Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
Toney and I attended a parent/teacher thing last night at the oldest
Secret's new school. It wasn't really a conference, it was more of a
meet and greet, and an opportunity for parents to see the school and the
kids' classrooms and all that good stuff. Perhaps I'm operating from a
point of arrested development (anything's possible), but just being
there, in a public school setting, made me feel uneasy. Just like it was
1979 all over again.
There's a schooly smell that gets you the second you pass through
the door. All schools smell exactly the same, and it has the power to
transport you back through time. As soon as we started down the
construction paper-decorated hallways to "our" classroom, my
nostrils filled with the funk of old books and industrial disinfectants,
and I could almost hear Mrs. Wagner hollering at me: "Jeff Kay,
what are you on?!"
All the other dads (well, most of them anyway...) looked the part. There
was a lot of neatly tucked polo shirts and conference room-confidence. I
was wearing jeans and a battered pair of Van's skate shoes, and wanted
to hide behind a partition. Toney, of course, jumped right into it with
both feet and had made a couple of new friends within minutes. I found a
chair way over by the side wall, and acted like I was engrossed, deeply
engrossed, in a hand-out about the U.S. Bill of Rights.
After what seemed like forty or seventy minutes, "our" teacher
came in. She looked like Marshall Crenshaw, despite the fact that she
was, you know, a woman. She seemed nice though, and I liked her teaching
philosophies, as they were explained to us. This was no hand-wringing,
wishy-washy, I'm alright you're alright, blissed-out wind chime hippie
chick. And that's always a good thing.
I only wish she would've performed "Someday, Someway" for us.
That was the only disappointment.
Following a brief stop in math class (where the utterance of certain
ancient words made my sphincter turn to granite, just like Pavlov's
ass), we were escorted to the other side of the building to tour the
rooms that house what used to be called electives back in my day.
You know, like music and art and gym, and that sort of thing. Now
they're apparently called specials. I don't know what that's all
about. But it was clearly important to the school administrators that we
see these rooms; they were practically holding our hands and guiding us
there.
Yes, it was our tax dollars at work. They
have the finest computer lab known to man, home ec facilities that look
like the kitchen at a four-star restaurant, and an art room that feels
like a massive NYC painter's loft. Very impressive indeed.
And then I found myself looking around and imagining all the fun my
friends and I could have in such a place. There was so much to get into,
such an abundance of hell-raising accessories. It would've been paradise
to us, and I could feel the beginnings of a wistful tear forming in the
corner of my left eye.
In the home ec room, for instance, I walked past a bank of washers and
dryers, a scene straight out of any mid-sized coin laundry. Can you
imagine all the great stuff that could be "washed" and
"dried" in those things?! The mind boggles at the
possibilities.
At my high school there was only one washer and one dryer, but we made
the most of what we had. My friend Bill and I slipped into the home ec
room one day during lunch and filled the dryer with several handfuls of
silverware, a couple of big metal platters and a cookie sheet or two,
then turned it on and left. As we ran out the door there was a racket so
impressive I still consider it one of our finest
"achievements." Man, the adults came running from every
direction! It was excellent.
There was also a hospital bed in that room, and we'd routinely crank it
up so high the mattress would almost touch the fluorescent lights in
the ceiling. Underneath you could see the works all hyper-extended and
stretched out, and it made the teacher completely lose her shit. For
some reason she was extremely sensitive about that bed being cranked up,
so we did it about once a week.
But the tools at our disposal was nothing compared to what they
have today. Sweet sainted mother of Bobby Buntrock. I briefly considered
"drying" a few items last night, just for old time's sake, but
then I looked around and saw all the polo shirts and remembered that I'm
forty-three. Dammit!
At least I still feel ill at ease, though. Walking those halls and
smelling those smells instantly put me on the defensive again, and
that's a good sign, I think. Because the day I feel comfortable in a
public school is the day I'll know for certain that the fire has
completely gone out. Then there will be but one thing left to do: go buy
a book of Sudoku puzzles, and just say fuck it.
Ya know?
-- A couple of things before I go.... I had 691 emails when I got to
work yesterday. I deleted roughly half without opening them, and worked all
day long to plunder the rest into submission. When I left the office
last night I had three messages in my inbox, and order had been
restored. As best as I can tell, Sheryl is the winner of our little
contest; she guessed 729. Once that's been confirmed, a special Surf
Report-approved CD will be in the mail to her. Congratulations! And pass
the beer nuts.
Finally, an item from the Stealing Clive Bull's Topics desk. Clive asked
his callers yesterday what celebrity his radio station would be, if it
were a person. So, let's do the same with TheWVSR. What famous person
would our little house of ridiculousness be if it were human? Use the
comments link below to participate in this rather questionable exercise.
--
Toney and I attended a parent/teacher thing last night at the oldest
Secret's new school. It wasn't really a conference, it was more of a
meet and greet, and an opportunity for parents to see the school and the
kids' classrooms and all that good stuff. Perhaps I'm operating from a
point of arrested development (anything's possible), but just being
there, in a public school setting, made me feel uneasy. Just like it was
1979 all over again.