Abio Episode 15: Meet the Freshman Adjunct Editor-In-Chief - March 24 2024

for Sunday, March 24, 2024 Drummer Column Gibbs, 1,269 words

Abio episode 15 – Meet the adjunct editor-in-chief

Because of Mr. Phillips’s D grade back in high school history, I was prevented from becoming a full-fledged Penn State student. I had to enter on adjunct status for one year, a probation. Fine. My moment had arrived.

A rural hick with a background in factories was taking his first seat in a University English classroom. My mother bought me a new shirt and trousers, so I looked fine. As other kids wearing similar garb filed in, it became apparent that a lot of our moms shopped at the same few stores. We were freshmen, after all.

Looking around I spotted several Wildlife Technology students who were skinning a deer yesterday. I relaxed a little.

Mr. Browell entered with his leather briefcase. dark hair, glasses, goatee, banded ponytail and introduced the first novel, Slaughterhouse five by Kurt Vonnegut. He wrote only “Kurt Vonnegut” on the board, not the book title.

He told us quite a bit about Vonnegut’s history, his time as a POW in Dresden after the bombing, and how it influenced his writing. He told us nothing about the novel, not a clue. He distributed a reading schedule.

By not mentioning the book, my curiosity increased. Smooth move, there, Mr. B. By not mentioning the novel, he left it wide-open to interpretation. No spin. All he said was that we would talk more tomorrow. I began reading in the library directly after my last class.

Those first few moments in the library lounge of me reading Slaughterhouse Five are embedded in amber. (Vonnegut reference)

My next class was French and a perky redhead named Mary Weatherbee was campaigning for people to write for the Bulletin, the campus newspaper. I told her I liked to write and she coaxed me to come to the 4 o’clock meeting at the mansion attic offices.

The mansion attic was nice digs. Lots of mahogany wainscoting and thick railings. Private keys. A lounge with leather couch and chairs, typewriter stations, personal phone system, two separate offices, campus view.

I came early and happened to be the first to arrive. I took a look around and sat in a random chair. No handouts. Mary came in with last year’s editor-in-chief, Brice, talking. We said “Hi.” They kept on with their conversation. More showed up: Bob, Nancy, Michelle, and Chude. This group ran last year’s paper. I read a copy.

Having no seniority, I remained silent, waiting for the meeting to begin. It never began. No one sat still. They horsed around, goofed off, looked out the windows. No one called order. Chude made a phone call. No one introduced anybody.

It was a waste of my time. Quietly, I slipped out and rode my Kawasaki home. I lounged on my bed for a while considering Yearbook. About an hour after I got home, a call came in for me on the hallway payphone. It was Mary Weatherbee.

“Why did you leave the meeting? You didn’t even say good-bye.”

“I didn’t like what I saw. To me they joined for the mansion key. You didn’t even have a meeting. You guys just horsed around.”

“I know,” she sympathized. “These guys can be jerks sometimes. But we were wondering if you would still like to come back.”

“What department? What’s my job?”

“We want you to be the editor-in-chief.”

“Are you kidding? You guys know nothing about me. Why do you want me to be the editor-in-chief?”

Mary said, “Because you were the only person at the meeting who didn’t act like a moron.”

That was my selling feature. I got a laugh. It’s a heck of a way to run a business, but her logic stood up. “Mary, can I think on it overnight? Let’s meet for breakfast in the campus café an hour before classes tomorrow.”

It was a date, and on day two I joined The Bulletin as their supreme leader with no experience beyond typing and making copies. Without going through the whole curriculum, everyone was a reporter with one big story or two news briefs per issue with deadlines, typed up. They could pick their topics or be assigned. That’s it. If you can’t keep up, you are dropped from the club and we take back your attic key.

In the spring I fired most of the staff. They expected it and turned in their keys. Four remained: Mary, Bobby, Nancy, our sports writer, and me. Four of us ran the campus newspaper for two years. and did a fine job. Circulation was at max potential. The second year we took over the Yearbook as well, and partnered with the photography club.

The Bulletin grew thicker, more news, better interview subjects, expanded sports. We added The Pink Page in the back, full of spoof stories, satires, jokes. The Pink Page gained notoriety by featuring a teasing Freshman Puzzle in each issue, like “Freshman Connect the Dots” but there are only two dots. Or “Freshman Maze” – a straight line from start to finish.

People were concerned that the freshmen would be insulted, but Freshmen loved it and they were half the campus.

Mary and I stayed an item for two years, and then switched campuses. I called her Mary the Flash because of her boundless energy. We made a great team. She flew to Berkeley to visit me once after graduation.

I also met Gino 50 years ago on Robinson Street. We were five guys in a five-bedroom apartment. We didn’t talk much at first. That has changed. Gino is here in Benicia now visiting.

The day our friendship began was the day I came home with Dylan’s new album, Blood on the tracks and put the needle to the first track in my bedroom. Gino pushed the door open and rushed in. “Is that Dylan’s new album? Can I sit here and listen to it with you?” He poured over the jacket.

He started talking about music and I fell immediately behind. I owned six albums. Ever hear of Van Morrison? “Nope.” BB King, Woody Guthrie, Nina Simone, Leadbelly, Lord Buckley, and the list kept going. “Nope, nope.” He’s freaking out. He asked what other Dylan albums I have. “This is it.” He groaned.

Music deepened our friendship. Gino said after Christmas Break, he would return from Norristown and bring his album collection. It arrived in multiple boxes. He introduced me to folk and Motown and Delta blues.

One day he flipped my wig by playing Lord Buckley, a ’60s comedian and an immaculately hip aristocrat with his own language, the American Beauty Rose. Without seeing Buckley, one can’t tell if he’s American, British, white or black. He’s still my idol. He also does his own sound effects.

I spent 25 years hunting down Buckley’s records. By luck and shovel, I eventually tracked down the late Lord Buckley’s son, Richard Buckley Jr., alive in L.A. and sent him fan mail. I dug his dad’s words. He mailed me a box of his father’s personal CDs full of routines I’d never heard before, plus a picture of Lord Buckley hanging out with Ed Sullivan. Buckley Jr. enrolled me as an Honorary Lord in the Church of the Living Swing and sent me a signed certificate. I am Sir Bibbs, Editor-in-Chief, Adjunct.

When Dean Chambers lifted my adjunct status, I told him I didn’t mind it except my mother never got any Honor Roll letters quarterly from the University because adjuncts are not eligible for Honor Roll even though I had the grades. The Dean didn’t know that. He sat right down and wrote my mother a glowing letter about what a great guy I was and signed it to be mailed. I liked him for that.