Yes, it’s been two weeks since I last updated. No, nothing’s wrong.

I’ve just been busy with school, and school. And school. I haven’t had time to get in trouble or get blackout drunk or get in fights with cans of shoe polish. All I have time for is studying.

It happens every semester. As time passes I get further and further behind. Then, two weeks before finals, I decide it’s time to get caught up. From that point until the end of finals week I have no social life.

It’s my own fault. I really should know better. I mean, come on, really now, and all the jazz… I’ve been in and out of college since 1990. I really hate to think about that. How long I’ve been in college. Reminds me of how old I am. But anyway…

I have been thinking about stuff. I haven’t had any recent epiphanies, but I have been thinking about things. As soon as I find some time I’ll expound.

Time. “I don’t have the time.” What a lame excuse. I have more free time than anyone my age. OK fine, I’ll write something profound.

Did you know that “if” is the middle of “life”? Think about that.

The alarm went off at 10:30am. I had that sick feeling in my stomach that one gets from lack of sleep–a vomity kind of feeling. My head was a bit fuzzy, but that’s always the case when I wake up. It doesn’t matter how much sleep I get, I always have that “not quite there” feeling first thing in the morning.

I stumbled over to the alarm clock, the same one I’ve had since I was in high school. Yeah, I know, that was a long time ago. I HATE that thing. When it goes off it scares the crap out of me. I sit upright in bed, heart pounding, confused, breathing irregular and heavy. I hate that alarm clock. So I get out of bed and walk across the room and SMACK the snooze button. I had to put it somewhere away from the bed, so I’d have to get up to turn it off. I can remember some Saturday mornings when I’d set the alarm for 10:00am and smacked the snooze every 9 minutes until after noon. Somehow if I have to get out of bed, I stay up. This morning was no different.

I stumbled to the sink and got my favorite tumbler. It’s an old 32oz Moose McGillycuddy’s plastic drink cup I’ve had for almost 8 years now. I filled it with water and opened the front door to let some fresh air into the apartment.

It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining and not a cloud in the sky. There is only a hint of winter in the air, only a little chill. No wind either. I hate wind. I’ve always hated the wind. I hated it in highschool when I had “flock of seagulls” hair (as Dave Finn called it). My bangs were really long, down past my chin, and the wind wreaked havoc on my ‘do. I hated it as a surfer, especially in SoCal. The wind picks up around 10am in Huntington Beach, and by noon the waves are slop. Those who know me well, know that I’m not a morning person. So most days when I went to surf my sessions only lasted about an hour. I just couldn’t get up early enough. I hate the wind as a fly fisherman. The wind makes it very difficult to place my fly in the spot I want. Some days it’s just impossible to cast. So anyway, I hate the wind. Today there isn’t any, and I am glad for it.

I walked back inside my apartment and made for the fridge. After water, food is the second thing on my mind every morning. No food, as usual. Not even an apple or anything to hold me over until I get to school. I’ve been meaning to go to the store for like, a week now. Again, those who know me well, know that I am the world’s biggest procrastinator. Sigh. OK maybe I’ll have some coffee. My stovetop aluminum coffee perculator hasn’t been cleaned from last night’s decaf brew. The little bugger has been a good friend to me all these years. It’s been camping in Mexico, San Bernardino National Forest, San Clemente, Santa Cruz mountains, Yosemite, Joshua Tree, and all over the mountains local to Chico. It’s dented just about everywhere, and has black coffee stains down the side, right under the spout. I remember buying it used from the Salvation Army in Long Beach, the day I got out of the Navy (way back in 1995). I think it was less than a buck. There were 3 sitting on the shelf, all pretty much identical. However the other two looked pretty new. This one, the one I have now, called out to me. It was beaten down, used. That’s pretty much how I felt after my 4 year torture that was the Navy. But I still had some fight in me, as I started my new life, and this coffee perculator symbolized the same. So I bought the little guy and he’s been with me ever since.

Well I want coffee this morning, but I don’t feel like cleaning the pot. So I stand there, in my kitchen, unmoving. Thinking. Trying to get a grip on the day. No food. No motivation to clean the coffee pot. Crabby. Still tired. Not quite awake yet. Will I go to the gym today? Naw, I don’t feel like it. I’m getting sick I think. I need to rest. This is the same thing I go through every day. Yet somehow I manage to get my butt to the gym. I don’t want to do it, but I do anyway. Dammit, if I can get to the gym why can’t I clean this damn pot and make some damn coffee? A glance at my watch tells me I need to get in the shower and get to school, so I can get some food before class. With another sigh I get into the bathroom.

I take off my clothes and stare at myself in the mirror like I do every morning, studying my body, while waiting for the water to warm up. For the last 5 years or so I’ve been wondering, “Who *IS* that guy in the mirror? That’s not me. That’s not Tom Bissell. Tom Bissell is a young man, not some aging 30 something…” I look at my hairline for the 100th time this week and I am convinced I’m losing my hair. Everyone tells me differently, but I know they are just lying. The same way a man tells his wife, “No honey, of course that outfit doesn’t make you look fat.” Well my hair isn’t turning grey like my other friends, and my barbers tell me it’s still the thickest head of hair they’ve ever seen. But none of that matters to me. I’m positive my hairline is receding. I back away and look at my body in the mirror again, this time from the side. I’ve lost 30 pounds since August. I can see the difference. I’m starting to look like the old Tom Bissell, the young guy, the fresh-out-of-Navy Tom Bissell. But not quite yet…

So I shower, and get dressed, and leave for school. While walking the 1 mile to campus I notice that the trees are starting to turn colors, and some leaves are starting to fall. Once on campus I go straight to the cafeteria and get my favorite–roast turkey supper. While I’m paying for my food I wink at the cashier girl and she blushes. Does she think I’m cute? Or does she think I’m just an old man? I wonder how old she is? I ponder this while getting my change. I take my food outside.

The patio area at CSU Chico is elevated above the the main artery walkway on campus. There are ampitheater style steps below the patio where one can sit and read a book and/or people watch. As I sit down to eat I notice two punk rocker chicks walking towards me, making up the steps. One girl has a shaved head, except for her bangs, which are dyed hot pink. She has black and white striped knee-high socks on, which I think look ridiculous. Her septum is pierced. Her little friend sitting next to her has no piercings, but has tattoos all up and down her arms. On the back left arm is a tattoo of a naked lady with huge tits, which I think looks like something a sailor back in WWII would have gotten. One girl has an attractive face, the hot pink bangs girl, but her get-up is so un-attractive I don’t give it another thought. Naked boobie girl looks like a 10 year old stick. I don’t know them, but I know they are just going to have a seat and chat. I don’t mind. Then one girl asks the other for a cigarette. I normally don’t mind smokers, I used to be one. But I quit smoking back in May, and sometimes I get tempted. This morning however I am not tempted. I just don’t want to smell smoke while I’m eating. Bah! Then fate intervenes.

As one girl starts to light up, the other girl spills her coffee all over herself and her friend. The liquid is running down the steps, all over the concrete benches. The two girls jump up and try to wipe the spilt coffee off their jeans. And I can’t help but smirk. The two girls decide to go sit somewhere else. I finish my meal of sweet justice. Then I go to class…

…And now I’m home, in a fantastic mood. I think I’ll even go to the grocery store.

I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. Papers to write, stuff to read, more stuff to read, exams to study for, projects to complete… Not only school work but consulting work too. I’ve been VERY busy with my biz. So I took Wednesday off.

I got a new shotgun last week. I bought a launcher, a box of shells, and a case of clays. I drove up the mountain to the spot where I usually go hiking and shooting. It’s about 3,300 feet elevation and just beautiful. Long, sweeping views of the canyon clear on down to Chico and the huge Sacramento River valley. It’s exactly 20 miles from my house. So I drove up there today.

When I pulled up I could see a light dusting of snow on the ground. It was pretty cold, according to my watch it was about 45 degrees. What a huge change in the weather we’ve had. Just last week it was 90 in Chico. Anyway I grabbed all my stuff, loaded my .45, and started walking down the road.

I chose a spot on the trail about 10 minutes walk from the main road. There was a clearing, on a bluff, overlooking a clear cut below. I set up my launcher and started sending clay pigeons off into the blue.

Man, do I suck. I’ve shot trap and skeet before, but not many times. I only hit 1 out of every 10 or so. Sometimes I’d get mad and unload 4 or 5 shells at the flying biodegradable birdie. And still miss. I really thought I’d be much better at this. I shoot my pistols all the time, and I’m a damn good shot with my 9mm. But it’s always a stationary target, not one moving through the air. I have a new found respect for upland game bird and waterfowl hunters. It’s much harder than it looks, folks.

Anyway I spend the afternoon at my spot. I took a break and had lunch. I sat on an old tree stump and ate my sammich. I gazed down into the canyon, over the tall verdant pine trees and squinted. Nope, I couldn’t see the river below. Chico Creek flows down through this canyon. From it’s source way, way up in the Sierras down to Chico, through Bidwell Park, right through the middle of CSU Chico campus, under the railroad track that Scott drives on his way to Dunsmuir, and empties into the Sacramento River.

It’s absolutely gorgeous. Many times I’ve hiked those trails, admired the breathtaking views and wished I had someone to share it with. But the moment soon passes, and I pull my .45 out of it’s holster and blast the nearest pine cone.