UPDATE: Of course the day after I posted this and Matt said he enjoyed it, he lost. Of course he already knew he had lost, but that’s the kind of guy he is. He’ll win the next Tournament of Champions…invoking that Amodio Moment of Surrender once again.
I’m enjoying Jeopardy ninja Matt Amodio’s run and don’t give a damn about him using “what’s” with every answer. What’s the difference? But this scribble is about something I haven’t yet seen mentioned about his play. I call it the Amodio Moment of Surrender.
Here’s how it goes down. There are games when Matt simply messes with his well-meaning, but ultimately inferior opponents. Oh, he may actually go into the red during the Jeopardy round, fall behind for a bit and seem as if he’s just another curly haired nerdy guy with a buzzer hair trigger.
Imagine the other two standing there thinking to themselves, “Holy crap, the guy is mortal. I have a shot. I HAVE A SHOT!” It’s really so sad. They don’t have a shot, or a chance in hell. You see, Matt Amodio has apparently memorized the entirety of Wikipedia along with the Bible, Torah, Quran, the complete works of Shakespeare, Voltaire, Stephen Hawking and Johnny Rotten, along with every episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle and Sheldon Cooper’s “Fun With Flags.”
At some point Matt appears to tire of toying with these nice folks. It’s tough to tell exactly when it happens because his habit of alternately smiling and grimacing is effective camouflage. Pay more attention to his play. He’ll suddenly be first to buzz in and answer several high value clues in a row adding to the bankroll he’ll need for the coup de grace he can only deliver courtesy a Daily Double.
He finds it! Bets five-figures, fumbles so you think he majorly screwed up, then pulls out the correct answer from wherever he’d been hiding information that until this moment, was entirely useless.
Now he’s put 10, 15 grand between him and the nearest competitor who is now, no longer a competitor but rather a garden gnome filling a fallow field.
The Amodio Moment of Surrender has arrived.
Once smiling, engaged players who have waited decades for their shot on the Jeopardy stage, the Amodio Moment obliterates any shred of hope they harbored. They have the blank, defeated, thousand yard stare wishing for a power outage or other calamity forcing an early end to the taping, and therefore, their misery.
Some just give up. Their score is frozen because they no longer have the will to buzz in. Others will attempt to play knowing unless Amodio suddenly collapses from having endured six different hosts they have no shot.
At last Final Jeopardy arrives. It doesn’t matter if Matt is right or wrong. He’s so far ahead of the others all they can do is play for second because number two gets a grand more than the third place loser. In either case, they hardly break even on their costs to travel to Los Angeles to suffer a nationally televised embarassment.
My family and I have learned how to recognize the Amodio Moment and actually cheer when it arrives. We laugh a little too because we’ve enjoyed a little wine with dinner…and we’re kinda mean.
One day Amodio will lose. Another player up to the task will invoke his or her own “moment” on Matt. He will humbly submit, politely congratulate his vanquisher and when the 47th temporary host of Jeopardy asks how he feels his face hardens as he invokes Walter White, responding, “What’s….I did it for me. I liked it. I was good at it. I was alive.”
I’m old enough to remember hiding “crib notes” in my hand when attempting to not fail a trigonometry exam. Oh c’mon, you did it too. Maybe you scribbled some facts in pen on your hands or arms. Get caught, you get sent to the principal’s office, or worse, get a F on the exam. Aw, don’t act self-righteous about it. I bet you read the Classic Comic version of Silas Marner or dove into the Cliff Notes rather than suffer through the actual, depressing book.
Yeah, yeah, it’s technically cheating, which has me thinking about what’s become glaring demonstrations of cribbing among Major League Baseball players. It’s right there on TV. Catchers sport those flip up things attached to their wrists that contain intelligence on opposing batters. Pitchers and position players doff their caps where they’re hiding cheat sheets on how to play the next guy at bat.
I don’t know the exact wording but I’m imagining something like, “Joey Bagadonuts sucks at hitting sliders,” “Andy Eatme hits to short right field and has bad breath.” This is invaluable intelligence as to how to pitch to or defend against the hitter. But it just smacks of smuggling crib notes into the test room.
OK, I’ll invoke it. What I was a kid, players just, well, remembered things about their opposition or had a feeling about the guy and acted accordingly. Can you imagine a grouchy Nolan Ryan looking inside his cap for advice on how to brush back a batter with a 100 mph fastball? Screw it, he’d just terrorize the guy on general principles because it’s fun.
If Ryan’s catcher had the temerity to flip up and refer to crib notes on his wrist and then actually suggest a pitch based on that information, I’m guessing he’s the one who would get the heater aimed at his head.
Did Willie Mays need notes hiding on his head? Are you kidding? Ball goes up, ball comes down… in his mitt. What’s so hard about that? Nothing, if you’re Willie Mays.
I know, it’s all related to the scourge of sports related Sabremetric, data, numbersnumbernumbers, blah blah blah blah.
Go ahead, without Googling it, tell me what OPS is. Sure, some of you will know, others will pretend they know, honest ones will say, “don’t give a shit.” What’s the guy hitting? Launch angle? It’s baseball, not NASA. The ball’s gotta rendezvous with the fielder’s mitt, not Venus.
I love it when they tell me how fast the ball left the bat. Sure, it lets you know how hard the guy swings but honestly, some of the most effective swings are slow and easy and result in run scoring hits.
All these esoteric stats may be included in these cheat sheets but to me sports is all about training, natural talent, instinct and spitting.
But it would be fun to see the umps crack down on this stuff, like test proctors, ejecting guys for using the crib notes on their wrists and under their hats rather than playing the game using their heads.
I was sorry to hear of the Gavin MacLeod’s passing. While I enjoyed him as Murray Slaughter on the Mary Tyler Moore Show, I enjoyed him even more on The Love Boat…because, unbeknownst to him, his character, Captain Merrill Stubing, was my weather sidekick, and actually had a little in common.
Back in 1979, while I was going to grad school part-time at the University of Arizona in Tucson earning my journalism Masters degree, I worked three different broadcasting jobs: morning drive guy at KCEE-AM, weekend overnight guy at KAIR-AM, and weekend weather dude at KGUN-TV, an ABC affiliate.
It was a time when Tucson TV stations liked to use radio announcers to do weekend weather because we were used to making almost no money and we could ad lib, which was important since we had no scripts for our weathercasts.
We had none of the sophisticated electronic graphics weathercasters have today. To prepare my map I ripped off the “weather features” feed on the weather wire, took into the studio and used that information to place little magnetic, rubber things on the map: sunshines, rain drops, pressure systems and fronts. I did two weathercasts each evening…one at 5pm and one at 10pm. The map for the early show took about 20 minutes to create, but the late one took less time because not much changed over those five hours.
Here’s where Captain Stubing and I got together. On Saturday nights I’d have the program monitor on while I prepared the studio map. I timed it so I was updating the map while Love Boat was on. As I placed the little magnetic symbols on the map, Capt. Stubing was greeting the guest stars as they boarded the Love Boat. Coulda been Charo, Bert Convy, Florence Henderson…anyone who needed some network TV exposure to keep their careers going .
Yes, it was all mindless, but I was studying to be a “serious journalist” and the weather seemed mindless as well. I enjoyed doing it but didn’t find it challenging, especially because Tucson doesn’t actually have any weather aside from hot, hotter, hottest and the few weeks in the summer they call “monsoon season” when it rains like crazy for an hour or so, then stops and it’s hot and dry again.
Just as celebrities graced his gangplank, they also passed through my studio, always stopping as they saw me create my map to ask about the weather.
One night it was the original TV fitness guy Jack LaLanne. I didn’t recognized him at first because while in TV he looked like a bulked up muscle man, in real life he was Tom Thumb. He was at our station to appear on our local talk show. Jack stopped in his tracks and asked me what I was doing. I could have been a wiseass and told him I was creating the world’s largest AAA Triptik, but explained I was preparing my weather map for the upcoming newscast. “Well, keep at it!” he chirped, flexed a bicep and continued on his way. Hmm..that was under-whelming.
On another night Arizona Sen. Barry Goldwater walked through. He was a little quiet and creepy and I didn’t see him right away because on The Love Boat, Doc was trying to score with a comely passenger in a bikini who was way out of his league and Capt. Stubing was comforting social director Julie McCoy when no one showed up to “dress like a rodent night.”
Sen. Goldwater kinda stared at me for a moment, then in a very accusatory tone asked me, “it’s not gonna rain, is it?” Even if it was I wouldn’t have wanted to validate his personal forecast. After all the tagline for his ads when he ran for POTUS in 1964 was “in your heart you know he’s right.” But in America’s hearts they knew he was wrong and he lost to LBJ in a landslide. It didn’t give me much confidence he could predict the weather either.
And so it went. Gavin MacLeod as Love Boat’s Capt. Stubing greeted his arriving guests as I greeted mine as they passed through my studio. Each week brought a new roster of surprise guest stars for both of us….doing our duties…rain..or shine….all before Fantasy Island’s Tattoo announced, “the plane, the plane!” Gavin MacLeod/Capt. Merrill Stubing…it was a pleasure to serve during prime time with you. RIP.
Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are always a little tough because I lost both my parents nine months apart back in 2007. But what gets me through it many times is the fact they were both brilliant and hilarious and taught me many of life’s lessons. Since this will also show up on Linkedin, I thought I’d relate some of the valuable lessons they imparted to me about getting along at work. Hint: they vary between serious and, well, satisfyingly snarky.
From my Father: If your boss requires everyone to wear a tie, do so, but feign shortness of breath a few times a day to let the boss know the health risks involved in working all day with your neck in a noose.
From my Mother: Always look your best on the job. She always did, even when she volunteered as a lunch lady in our grade school. The payoff was an 8-year old gushing, “Mrs. Garsten, you look beautiful today!” The other lunch ladies would suddenly find an excuse to refill the napkin dispensers.
From my Father: If someone acts like a jerk, try to ignore it. But if they persist, you have to act. My father was a chemical engineer. Back in his day engineers worked in rows of drafting tables, and so, in close quarters with each other. He didn’t like it when one of the other engineers was disruptive, so he learned how to shoot rubberbands accurately at long distances. Many a workplace jerk suffered a welt from my father scoring a bullseye on the back of his head. Indeed, my father passed on to my brother and me his secret which I have used sparingly, but effectively, especially in movie theaters to neutralize a loudmouth in the audience.
From my Mother: Don’t be lazy! Early in her career my mother was a buyer at a big New York City department store. A high-pressure job. She despaired when she saw a co-worker just sitting around yakking or otherwise goldbricking. When I started my work life at age 9 at the local laundramat, I hated folding people’s underwear and other unmentionables, but my mother scolded me about being lazy and that no matter what a job entailed, you needed to do it because that’s why you were being paid. Considering I earned exactly one shiny quarter each day I worked, this turned out to be a motivational challenge, but the lesson always stayed with me because I worked in broadcasting which has roughly the same pay scale.
From my Father: If your boss is a moron…DO NOT SAY SO to his or her face. I worked for several morons over the years and never broke my father’s rule. Instead, I ignored idiotic directives and went about my business in what I thought were more sensible directions. The corollary to the rule was: don’t let the boss take credit for your good ideas! This may seem counter-intuitive to some who believe in the concept of “managing up.” However, if everyone else in the office knows the boss is a moron, they also know he/she could never have come up with a good idea and would know the boss attempted to steal the credit and you would look like a hapless doormat.
From my Mother: One of my mother’s favorite phrases when discussing a person attempting to stick you with a thankless task was “tell him to go shit in his hat!” She used an endearing baby voice when saying this, which took away some of its sting but still made its point. The one time I tried that my target kinda stammered before saying, “Um, I’m not wearing a hat.” That caused me to do a quick pivot to “Right. Then go fuck yourself.” The twin burns impressed my co-workers which came in handy when I was made the boss. But lesson learned from my mother, don’t let someone stick you with a crappy task.
From my Father: If you become the boss don’t be a wimp. He had been a boss on several jobs and his underlings feared him. In fact, when I worked a summer job at an engineering firm where many of my father’s former underlings were employed, I could hear whispers of “Be nice to the kid. He’s Dick Garsten’s kid and you don’t want him ratting on you.” At the same time, my father was much beloved because he was also respected for fairness, sense of humor and how much he truly cared for those who worked for him. I was never a tough guy boss. Just not in me, but I did use my father’s lessons in empathy and respect to win loyalty during the times I led a job or department.
I don’t know how either of my parents would have reacted to the social distancing we’re stuck with during his pandemic because they were both social, fun people who enjoyed close, interpersonal relationships. Besides, if someone acts like a jerk on Zoom, it’s damn near impossible to hit him with a rubber band.
Before I sort of retired five years ago I had a great career in news and PR and am enjoying a scaled back version of both in my semi-retirement. I have my parents to thank for setting great examples of how to survive and thrive in the workplace through a combination of hard work, humor and a little bit of recalcitrance.
I miss ’em both every day and honor them regularly by eschewing the wearing of ties and silently instructing those who deserve it to go shit in their hats.
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’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.
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.”
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….