I was enjoying the local newspaper, lit by the sunlight coming through my living room window when a loud rumble disrupted my analysis of my very troubling horoscope and things became very dark.
It wasn’t a storm. The rolling thunder was produced by giant pickup truck towing a trailer overloaded with a mountain of mulch. It pulled up to the curb in front of my house and two skinny guys armed with pitchforks got out and mounted the mulch pile and proceeded, for the next four hours, to spread the stuff around my neighbor’s property.
They mulched the borders around the house, they mulched the garden that hasn’t yet emerged from its winter’s nap. They mulched in mounds and piles and paths. By the time they were done the skinny guys looked as thin as the handles on their pitchforks.
Then another truck arrived to another house in our subdivision and another and another for several days. They were all loaded with mulch and crews of guys with shovels and rakes and pitchforks and cups of steaming Tim Horton’s coffee. They’d toss the mulch around every tree so high the maples and oaks looked like they were wearing mulchy mini skirts.
I get mulch is chemical-free and useful to retain moisture and retard weed growth but there’s so much of it applied it would take a 100 year flood to get the water down to the roots where it would do some good.
We moved to this sub about four years ago and it didn’t take long to catch on to the fact the folks here are apparently locked in a seasonal mulch death match. One resident will kick it all off with a fairly modest mulch application, perhaps even doing it themselves with bags of it from the local garden store. Touche’!
It doesn’t take long before another resident sees this and makes a quick call to a landscape company ordering a load of mulch for their yard that will make the do-it-yourselfer look like a pathetic mulch neophyte.
Then it all cascades into an all-out mulch brawl where homeowners put in their orders for even more mulch and before long there’s a convoy of mulch mobiles clogging up our streets and curbs and armies of mulch men are dispatched to pile it higher, higher, higher! Wider, wider, wider! Hell, pile it so high the damn mulch touches the lowest limbs!
Now I must admit, I do freshen the mulch around my trees and garden..a little! Usually 6 bags does it. I’m done dumping and spreading it in less than an hour and it looks pretty fresh for the season. Truth is, I could grab a wheelbarrow and skim off the first three feet of mulch from my neighbor’s yard and they’d never know it was gone..or maybe they would. Maybe they’re so obsessive they’re mulch measurers!
All I know is the obsession my neighbors seem to have for heaps of shredded bark and wood to the point of shelling out untold dollars for hundreds of cubic yards to cover their yards has me thinking they should rename our sub Mulch Gulch.
And, well, not to be rude, but considering the shape some of these folks are in, perhaps they’re already retaining too much water.
I’m looking forward to the Ken Burns/Lynn Novick three-part documentary on Ernest Hemingway on PBS. In anticipation my thoughts drifted back to 1990 when I was the CNN Detroit Bureau Chief and correspondent. I’d only transferred up to Detroit from Atlanta the year before and was anxious to explore as much of Michigan as I could since in television you never know how long you’ll be anywhere.
When my wife and two kids scheduled a trip to visit her family in upstate New York for a week I thought it would be a good time to go on a road trip of my own to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and the area of the Lower Peninsula known as Up North. I asked one of my producers to try to schedule some stories in those areas and she came through with a great lineup. It ranged from giant sinkholes near Alpena to an issue with Native American health care near Sault Ste. Marie to panning for gold near Marquette and visiting a 10-year old young lady who became a pen pal with former Panama dictator Manuel Noriega.
But the most challenging story she booked was a tour through the areas in the Upper Peninsula and near Petoskey in the Lower Peninsula that were important to Ernest Hemingway. At that time I hadn’t actually read any Hemingway and in preparation pored through a book of his short stories–several of which took place in the areas we’d visit including the imagined site of the famed Nick Adams short story, “The Big Two-Hearted River.”
It was through my binging those wonderful stories that I began to understand Hemingway’s economical writing style–short, blunt sentences. Not a wasted word. In a few words he could take you from the exultation of landing big trout after wrenching battle to the devastation of an unrequited love.
We hooked up with a Hemingway historian who became our tour guide, connection to his sister, acquaintances and key locations such the family summer home on Walloon Lake and the Horton Bay General Store.
Given our tight schedule all shooting needed to be accomplished in a single day which meant dragging our extremely patient historian/guide to as many locations and interviews as we could squeeze in.
The truth is, there really wasn’t a new angle to our story. It was just a case of a curious reporter on a quest of discovery, perhaps making up for lost time having previously neglected to read one of the most significant authors of the 20th century.
Over these intervening 41 years I’ve now read almost everything Hemingway wrote and just a couple of weeks ago re-read those short stories. As a writer I would laugh at myself and yes, feel a little shame, at how many words it takes me to say something Hemingway may have related in half as many. They would be markedly better chosen as well, I would imagine!
I started thinking back to that long, humid day in June of 1990 when traced the steps Hemingway imagined for Nick Adams, who is believed to be his alter ego. Standing on the shores of Horton Bay, which is part of Lake Charlevoix, I recalled the story titled “The End of Something” where Nick Adams admits to the young lady he had been seeing the relationship was over. Happy endings were not a Hemingway staple. The spot seemed exactly as written and I could see in my mind’s eye the scene where the “something” devastatingly ended.
On our return to Detroit it was then my job to somehow distill all we had learned and shot into a cogent television story. I was generously given more than the usual 90 seconds to two minutes and took full advantage, gobbling a hair over four minutes.
So remember this was shot 41 years ago. I’ve changed a bit since then. So have we all. But I thought you might enjoy my Hemingway discovery before you watch what Ken Burns and Lynn Novick came up with.
I’ve decided to make an important announcement. Since I no longer physically show up to any of my freelance gigs and only appear digitally on Zoom or Teams or Skype, I am officially transitioning to an NFT—Non-fungible talent.
By definition something that’s non-fungible is unique in digital form. OK. I get you may take it as arrogance by my pronouncement that I am unique, but unless you’re aware of a digital clone out there baring a scary resemblance to me, I think I can check off that box. I’ll also argue that there is no exact duplicate digital presence with my lineage, relationships or resume’. Unfortunately, there may be someone totally as screwed as I in the height department but that would simply be a sad coincidence inviting only commiseration, not exactly duplication.
Now there comes the issue of these ridiculously outrageous auctions for NFTs. Again, I realize desired artwork or a Kings of Leon album may command rich rewards. But those are non-fungible tokens. As a non-fungible talent, I would shamelessly be open to bids from prospective employers promising excellent cryptopay, benefits, working conditions, opportunities and the promise that as an NFT I would never be expected, or allowed, to physically show my face at the work site.
Not only would that negate my status as an NFT, it would expose the fact that in my digital form my wardrobe from below the waist generally consists of cutoffs made from discarded bagpipes.
I hope you’ll support me in my transition and save me a spot in the blockchain.
Just a question. What the hell does it mean when the person the Draft Kings commercial tells me to MAKE IT GREAT. Oh she’s very emphatic about it with those big pauses between words. What exactly am I making great? I imagine it’s Draft Kings’ bottom line because the only money I ever won was way back in the 1980’s.
I was working at CNN in Atlanta and Claus von Bulow was on trial for killing his wife. Somehow I was closest to the day/time the verdict would come in and also correctly bet he’d be convicted. That was good for 25 bucks which I spent on a little wagon with plastic animals for my then two-year old son. Aww.
Oh, I’d won a couple of bucks here and there at the racetrack back in the 70’s and in the slots in Vegas and here in Detroit but overall my betting balance sheet is bright crimson. In short, I’ve never MADE IT GREAT.
I suppose being encouraged to throw away my money on sports by the Draft Kings “hostess” is better than being snarled at by Jamie Foxx in those spots for BetMGM. I know he thinks he’s a pretty cool guy but sticking out your chin, challenging me to back up my hunches by losing my lunch money on who’s gonna knock out whom when just rubs me the wrong way. Then at the end of the spot he kinda rotates his head, holding that sneer as if to say, “hey dumbass. I’m getting paid big bucks to do this commercial, but I bet I just scared you into betting the kid’s college fund on a professional thumb wrestling match in Bulgaria.”
That’s not MAKING IT GREAT. That’s PISSING ME OFF.
Between those two comes the young waif on the Fanduel commercial. I think they gave the poor thing 3.5 seconds to deliver 10 seconds of copy. She’s talking so fast in a practiced monotone I don’t know whether I’m being encouraged to lay down some dollars on a competitive rat wrestling tournament or watching auditions for a new talent show, Zombie Auctioneers.
I know one thing, that young lady wouldn’t screw around. She’d kick it out. MAKEITGREAT! Now if the Draft Kings hostess said it fast like that I might actually WANT to make it great if I could figure out just what I was making great.
Honestly, I would think someone trying to sell you something would say “MAKE IT SNAPPY” but definitely not MAKE IT SNAPPY, which would be irony at best. I mean, who bets on wordplay? Well..I suppose you could. I could see Jamie Foxx staring me down barking, “what’s it gonna be? Paradox or dichotomy? HUH? Double or nothing on parts of speech…back up yo hunch!” Okay okay. A hundred on paradox and gerund. Damn. It came in irony and adverb, which MADE IT GREATLY.
I don’t get to test drive many vehicles but I had a chance to hop in Chevy’s new electric Bolt EUV. It’s a little bigger than the “regular” Bolt EV. The EUV stands for electric utility vehicle. I don’t generally write reviews and the story I wrote for Forbes.com is more of a look at the Bolt EUV from a marketing angle. But since I have this space available, I thought it would fun to add some other thoughts. Oh, you want a review? The short-short very is, if it’s comfortable, drives smoothly, the controls are sensibly placed and easy to use, the cup holders are the right size to prevent my large Tim Hortons coffee from tipping and the sound system isn’t tinny, that’s pretty much all I need.
Oh yeah…lotsa technology. In some vehicles that’s a catch-all term for stuff you paid for but will never bother to learn to operate. When I bought a 2019 Subaru Ascent SUV two years ago it had more screens than my neighborhood multiplex…and the cup holders were smartly snug. I actually spent three days devouring the owners manual to figure out what all the buttons, switches and screens did. Every so often I have to dive back in to remind me what a button is for if I haven’t used it in a long time. I must admit, there are some buttons I’ve never touched because the manual said I’d be safer if I just let them on. I suppose if I wanted to be less safe for some reason I’d flip the switch to “off” but then again if I did that I wouldn’t be using something for which I paid, even though I didn’t request it.
So back to the Bolt EUV. I liked it. The seat was comfortable and for a pretty short guy, I was happy my feet reached the pedals without having to shove my seat up so far the steering wheel was pressed against my chest. As is usual with an electric vehicle, you get instant torque to the wheels since you don’t have to move up through the gears as you do in a car with a gasoline engine and traditional transmission. Hit the pedal, car moves, quickly.
I also like the quietness of an EV because when I sing along with the radio I don’t have to scream at a level that makes the guy in the next car think I spilled my hot coffee in my crotch.
I did think it was curious that when I turned on the radio it was tuned to Howard Stern’s show. Since I ditched my satellite radio subscription after I retired and no long commuted I never really listened to Stern. Now I know why. For about 10 miles I endured some guy crabbing in the most foul language that someone accused him of eating Froot Loops. Why that would upset someone, I have no clue, but he was royally pissed and Stern kept egging him on and thereby pumping up the guy’s profanity. I stayed with it because I just wanted to know how this moron would wrap up his beef, but I had a good laugh imagining the Froot Loops toucan feeling insulted and biting of the guy’s pecker…before I changed stations to 60’s on 6 in a satisfying attempt to recall the years I spent having my severe acne treated by a sadistic dermatologist who took more than casual joy at popping every pimple with something that looked like an shoemakers awl.
It was easy to have such a sophomoric thoughts about Froot Loops guy because I was taking advantage of the Bolt EUV’s coolest technology, the Super Cruise driver assist feature. Previously only available on expensive Cadillacs Super Cruise is available as an option on the Bolt EUV for about $2,200. When you’re on a road compatible with Super Cruise, you engage adaptive cruise control, center the car in its lane and wait for the little light to glow telling you it’s OK to engage Super Cruise. Then you hit another button and the top of the steering wheel glows green when Super Cruise is ready for action. Then you can let go of the wheel and take your feet off the pedals and Super Cruise will take over. You have to pay attention or Super Cruise gets pissed and starts blinking lights and making noises until you take back control. Watch my demo of Super Cruise in the video below.
Super Cruise not only reduces a lot of fatigue when you’re on a long, boring drive, it’s huge fun to pull along someone, make quick eye contact then let go of the wheel and watch the guy’s cheeseburger drop from his mouth. It’s honestly terrific technology and gives you the first taste of what it might be light to cruise in a self-driving vehicle. I should point out, Super Cruise is not a toy to be used to scare the crap out of fellow motorists, but rather an extremely useful tool that helps keep drivers fresh and engaged. If I was buying a Bolt EUV I’d definitely spring for Super Cruise.
Besides, it would leave my hands free for when I get a little hungry…and crave a tangy, sugary bowl of Froot Loops. And I wouldn’t care who knew it.
Sorry I haven’t posted anything lately. I’ve spent a lot of time waiting–my mail. Tom Petty had it right when he described waiting as the “hardest part” because it’s a useless waste of the limited time we have on this orbiting marble. Annoyingly half-full folks may giddily laugh off waiting as “oh, it’s just building anticipation.” That, of course, is not true. It’s time spent not doing what you’d rather, or need to be doing.
In my case, I’ve wanted to write a blog post you may feel worth your precious time to read. But I’ve found if I decide to use the time I’ve been waiting for do something more useful or fun, the thing for which I’ve been waiting suddenly happens so the other thing now has to be set aside. That’s also annoying.
In the case of my mail, I waited more than a week to receive any. Oh, I receive some sort of mail every single day and I like that. I don’t care if it’s junk or a bill or a circular from a guy who wants to trim my nose hair, whatever appears in my mailbox is like a little surprise package that alternately delights, disappoints or pisses me off. Doesn’t matter. When I go down to my mailbox I want mail in it. The only mail I don’t like is when it’s not mine. The mail carrier on my route has not yet mastered that trick. Oftentimes I will break into a wide grin when I discover my mailbox is full only to be cruelly disappointed when I discover none of that stuff was addressed to me. Not only didn’t I receive my mail, I now have to shlep down the block to shove the misdirected printed matter in the correct mailbox and hope whoever received mine will act in kind.
Still, I’m no better than one of Pavlov’s dogs. Place mail in box. Arf, arf! I dutifully wag my middle aged ass while lumbering down to my mailbox in hopes of finding a yummy in the form of some dreck asking for money I owe, promising me money I’ll never receive, advertising something I’ll never need or begging me to vote for someone I’d never consider. But there’s a great deal of satisfaction when I can run into the house calling, “mail’s here!” and the family hurries over to see what “gifts” the person driving a vehicle with the wheel on the wrong side has left in our box. As soon as they see what crap it is their gleeful smiles instantly transform into daggers aimed at me, the guy who brought the envelopes of disappointment into our house.
It’s hard enough to know my own family has taken out their disappointment on me, occasionally mouthing “you bastard” when I bring in a circular for a store that doesn’t even have a location within 200 miles of our town. Well, how can you blame them. How frustrating would it be to see an amazing sale on juice boxes or deer repellant knowing you don’t have a shot at scoring the deal without taking a five-hour drive, burning 50 bucks worth of gas.
During the week we received no mail for one reason or another I should have simply taken residence in a motel until the crisis past. It’s almost worse to return from the mailbox empty handed than to bring in a bundle of bullshit. “Whaddya mean there’s NOTHING IN THE BOX! Go back outside and find some!” Indeed, families are helpful during trying times except if their patience is tried while awaiting the arrival of free stuff with stamps.
I’m happy to say I’ve been welcomed back into the house after mail delivery resumed last week on an everyday basis. We don’t always receive mail addressed to us, but the silver linings are we are learning the names of our neighbors and where exactly they live and if any other them are likely receiving social security checks. Good to know.
As for me, I’m now done waiting for my mail since it seems to be arriving everyday again at about the same time. But I’ve learned me lesson. If we receive five things, I’m hiding away at least two in case we don’t receive anything the next day. If someone in my family wonders aloud if we’ll receive mail tomorrow, I allow myself to smile confidently while telling them, “just wait.”
On the occasion of Larry Flynt’s passing I thought I’d pass along a brief anecdote of an even briefer, but painful, encounter with with purveyor of porn on a day I was um, hustling, to cover his latest endeavor.
It was back in the 1990’s and Flynt decided to open a Hustler store in downtown Cincinnati–a town once derided by some as “Censor-nati” for its intolerance to the type of content folks like Mr. Flynt promoted.
As you might imagine, Flynt’s new store was not appreciated by many of the Queen City’s conservative subjects, who staged a mighty protest in front of it. On this day Flynt was due in court a few blocks away and that’s why I was there, covering the story for CNN.
We heard Flynt would make an early morning appearance at the store when it opened so my camera crew and I wedged ourselves in the tight space in front of the door so we could get a good shot of the man as he entered and perhaps a comment or two.
As you probably know, Flynt was confined to a wheelchair after he was shot leaving a courthouse in Lawrenceville, Georgia. Ironically, that’s the town where I lived before being transferred to Detroit as its bureau chief by CNN.
Of course Flynt didn’t just have a run of the mill wheelchair. His was gold plated and heavy as hell. I know this because when he finally arrived, he ignored our questions and rolled right over my feet and on into the store. When I complained to him that he ran me over, Flynt, the sensitive guy, laughed and muttered, “tough shit. You were in my way.” Heh..it wasn’t porn he was perpetrating that morning. It was pain. Mine. But it was my solid gold story to tell when the time was right. I guess this is it.
One epilogue to the story. After the court hearing we returned to the Hustler store to get some shots. While we browsed a bit, we enjoyed the patter between an elderly couple and a store clerk on the merits of certain sex toys. They ended up selecting a boxed assortment of which I won’t describe. I’m not sure either was in shape to use them for any length of time, but Gd bless ’em for trying!
Meanwhile, my producer found a copy of Architectural Digest among the porn. The store stocked some non-smut stuff in order to look legit. When she brought the magazine up to pay for it, the grizzled guy behind the counter gave the glossy periodical featuring balusters instead of boobs a curious look, shook his head and mumbled, “can’t say we’ve sold too many of these.”
In the mid-1970’s I was working at radio station WMBO in Auburn, N.Y., about a half hour west of Syracuse. Our station was affiliated with the Mutual Broadcasting System which announced it was launching a national live call-in show with a guy named Larry King. Never heard of him but they way they were promoting the guy you had to believe this was a smart move. Until then the only other live coast-to-coast call-in/opinion radio broadcast was something called “Nitecap” with host Herb Jepko which aired briefly on Mutual.
The network dropped him because Jepko didn’t do controversy. He was based in Salt Lake City, let people say what they wanted, as long as it was nice. He even let them sing. So along came this King character, a transplanted New Yawkuh who did a talk show in Miami Beach that featured celebrities who often played the showrooms of the big hotels there. He was a character. Brash, blunt and fun to listen to. His show was a hit locally, and then Mutual picked it up and King was a national star landing even bigger celebrities and getting them to spill whatever it is King was after.
In 1985 I had been working at CNN for four years. The young network struggled to fill the 9 p.m. eastern time hour with anything that pulled in viewers, but then someone had a bright idea of putting Larry King on TV. He had made his name hosting a successful national radio interview and call-in show. It worked. His show, basically a TV version of his radio show, was a mainstay on CNN for 25 years, landing the biggest stars, powerful government leaders and other influential people from all walks of life.
If there was a breaking story, King had no problem breaking in to put a newsmaker or a CNN correspondent on the air. That’s where our lives intersected ever so briefly.
After the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995, federal authorities descended on a farm in what’s known as Michigan’s “Thumb” about 90 minutes north of Detroit. The farm was owned by a guy named James Nichols. The feds got a tip that Nichols’s brother Terry and Timothy McVeigh, the chief suspects in the bombing, had practiced building the kind of bombs they used in Oklahoma City and that James may have also been complicit. Indeed, they arrested him and searched the farm and its buildings for evidence.
As Detroit Bureau Chief and correspondent, I was dispatched up there and spent three days doing live shots. On the first night of became known as the “siege” of the Nichols farm, everyone was trying to figure out who the hell James Nichols is and how he may have been connected with the bombing. Turns out he wasn’t.
We found a guy who knew Nichols and Larry King’s producer wanted me to interview him during Larry’s show. Big time! I was told to “take it slow and draw him out. Really dig into what this guy is all about.”
Ha! I figured I had plenty of time so when we got on the air I methodically interviewed the guy who said he knew Nichols from the times they spent at the local grain elevator. After about two minutes of establishing how the guy knew Nichols to build his credibility before digging in further, King jumps in. He was having no part of this slow walk into James Nichols’s psyche and barked, “Hey! Just tell me this. Is the guy a nut job?”.
My guest blanched and took a breath and insisted he did not at all think so, although Nichols did complain rather regularly about the government. King didn’t care for that and kept after this poor farmer trying to get him to say James Nichols was a crazy man who hated the government and could very well have been part of the plot.
All I could do was stand there. My role obviously over. The guy just kept looking over at me with a look that pleaded, “make this end!”
Well, it did when King tired of his insistence that Nichols seemed like an ok guy to him who would never be part of such a horrible crime and the segment ended.
Once we were off the air and clear, all I could say was “sorry” but then the guy surprised me by just smiling and saying “I was on the Larry King show! That’s big!”
Yes he was. RIP Larry King. A broadcasting legend.
For once it’s great to be an alta cocker. My age makes me eligible to receive a Covid-19 shot. But easier said than done. I’ve discovered when given the opportunity to be inoculated against a deadly virus some senior citizens suddenly become crazed lunatics that look at the process as a mortal combat.
The problem is, even if you’re eligible, you have to make an appointment. But there’s so much competition for the limited number of slots it’s tough to get one, so some serious gaming is going on.
Oh no, you can’t just ring up your doc and say, “hey, I’m old. I want my shot. When can I come in?” You actually have to score an invitation, fill out a form, get on the list, then pray you don’t get infected before being granted the potentially life-saving first poke, then making another appointment for the second.
So far I’ve received several such “invitations” from two health care systems, a discount store chain and my county. I’ve dutifully responded hoping my wife and I will be granted slots by the Vicar of Vaccines or whoever is making such decisions.
What’s really pissing me off are the smug old farts who have somehow received their firsts shots already. I got on social media where I’ve read several posts responding to someone desperately looking for info on how to make an appointment saying something to the effect of “Ha! Me and Shirley got ours yesterday. It was easy, loser. We knew what to do and where to go. We already have appointments for our second shots! Nyahhhhh, nyahhh! Here’s what ya shoulda done…”
I hope they received placebos.
Then there’s the absolute disconnect with just who the hospitals are dealing with. There’s an app some of them use where patients can register, monitor their accounts, make/cancel appointments, read their charts and pay their bills. I’m fine with it and use the app successfully all the time. Ha! I was just a smug old fart. But a lotta seniors aren’t comfortable with technology and so they’re completely disenfranchised when the email from the heath care system screams that the only way to register for, and make an appointment is on the app. What’s with this app? I need a nap!
I was relieved to see, when picking up a prescription yesterday at a big discount store you could actually sign up for an appointment in person at the pharmacy, but even that’s fraught with danger. You ever see a group of seniors vying for a shot at a shot that’ll extend their stay on this planet in the same place at the same time? It’s like Roller Derby–a lotta bony elbows and shouts of “what?”
Well…I’m hanging in there, anxiously awaiting the magic moment when we’re told the Grand Inoculator will grant us a presence. I figure we’ve got a decent chance since I’m now registered in four different places. Should we score multiple invitations, perhaps there’s a secondary market…yeah…shot scalping. Like old time outside Yankee Stadium when I was a kid. “Hey! I got two at county health!” Could be an economic shot in the arm.
Our deranged POTUS has got me thinking. Hmm…maybe I was the victim of a rigged election. If my fifth grade teacher is still alive I just may have to give her a call, or at least send a strongly worded email.
Here’s how it went down. April, 1963. I was overwhelmingly elected by my fifth grade class to be its representative on the P.S. 186 Student Council. I had campaigned hard, on the “no more navy bean soup for lunch” platform but already earned popular support and name recognition for my performance as the Cowardly Lion in our class’s production of “The Wizard of Oz.”
There were smiles all around as the class president read the votes. I had won by a landslide, 32-1.
Only the guy who played the Tin Man voted against me because he felt my over-the-top delivery of “If I Only Had the Nerve,” clearly upstaged his rather plaintive interpretation of “If I Only Had a Heart, depriving him of the attention of the class cutie, who, incidentally, knocked it out of the park playing Dorothy’s dog, Toto.
I modestly thanked the class for its support and promised I would be a strong advocate in Student Council, fighting like hell for the right to use Number 3 pencils when Number 2’s were unavailable. That got a big round of support and a ceremonial rubbing of gummy erasers.
Yes, I was clearly relishing my big victory but the scowl on my teacher’s face merely telegraphed the bomb she was going to drop on me.
“Edward! I am vetoing your election,” she spat at me. “You talk too much in class and are generally disruptive and that disqualifies you from this honor!”
It’s true I liked to chat with my classmates and occasionally pull the chair out from some of them as they sat, causing much laughter in room 202 as the poor schlubs splatted their asses on the slick tile floor. After falling for the third time one kid whined at me, asking “why you keep doing that?” I could only reply, “why you so dumb you keep falling for it?” I’ve since had similar conversations with a handful of work supervisors, some of whom took my actions as “bold, out of the box thinking.”
Well…of course I was incensed at this injustice, as was the class which implored my teacher to reconsider, but she wasn’t budging. I even played the “Lion card” saying my stellar performance bailed out her butt in front of the principal who thought her previous class plays suffered from “tedious treatments of the Industrial Revolution and the invention of lint, blah, blah, blah.” But the production of Oz was so kick ass it drove one parent to exclaim, “A class play that kept me awake!”
I stewed on being screwed and wrote several notes to the teacher complaining of the injustice and that she had no right to override the class’s clear choice. She just tossed the notes in the waste basket and warned if I kept sending her my strongly worded missives in her next play I would be relegated to a non-speaking role of “Guy tossed by Washington into the Delaware to make room for more salt pork in the boat.”
Since the Tin Man came in second in the voting, teacher appointed him to the Student Council where he failed miserably..indeed not having the heart for the position nor for the fight against navy bean soup.
Should I look up my teacher, and if she’s alive, give her a call giving her hell about depriving me of my duly elected position? Probably not. So long ago. Plus, the very next year my sixth grade class elected me to council and I won the school-wide election as Student Council Vice President. But still, I wonder how that call would go…if I only had the nerve….