For some reason, the rationale for which is unknown to God or man, I've had a really strong desire to eat at Hooter's lately.

This is inexcusable and unexplainable. I've only been there once. The food wasn't so great. And I've seen chicks who were hotter just walking around at school or on the el. For some bizarre reason, it seems like it's the very right wrong thing to do.

God help me.

Well, well, well...good morning to one and all. I am, of course, hopped up on the coffee.

You know, there is simply no earthly reason I should buy music. This girl in one of my classes is an intern at the Metro. She brought me this promotional package, which included a promo CD with three songs on it by a band in which I was interested. I liked each song, enough to just put the thing on repeat while I was hanging out and doing what I do. The only problem was that it was missing their one song I really loved, which 88.7 would always play. I also saw them play the song on Conan, and I decided that I just had to have the album. So, I go out and spend the $17.99 (at my local mom and pop establishment, of course). What happened next is the same thing that always happens: I am fascinated and obsessed for about a week, and then, after that, I have to remind myself that I even own the damn thing. I guess I can rationalize it by saying they deserve my cash, but, good lord, it's the kind of thing that makes a guy feel dumb.

However. I don't feel dumb when I report that this was a week of academic triumph. I aced a quiz and two midterms. I soundly rocked casbahs both nearby and remote.

So, I walk into my senior seminar class a few minutes early yesterday. A few other kids and my professor were already there. My professor spots me, and immediately says: "You know, Bill, there is something I've just got to tell you..."

'Oh, no,' I think. 'He's going to berate me for sending him smart-ass email.' See, he had sent a mass email to the class the day before, and asked for feedback on how our group projects were going. I emailed him back with the skinny, sprinkling a few sarcastic, semi-humorous remarks throughout. Through the magic of the AOL mail system, I knew he had read the email, but he hadn't responded.

I've noticed that he looks to keep his email terse and professional, so I figured I was in for a mild dressing down, albeit in a joking way. Instead, he told me that the Conan O'Brien paper I wrote was one of the funniest things that he had read in a long time. He said that everything Conan said sounded exactly like something he really would say. It felt really good to hear that coming from a guy with two published novels. He handed the paper back to me, and I looked through the comments. At various points, he wrote comments like 'This is truly excellent, truly.' Towards the end of the paper, when I wrote about just wanting my life to be doing what's fun for me and making money at it, he wrote 'ROCK!'

You know, it was just slightly better than being called a 'trailar park writer.'

Yeah. Strut!

I love and admire this professor so much. Like I said, he has two published novels, edits a literary 'zine, is full time faculty, is funny, is married and sane, owns a house in my neighborhood, and sings for a local rockabilly band.

He is also 27. A year older than me.

I have every right to hate him. But there's no hating this man. He's far too cool. I'm just wondering how he stole my life.

Well, except that my band wouldn't be rockabilly. Otherwise, though, this man has snatched up a humble existence with which I would have been quite pleased. You know, if I were humble.

It should be mentioned, though, that last week, when this professor I speak so glowingly of was in New York promoting his book (bastard!), we had a sub for his class. The sub was creepy in a very particular way. He seemed to be in his 40's, was bookish-looking, wearing a sweater, corduroy pants, and glasses. He was nice, and seemed to be intelligent in general. His only problem was that he was far too informed, in exactly the wrong kind of ways.

During that class, the discussion turned to local music, and someone brought up the Fireside Bowl. For those of you not in Chicago, the Fireside is a dingy, dilipidated bowling alley where one can catch a lot of local acts on the cheap (I actually bowled there once, which is almost unheard of, but the band was so bad it made us regret we were human). Anyway, when the Fireside came up, the sub nodded sagely and said "Ah, yes. The Fireside. I go there a lot. I once wrote a poem called 'Hardcore Show at the Fireside Bowl.'

At break, those smokers among us, once outside where we could converse privately, concluded that this was the guy at shows who stood near the back, gently nodding, arms folded, telling any 18 year old chicks that happened by that he was a writer who wrote poems about this place.

First of all: Dude, no. Second of all, you don't write poems about 'hardcore' shows. At the Fireside Bowl or otherwise. You just don't. Maybe that can be pulled off, maybe if you're a 16 year old girl being cute. You, sir, are 40, and frankly you are making us all a little scared.

Thankfully, that seems a lot worse than wanting to go to Hooter's.