Recalling my 1st grade "I-hate-school" tantrums

(694 words)

I don’t think my elderly friend was expecting the kind of mass reaction he got when he made a tender confession about the tears he shed years ago when he was sent off to school.

Monday was the first day back for our area kids and me and the local inebriates were sitting in the bar reminiscing.

It had been a sad, difficult adjustment for old Joe.

“Oh, I cried like a baby,” he admitted. “I’d had such a happy childhood and just loved being home and playing all day, just me and my Mommy. Then they told me I had to go to school. Broke my little heart. I must have cried the whole first week.”

He may have expected us to sympathetically pat him on the back and say, “There, there,” but that’s not what happened.

Instead just about everyone in the bar burst out laughing and began viciously mocking this 78-year-old Air Force veteran.

“Oh, Mumsy! Please don’t make me go! I want to stay home and play dress up!” was one typical jibe.

It was all very cruel and profane.

He’s my friend and I realize, yes, I should have defended him. I should have said his was a perfectly common reaction and that the guys should lay off.

But every once in a while it’s good fun to just pick up the pitchfork and join the mob.

Mine might be the last generation that finds bullying a socially acceptably means of achieving WASPy conformity so I just let him have it.

I called him a baby, said his resistance to primary education sure explained a lot and mercilessly ridiculed him until he shuffled off to a corner table where he spent the next hour stirring his tequila and tonic and softly weeping.

The other men were mean.

Me, I was worse.

Because I was mean and hypocritical.

Seconds before the avalanche of taunting fell on my defenseless friend, I was struck by a recollection I’d long suppressed.

I had a week-long tantrum when they sent me to school.

Joe made it sound like his was a good cry followed by grudging acceptance.

Me, I thrashed, screamed, railed, threatened, lashed out and made the school nurse seek the kind of mental patient restraints that would have even back then brought ACLU scrutiny.

The most apt analogy I can share was I acted like Damien did in “The Omen” when Ambassador and Mrs. Robert Thorn tried to drive the son of Satan to church.

I remember how distraught poor, sweet Miss Thatcher appeared at her first grade failings to calm my tantrums.

It’s a real pity, too, because even though she’d yet to teach me a lick of basic math I could tell even then she was a 10.

I’d forgotten all about that.

I’d say the tantrums lasted about a week and that would in a way be accurate. I eventually stopped resisting and fell in line with my fellow morons.

In fact, my resistence lasted 12 years.

I never, even when I was a squirt, was comfortable with the idea of compulsory education.

Understand, I came to thrill in the idea of education. I truly love the recollection of the times when like lightning I was struck with an understanding of what had previously been incomprehensible.

It moves me still.

I guess it was the compulsory part that got to me.

I hated being told what to do.

Still do.

That might be one of the top reasons I’ve been so lavishly unemployable for lo these 23 years.

I wonder how much taxpayer dough is wasted trying to educate incorrigibles like me and Joe.

Maybe we’re going about it all wrong.

Maybe we should let children decide when they’re ready for structured teaching; take the compulsory out of compulsory education.

That way we could learn when the essential hunger is there. At 52, it’s a hunger I now feel every day.

Maybe I should go back to school now. I’m not talking about college.

I’m talking back to first grade!

I’ll bet Miss Thatcher’s still pretty hot.

At least for a woman who’s probably now about 75 years old.

Related . . .

Blaming a conservative Joe for nearly killing our dog

The Pond loses a really good Joe

An alphabetically ordered world

Mr. Fancy’s 30th high school reunion

First day of school for a real Lulu

Let me drive the neighborhood school bus

Saturday, my most humiliating book signing ever!

(853 words)

I’ve crowed about my successes, the loot I’ve made and how book signings featuring me and “Use All The Crayons!” have illuminated my path to authorial fame and fortune.

So I guess it’s only fair for me to share the news when one’s a real stinker. And, boy, Saturday’s was a real stinker.

Or maybe not.

Not a single nose capable of detecting an odor showed up.

In keeping with my book’s message, I was able to find even a silver lining to that.

A friend of mine had mentioned attending to film the whole event for a YouTube commercial highlighting my compelling speaking abilities. Thank heavens even he couldn’t make it.

So it was just me all alone in what is known as — and this is factual — The Quiet Room at the great Carnegie Library in Oakland. I was part of a weekly event called “The People’s University,” a Saturday lecture series that is about to conclude due in declining interest, in no small part now thanks to me.

Yes, me and my book helped put a once-worthy idea on the library equivalent of Double Secret Probation. The librarian may now forever recall the day I spoke at The Carnegie as “The Quiet Room’s Most Quiet Day.”

“I’m so very sorry,” she said with charming sincerity. “I was hoping we’d get a really good crowd for you. The niche speakers do well. We had one a couple of months ago that drew about 80 people.”

What was the topic?

“How to raise chickens in your home.”

Now, why didn’t I think of that?

“There’s a lot of urban interest in raising chickens. He was very specific. He’d talk about things like how to remove worms from a chicken’s claws. People were hanging on his every word.”

How do you do it?

“How do you do what?”

Remove worms from a chicken’s claws?

“Do you raise chickens?”

No, I raise worms. I'm into vermiculture.

I could tell by her reaction it was all starting to make sense.

She felt so bad for me I began feeling bad for her. It’s quite common for empathetic strangers to feel bad for me when they see me in the midst of some petty career humiliation. Really, they shouldn’t feel bad for me.

They should feel bad for my wife!

Pinning down how many I’d hoped would show up is nebulous, but I will say I brought 40 books, which I carried in a great big heavy box all the way from my distant parking space and back, so I did learn a good lesson there.

My next book isn’t going to weigh nearly as much.

About 10 minutes before my appointed time, I decided to do a little on-sight promo in the library cafeteria where about 15 people were gathered in buzzy little groups.

I held my 2-by-3 1/2 foot poster board of the book’s aloft and boldly announced, “Can I have your attention? I’d like to invite you all to follow me over to The Quiet Room where I’ll be speaking about my book, “Use All The Crayons!” And what makes my book so special? This is its actual size.”

About three people laughed out loud. About three people smiled politely. The rest gave the nowadays-normal reaction and simply looked relieved my aberrant behavior wasn’t a prelude to gunfire.

I’m not exaggerating when I say how relieved I was my friend was otherwise occupied — apparently right along with the rest of the entire city of Pittsburgh. He told me the day before another day would likely be better for him.

How prophetic.

Can you imagine that humiliation? He’d have taken up a whole day driving to Pittsburgh, setting up his cameras and waiting in vain for even one person to become the audience.

Experience is teaching me my best and most lively book signings are either at taverns or social luncheons where alcohol is available; my worst at book stores or libraries.

Lesson? People with at least a chance of being impaired are more susceptible to buying my book, and my book is least appealing to sober people who most love books.

Of course, had my friend shown up with his cameras, I’d have felt obliged to hold forth. The results would surely have been interesting.

It would have been like a seance. I would have given my talk with all the requisite drama and he would have panned across the rows and rows of empty seats.

We could have dubbed in some chanted Latin like the kind in “The Omen” whenever Damian was about to off another nanny.

The result would have been so perfectly bizarre it would have a shot at becoming a YouTube sensation.

Especially if smiling souls began materializing in the empty seats!

You know, I might be onto something.

I’m going to set my alarm for 5 a.m. tomorrow to do some brainstorming.

Because as everyone knows the early bird always gets the worm.

And now I’ll know just who to call if one of them ever gets one stuck in its claw.

Related . . .

Taking my worms to elementary school

Bar book signing Thursday!

Bar book signing recap

Mom’s coming to my Lebo book signing

Carnegie Library: Computer porn elevating more than minds (mobylives)

It's time for human Swiss Army Hands

We were sitting there in a packed assembly hall awaiting the beginning of the 5th and 6th grade music extravaganza. It’s where parents and loved ones revel in a sometimes off-key performance and pretend not to notice any perceived flaws.

In my lap was our 5 year old who from up close was examining parts of me like she was determined to catalogue every flaw.

She pushed facial moles like they were elevator buttons, ran her fingers along proud old hockey scars, and parted hairs in my bald spots the way ambassador Robert Thorn did in “The Omen” when he was trying to divine if Damien’s skull bore the mark of the beast.

She was curious about the big callous on the upper palm beneath my ring finger. As it often does, it had a jagged edge to it I rarely notice.

She wanted to know about the tough skin anomaly.

“It’s a can opener,” I said. “When I’m hungry I use it to open a can of oyster stew. It’s always very satisfying.”

Looking back, I should have said it was very “handy.”

I don’t know at what point in the show -- which was perfectly entertaining and without evident flaws -- but I remember thinking how I wished I had a can of oyster stew in my coat pocket.

I sat there thinking about how under-achieving our hands are. Shouldn’t they be at least as functional as our phones?

Really, our hands need to evolve to suit modern demands.

I understand the romantic pleasures of walking hand-in-hand along the beach, but why can’t one hand be a sort of Swiss Army Hand? It could have a can opener, nail file, knife, scissors, screwdriver, and a wine corkscrew.

Those are the hallmarks of the iconic Swiss Army Knife, a device nearly everyone in the world’s heard of. Funny, the equivalent number of people probably can’t name a single military victory or hero who’s served in the Swiss Army.

Maybe the Swiss would have been more feared had they put their energies into inventing a Swiss Army Bazooka.

Still, human trajectory seems to indicate our hands ought to become more functional. For instance, how come we don’t have a fork for a finger?

People talk about ours becoming a paperless, cashless and keyless society. Smartphone innovations are slowly eroding the need for that jingly sort of pocket miscellany.

My sense is the next evolutionary step is we become a pocketless society. We won’t need pockets because everything we need will be accessible through our hands.

We should draw the line there, too, as no one wants a pantsless society.

But clearly, the next step in smart phone technology needs to be the elimination of the phone itself.

I’ve seen studies that say one out of every five people admit dropping their pricey smart phone in the toilet. This happens to careless men, in particular. Urinal time is the perfect opportunity to check the scores and social media.

I’m guessing some men are so startled to learn that Suzie changed her Facebook status to single that -- kerplunk! -- they drop the phone into a place where the old Tidy Bowl Man will the one most likely to answer the “Can you hear me now?” question.

That kind of thing practically never happens with our hands.

I predict we will soon be using our hands to do many of the things for which we today use our phones -- and more.

Besides the finger fork, we might insert a telescoping back scratcher or maybe a golf ball retriever for when the approach shot gets dunked in the drink.

Some attachments could help ease road rage. An angry motorist could angrily react and instead of the finger, one of those novelty magician carnations might pop up, a mollifying gesture.

One finger could be a laser pointer if a power point meeting was planned. If the meeting was fruitful, the presenting team could set off pre-loaded bottle rockets from finger launchers.

Anyone else think this is a good idea?

Let’s see a show of hands.

And by show of hands, I’m talking a real show.

Pit bull loose in my 'hood

The homestead is on full alert. The kids are patrolling the perimeter. Mom’s scanning the horizon and I’m trying to instill some prudence lest Santa get his jolly ol’ ass ventilated by my trigger-happy troops.

A bad Storm is loose on the land.

Storm is the name of the lost “pet” pit bull that escaped from our distant neighbor’s home further up in the woods.

It all started for us last week when the doorbell rang at our woodsy home. Outside was a frantic looking gentleman who introduced himself as “Bill from up the hill.”

“My dog got away this morning,” he said. “Have you seen her?”

No, I told him and it was true. A national scandal involving a golfer had broken and I’d seen nothing but Tiger (and, no, I didn’t verbalize that lame joke to this distraught senior citizen).

“She’s a gray pit bull. If you see her, please give me a call. Here’s my number. Thanks.”

What’s her name? I asked, hoping it would be something like Marshmallow or Daisy.

“We call her Storm.”

And with that he was gone and the stew of questions began to percolate up into the swampy part of my brain.

Has he called the local animal control? Are my children in jeopardy? And, hey, Mr. Bill, why on earth would anyone want an animal that’s been bred by Satan to kill?

Now, in my experience that last question is going set pit bull lovers to howling. You’ve probably seen them on the news.

“Ah, pit bulls are cuddly and misunderstood,” they say. “They aren’t dangerous unless provoked.”

That’s what they tell mic-wielding news reporters who’ve been summoned to a fresh crime scene where a pit bull’s mauled a child or a pony.

Yep, that happened here in Pittsburgh in 2006. Three pit bulls owned by former Steeler and current Miami Dolphin Joey Porter ate a pony.

Now, I don’t know what a pony could do to provoke a pit bull, unless mildly chewing pasture grass is considered provocative.

The incident stirred me to try and get local sportscasters to start using the phrase “he was on him like pit bulls on a pony” to describe a Porter QB sack. I was disappointed when I was told it was in bad taste, something a savage pit bull might dispute.

We’re fence straddling about getting the girls a dog for Christmas. They say they really, really want one. Of course, they say they really, really want whatever commercial aired during iCarly tells them to want so we’re not convinced.

But if we do get a dog I can assure you it’ll have these two qualities: It’ll be sweet and it’ll be dumb.

It’s been three years since Casey, the sweetest, dumbest dog in the world died. He was so dumb and so sweet I was convinced one day he was going to get killed chasing a helicopter.

We were playing frisbee on a splendid spring day in the big unfenced field behind our old house when he was startled by an approaching helicopter.

It was at about, I guess, 2,000 feet when the golden retriever heard the whop! Whop! Whop! of the rotors. He looked nervously around at eye level until the chopper came slowly into his peripheral vision and began to hypnotize him.

His first steps were tentative, as if he thought he’d try sniffing the strange vehicle first. When that didn’t work, he tore off in full sprint, head skyward. He didn’t stop until he ran snoot first into a distant church wall.

Chris Rock says the recent hysteria over Michael Vick’s dog fighting crimes was a white people’s concern.

Blacks, he said, hate vicious dogs and, really, didn’t mind that Vick and his buddies were using them to do what they’ve been bred to do: fight, kill and die.

And he’s right. And that part about Satan wasn’t just hyperbole. Pit bulls were deployed to defend demon seed Damien in the classic 1976 thriller “The Omen.”

(Note: In fact, they were Rottweilers, not pit bulls. Damn that careful research.)

Storm’s been loose for five days now. By now she’s hungry and starved for affection. I fear she’s out back eating gentle deer and mating with bears to produce monster pit bears.

I don’t know what sort of menace she’s up to, but I do know this: I haven’t seen a single wild pony since Bill from up the Hill warned me a bad Storm was coming.

Coincidence? I don’t think so.