with a grand to get into this opportunity. But because I like you, I may be able to talk Louie down to seven hundred. Mind you, he’s providing the van and the meat freezers.” Corsi leaned toward me and whispered, “I’d essentially be helping you to steal my brother’s money, but, hey, you’re young. I’d like to lend a helping hand.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Let me know soon. My brother is interviewing several people who already have sales experience. This opportunity isn’t going to last much longer. And remember, everyone eats meat. Everyone loves barbecue. This is an opportunity of a lifetime.”
As I drove home, I was thinking that going to college would be less taxing physically and less of a financial burden than selling butchered meats door to door. The cost of attending college at Cal State in 1979 was seventy-eight dollars a quarter. That was far cheaper than paying Joe Corsi’s brother a minimum of seven hundred dollars. In addition, I could use my title as a “college student” as a front while I continued my bodybuilding. Going to college would essentially be a delay tactic I could use until I achieved bodybuilding greatness. I would capitulate to Mother’s demand to attend college, but I knew I didn’t belong there. I knew I would be the worst college student ever.
I was a terrible student in part because I could not regardless of their achievements admire my professors. I envied them because they were so educated and appeared to have everything I didn’t. They had impressive credentials, world travels, including African safaris, to provide scintillating stories while lecturing; nice clothes, not store-bought but made by celebrity tailors; a well-curated persona enhanced by professional voice lessons; an impressive zip code that made them neighbors of politicians and socialites; membership to various tennis, bird-watching, and yoga clubs and intellectual committees; literacy in multiple languages, mastery of at least three musical instruments, and fluency in gourmet cooking. During lectures, they talked about how they prepared extravagant meals that required lemon zest, capers, and ice baths, and they beamed with pride as they rhapsodized over the pleasures of making homemade puttanesca. I had never met a group of people from one profession who were so in love with themselves.
My Ethics professor, who was also the Dean of Philosophy, had recently dumped his wife for his young secretary. He seemed rather oblivious to the rich irony of his life choices and rode his Porsche convertible over the faculty parking lot, apparently unaware of the way his toupee would flop off his bald head like a flying squirrel every time his Porsche caromed over a speed bump. A lack of self-awareness seemed to serve my Ethics professor rather well. I despised him.
My bitter envy for my professors was only matched by my spectacular ignorance. I was deemed so illiterate that the university was not content with demoting me from Freshman Composition class into the remedial class, more commonly referred to at the time as Bonehead English. To let me know my place in this world, the university made it clear that even Bonehead English was too advanced for a pariah like myself. I was quickly demoted from Bonehead and placed in the Pre-Bonehead class, a level held in such contempt that the classroom was in the Humanities Building basement next to the boiler room. Broad-shouldered maintenance men wearing denim overalls would frequently peek into the room and cackle at us for being at a level of remediation that was such an embarrassment as to be the equivalent of leprosy.
Being envious of my professors and feeling like a college outcast, I was in a constant state of depression and demoralization. This did not bode well as a predictor for my academic success. To add another nail to my coffin, I may have just been plain stupid. I was stupid to judge my professors for having everything I lacked. Had I been smart, I would have humbled myself before them and looked at them as role models so that someday with lots of hard work I would become just like them. I was also stupid for feeling insulted for being placed in the Pre-Bonehead English class. Had I been smart, I would have been grateful for the fact that the university had provided resources for hopeless cases like mine rather than expel me from the university altogether.
There were also signs that I was stupid, not just on an academic level but in terms of lacking common sense and what would later be known as “emotional intelligence.” A case in point is that during my first two years of college, there was a lot of distressing news about AIDS and its devastation throughout the world. As a straight person who had not yet entered the world of dating and romance, I was not exactly what you would call high-risk, but that did not stop me from being terrified of getting AIDS. One afternoon, a neighbor’s Siberian Husky greeted me by licking me all over my face and I remember the dog’s wet tongue brushing over my lips. Could I get AIDS from a dog’s kiss? For several days, I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind. Then a week later, KGO Talk Radio had a segment in which a doctor would answer callers’ questions about AIDS. I think I was the first caller. I told the doctor about my neighbor’s dog kissing me on the lips. Was I in danger of getting AIDS? In a very sweet voice, the doctor told me that I was completely safe and that I could kiss dogs to my heart’s content.
After the call, I stood in the kitchen almost in tears with a great sense of relief. But then shortly after, my mother came out of her bedroom and said, “Was that you on the radio?”
I nodded.
She said, “You thought a dog licking your face could give you AIDS? You need to cool it, buster.”
Hearing my mother admonish me allowed me at that moment to see how hopelessly stupid I was. I couldn’t believe I had survived so long on this planet. I couldn’t believe I had gotten accepted into a university. Clearly, I was on my way to becoming the worst college student ever.
My failings as a college student were rooted in part in my inability to find a major, and my indecision made me miserable. I took a criminal justice class, but the books were mired in lawyer-speak. As a result, the sentences were larded with provisos, caveats, and contingencies reflected in elongated sentences in which I had to wade through several dependent clauses before I reached the independent clause. These sentences were so tedious and convoluted that I felt I had to go through the obstacle course on American Gladiators before I got to the sentence’s main idea. This drove me into a state of madness.
Then I tried sociology and psychology, but the books were immersed in self-satisfied academic jargon in which self-evident observations were made to look sophisticated and authoritative by virtue of the indecipherable, pretentious and self-indulgent verbiage. Being forced to read these textbooks, I imagined brandishing a machete and slashing through a jungle thick with words like positivity, codependency, external validation, inner child, interconnectivity, facilitate, mindset, marginalization, multi-faceted, dichotomy, and contemporaneously. Hacking my way through this forest of phony language made me tighten my body with so much hostility that I feared I would suffer a self-induced inguinal hernia.
Then I gave history a crack. The sheer volume of facts, dates, and places seemed to have compelled the authors to write in a mundane, almost remedial prose style with no distinctive point of view. The result was that I was bored out of my mind.
Oceanography was mildly interesting; however, the oceanography professor seemed to have a pathological fixation on the words “denitrification,” “liminal zone,” and “viscosity” so that it reached the point that every time he repeated those words I would skyrocket off my seat like a lab rat receiving an electrical shock.
Accounting was even worse. On the first day, the professor bombarded us with algebraic equations, the Index Matrix, the Nullspace, and homogeneous linear systems. Within ten minutes, I made an exit for the door. The professor asked me my name.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said at the doorway. “You’ll never see me again.”
In my first year of college, I dropped accounting, criminal justice, and sociology. I also failed a remedial algebra class. In the late spring of my first year, the university sent me a letter explaining that I was officially on academic probation. I could not drop any more classes and I would need to improve my GPA. Otherwise, I would be expelled.
For me, the letter was more than just a warning. It was an indictment of my entire existence. You hear about struggling writers bearing the repeated pain of rejection slips as they are told their stories and books cannot be, for a variety of reasons, published. The academic letter of probation was a sort of rejection slip, but not for something I had produced. Rather, it was a censure against me as a dysfunctional human being. The university had handed me my ass on a stick.
In moments of hitting rock bottom, we must find some kind of strategy or other to climb out of our hole, but my prospects were bleak. I had no college major, no purpose, and no self-confidence. I wasn’t making any money as a bodybuilder. I did not have any romances on the horizon so I could not be energized by the hope of be transformed by the powers of love. I was a young man who, having nothing, was eager for a quick solution. I found myself grasping for straws. I could get a tech degree in refrigeration, become a piano mover, or join the military. There was also a guy at the gym whom we jokingly referred to as The Garbologist who said he could get me a job as a garbage man. The way he described the job to me, working from 5 to 10:30 in the morning, becoming a garbage man seemed like my best bet.
I was eager to tell my father about my new plan. He had moved into an apartment about a half-hour away from our home since the divorce, and once a month he’d pick me up, take me to his apartment, and make me a barbecued steak dinner. One evening, we were eating on his patio, and he asked me how I was doing in college. I told him about the probation letter and my lack of interest in higher education. What I wanted was a job that paid well and had good hours so I’d have time to go to the gym. I had made friends at the gym who worked in sanitation, and one guy said he could get me full-time work as a sanitation engineer.
My father laughed at me and said, “You can’t be a garbage man.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re too vain.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Imagine this. You’re at a cocktail party and everyone is introducing themselves. Doctor, engineer, lawyer, computer programmer, business executive. Then they get to you. You’re going to tell them you’re a garbage man? Bullshit.”
“I’m vain?”
“Of course you are. I’ve never seen a kid check himself out in the mirror as often as you do.”
“Oh my God, I’m driven by vanity and social status.”
“You’re finally waking up to the obvious. Now finish your steak and make things right with your college before they expel you.”
Driving home, it occurred to me that I had rejected criminal justice, sociology, psychology, and history because the books I had to read in those classes were so poorly written that they offended me. It occurred to me that I hungered for a certain quality of writing and that this hunger pointed me to the English major.
It also occurred to me that my fidgety personality did not learn well in the classroom. My anxieties made it impossible for me to sit inside a classroom with thirty-five other students and comprehend the professors’ lectures. I knew that I would have to be self-taught if I were to get any kind of meaningful education. Therefore, the best thing to do was to purchase my own grammar handbook. From that day on, I resolved to teach myself grammar.
Once I learned the basics of grammar, it seemed as essential to life as breathing. I considered that small children without any formal learning were already fluent in the most elaborate sentences. Grammar was proof that life had a clear structure, order, and harmony. To learn all the names of the grammatical parts was to understand the harmony of the universe. When I thought of grammar, I saw rivulets flowing into the streams, streams flowing into the great rivers, and the great rivers flowing into the ocean.
For the first time, I understood what Nietzsche meant in Twilight of the Gods where he writes that “I am afraid we are not getting rid of God because we still have faith in grammar.” What he meant is that by studying grammar, I could find order and convalescence from nearly two decades of mainlining the glorification of selfish pleasure-seeking and chaos. Part of my recovery as a probationary student was enlisting in a Twelve-Step Program, and one of the steps was grammar.
My recovery was swift and relentless with my GPA spiking to close to 4.0. The university seemed impressed with my reformation. Shortly after hiring me in the Tutoring Center, they offered me teaching positions for freshman composition. The university that had once threatened to expel me had now hired me to teach. I was on my way to becoming the worst college professor ever.
