Are you an Influencer or an Opinionator?

I'm just an ordinary guy. There's nothing special about me. I like to raise a little hell on beBee, but it's all in good fun. Sometimes, there's some truth to what I say, if you read between the lines. I find a bit of humor to be a good conduit to effective communication -- it takes the edge off this crazy world we live in. A world I no longer take all that seriously. However, some people do, and they get really upset when you poke fun at them.They're so full of themselves that they can only take things at face value.They see everything through self-absorbing lenses and we're expected to accept everything they say as the God's honest truth. Apparently, someone influential passed away, and they've laid claim to the title. However, they can't even tell when some poor goof, like me, is just rattling their cage. It doesn't mean I don't respect them. It means I'm challenging them. Why should I be "influenced" by them? They're opinionators -- not influencers.

As far as I'm concerned, everyone puts their pants on one leg at a time. I don't care if you're a doctor, lawyer or Indian chief. Respect, to me, is earned. Follow me, don't follow me, I really don't give a rat's ass. But it irritates me when someone thinks that their opinion is weightier than mine, or anybody else's for that matter, because they've read the "New Yorker," or some other high-brow publication, and regurgitated its contents. Sorry, I prefer original content. It's been a while since I read "Mad Magazine," but that Alfred E. Newman -- now he was an influencer. You may take issue with that, but it's nothing more than my opinion against yours. By the way, you can't be a self-proclaimed influencer. It doesn't work that way. If you're a real influencer, you don't even know it. Yes, that's my opinion. That makes me an opinionator.

Please don't confuse me with an influencer. I'm admittedly not. I'm not here to tell you how to run your life or your business or whom to vote for in the epic battle between Donald Trump and Hilary Clinton. I think we'll all be losers, but that's just my opinion. I don't consider myself an expert at anything. I'm a jack of mismatched trades. That's because life throws us some wicked curveballs and, if you don't learn how to hit one, you'll never make it to the Big Leagues. I guess I'm destined for a lifetime in the minors. But, that's okay, I'll continue swinging for the fences. I can hit the lottery, though. I picked four out of five numbers twice in the past two weeks. My ship may coming in. It could also be heading for the rocks. I hear the captain's a drinker.

So,  if you're willing to read just a little further, I'm about ready to get to to the point. Yep. I've buried the lead. You, know, the whole point of the story. The point that you're supposed to "lead" with because most people are too damn lazy to read past the first paragraph. Well, screw them. I'm not in school and I'm no longer getting paid to write for the huddled-and-hurried masses. It's true. I used to get paid for writing crap like this. I was a columnist. Hell, they even let me write editorials when the managing editor was on vacation. As a result, most of the local politicians despised me. I didn't care then and I don't care now. If you Google "politician," you'll see that it is a derogatory term. Use "statesman," if you think an elected official actually has our interests in mind and not just theirs. Good luck finding one. Maybe that young Trudeau kid in the Great White North. I hear he's Canada's version of John F. Kennedy. Right, Beezers?

Remember, we're watching you.

My point is, if you haven't guessed, that we have opinionators up the ass. Many of them think they're influencers. I don't. I think influencers are few and far between. They're gifted people. Opinionators, well, not so much. Judge for yourself.

I have crossed paths with a few people I've admired -- influencers, if you will. They earned my respect through their actions -- not their opinions. They weren't rock stars, Hollywood celebrities, sports figures or business moguls. They were teachers, from high school through graduate school. Yes. They were indeed influencers. Not like the ones who prophesize with their keyboards on LinkedIn or even here on beBee. They were educators who remained among the ranks of the common folk and their messages made sense  -- if only to me. They were the real deal -- they were my influencers.

First, there was Ernie Stokes. He was part of the high school English department. He was able to convince the administration that offering a course in philosophy would be beneficial to all students. He was right. It became the most popular class in school history. He opened young minds to things that actually made them think -- without being told. He was a small, slightly odd looking man with jet-black hair, a mustache and goatee. But, he had a gleam in his eyes that made you think he knew something you didn't. Fortunately, if you asked him, he would excitedly tell you what he was thinking behind those baby blues. He introduced our  minds to a world beyond textbooks, where the answers weren't so cut-and-dried. In fact, there were numerous answers to the same question, which led to more questions. As a result, I'm still questioning, more than 40 years later.

I've already introduced Ms. Janice "Jan"  Keegan in a previous buzz. She was also a member of the high school English department. She was on the cutting edge of the women's movement, directing the local chapter of NOW, The National Organization of Women. However, I don't hear anybody referring to women as "Ms.," anymore. What happened to that? I also don't hear women encouraging their young sons to play with their sister's Barbie dolls or  Easy Bake ovens, but I'll never forget when I did. I teased her about that everyday for a year. Nonetheless, I'm sure she's proud of the accomplishments women have made over the past 40 years, having sent many of them off to college and careers that were once off-limits to her. I still wonder whatever happened to her son, though. I'll bet he's got some stories to tell.

Then, it was off to college, the one that accepted this ne'er-do-well student and, after five years, allowed him to graduate with an arts degree. Any other kind of degree would have been an outrage. They could have gotten into big trouble, like I nearly did by joining NORML, The National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws. I'm sure the FBI has turned that information over to the Department of Homeland Security. However, after having been diagnosed with clinical depression more than 25 years ago, I'll never be able to legally purchase a gun. That should put everybody at ease. I may, however, soon be able to purchase medicinal marijuana. I consider that a very acceptable tradeoff.

College is where I met Dr. Ronald Egler. He was a history professor, the kind who wears tweed jackets with patches on the elbows and smokes a pipe. He also sported a well-cropped beard and mustache. If you Google the definition of a history professor, you'll see his picture. He was kind enough to allow me to interview him on camera on the student-run television station. It was a class project for a required broadcasting course. I'd already taken three of his classes as electives. We were buds, but I thought that had ended the day I saw him walking up the sidewalk to the five-bedroom house we rented off-campus. We were a raucous bunch and threw numerous after-hour's parties. He was paying us a visit to point out that his bedroom window could be seen between the two houses located directly across the street from us. With the demeanor of a statesman, he calmly requested that we keep it down or his wife would take matters into her own hands. I assured him that we would take it easy. As we shook hands, he whispered, "If you don't,  my wife will make both of our lives a living hell," adding that if he had it his way, "I'd have already joined you boys a few times." This was shorty after the release of the cinematic-classic "Animal House." He taught me that you can't judge a book by its cover, in addition to a collection of little-known historical facts.

Nearly a decade later, I convinced my first wife to let me attend graduate school. That was the end of my influence on her. By the way, she's been an ex-wife for the past 20 years. No surprise, right? Anyway the path to my continued education took an unexpected turn. It was touch-and-go from the beginning.

Like everyone else, I had to take the required and dreaded admission's tests, the Graduate Records Examinations (GRE). I told the wife that I didn't need to study any "stinking" how-to book to pass an exam that was merely designed to screw with my head. I hate story problems for adults and math questions that make physic's majors tremble. I figured I'd take a shot at the tests and see what happens. If the tests had been targets, I would have missed them by a mile. I felt pretty low, but I was still scheduled to visit Dr. Irvan Kummerfeldt, chairman of the department of journalism. So, I did. He looked over the test results and said that if I really wanted to pursue an advanced degree, I'd have to retake the exams. Ah, shit. That's like asking someone if they'd like to be clubbed over the head after getting punched in the gut and kicked in the balls. I really didn't want to, but I felt that I had to take another shot. I'd already accrued enough regrets.

I scored much better the second time around, even though I still hadn't studied. However, the score was still just below the proverbial Mendoza line. If I'd batted three for four, I'd have hit for the required average. I didn't. So, back to Dr. Kummerfledt to thank him for his time and say goodbye. I handed him the scores and he never even looked up from his desk. Instead, he told me to take a seat. He asked me if I could attend dinner at his house that night, his wife was making a pot roast. What? Had he polished off the bottle of whiskey he kept in his drawer?  That was the only conclusion that came to mind "But, Dr. Kummerfeldt" I said. "My scores are still below the published requirements."

He peered over his glasses at me and said, "You took the exams, again, right?" I nodded. "That's all I asked you to do and you did it,"  he said  By the way, he added. "Would you be interested in serving as a graduate teaching assistant?" I was shocked, but gladly accepted the offer before he sobered up. I ended up not only attending graduate school for free, but getting paid for it, too. He saw something in me that warranted giving me a second chance, just like those rescue dogs at the animal shelter. Unfortunately, he passed away a few years ago. I received a personal letter from his wife, telling me how proud he had been of what I had accomplished with the chance he had given me. I could never thank him enough. it makes me feel like the aging version of Pvt. Ryan standing in front of Capt. Miller's grave in the film "Saving Private Ryan." The scene where he's asking his wife to tell him he's a good man and that he's lived a good life. The promise Matt Damon made to Tom Hanks just before Hanks died -- in the film, of course.

On the day he accepted me into his department, the invisible wall between the teacher and the student vanished into thin air.The adversarial relationship that had built up over the years had changed into a partnership that grew into a friendship.Over our time together, we would sit in the teacher's lounge, drinking the most God-awful coffee I've ever tasted. I choked it down, because he prided himself on making it. I learned more from those coffeehouse-style chats with him in that lounge than from sitting in front of any award-winning professor in a classroom.

And, that, is no bullshit. It is an opinion, though.