Hey, remember MAD magazine? What, me worry? I read MAD“? Alfred E. Newman? “
When I discovered MAD back in junior high, it was like The Holy Grail to my annoying little prepubescent, die-laughing-at-farts stage of immaturity.
I can recall that back in junior high some of my buddies’ moms frowned hard on MAD magazine, one even going so far as actually forbidding her son to even look at them. (Yeah, he had to sneak peeks at such porn over at my house, but only when his mom was safely out of town.)
We didn’t have the phrases “helicopter moms” or “the dumbing down of America” back in the fifties, but that particular periodical seemed to strike disgust in the hearts and minds of those humorless moms who’d already prematurely hitched their fifth graders’ wagons to the Harvard or Bust star.
I didn’t get it then and I still don’t get it now, not really. I mean, did MAD damage me? Quite the contrary. Sure, it bent me, but in a good way. What it did is teach me about the power and value of satire, which I quickly learned to emulate. It taught me the joys of puns. The joys of poetry, as well (well, considering the source, I guess… doggerel would be the more correctly descriptive terminology at that stage of my development). And despite some parents’ negative opinion of said magazine, by very early on it had sent me well on my way to becoming a wordsmith, a writer, and a serious lifelong reader. So no, my MAD years certainly didn’t hamstring me literarily.
Oh, I admit I was a mediocre student in school (in most classes that is, but never in English!). True, I’m one of those who became the solid scholar after getting my bachelor’s degree. But the truth is I was an “English major” before I actually became an English major.
But OK. Time for me to get down to brass tacks, to nail down the theme of this post. So yeah, what’s the actual theme here? Well to begin with, ever hear of one… Dr. Demento? No? OK:
Screenshot
FROM WIKIPEDIA: “When Barret Hansen, better known as Dr. Demento, recently ended his weekly show, he had spent 55 years spinning weird, silly, or otherwise strange songs on the radio or online. No mere fringe figure, he was an influential figure in American comedy and one of the most important cultural libertarians of his era.
“That might seem far-fetched to people who grew up in a post-SNL, post-Seinfeld world. But in the early 1970s, all that lay in the future. Television shows still had to pass strict censorial review to be aired, and the same code policed much of what could be heard on mainstream radio. Hansen’s program pushed against those strictures.
“Listeners never knew what Hansen might play. One moment might bring a sweet, old novelty song like the Playmates’ “Beep Beep” about a “little Nash Rambler” that turned out to be more powerful than the Cadillac it was racing. The next moment you might hear a risqué song about sex, like Ruth Wallis’ “Davy’s Dinghy” (it’s not about his boat). There was drug humor, from the relatively tame “Friendly Neighborhood Narco Agent” to a mid-’90s parody of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” called “The Devil Went Down to Jamaica” (“Johnny roll a ball of hash, and make sure it’s the bomb/’Cause the devil’s got the kind of stuff they smoked in Vietnam”). “Cows With Guns,” about bovines revolting against slaughter under the leadership of Cow Tse-tung, would compete with classic comic songs from Spike Jones and Tom Lehrer.“
COWS WITH GUNS by Dana Lyons
So in short, all I really want to do here is to beyour Dr. Demento. Just for a day. I wanna play being a DJ, just for you. And I’ve selected 13 recordings right here from my collection of funny-bone novelties, and I’m sincerely hoping you give my humble collection a shot. I believe we’re all in dire need of some smiles here in the world of 2026. So… whattaya say? Huh? You game?????
(Click below before scrolling for some healthy little belly laughs)
By the way, Dr. Demento helped bring “Weird Al” Yankovic to national attention.
Dr. D and Weird Al
OK, but the theme here is not to be Dr. Demento per se, but the genre of the recordings he was known for collecting and sharing: novelty songs. Humorous little, often-one-hit wonders, all very much molded in the same vein as MAD magazine’s satirical humor.
Dr. D was a Pied Piper of Hamelin to me over a sizeable span of my younger days.
So please, indulge me. Buckle up my friend. Sit back and enjoy what I’m about to share with you. You’re going for a ride.
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Most of you are probably familiar with the artist, Peter Sellers, who played Inspector Clouseau in the original Pink Panther franchise. He was also featured prominently in the political satire and black comedy film, Doctor Strangelove Or : How I Learned to Stop Worryingand Love the Bomb.
So check him out in this one..
SHE LOVES YOU (BEATLES’ COVER) by Peter Sellers
OK. So, moving right along. Here’s another. And I seriously doubt George Carlin needs an introduction. Enjoy,
ICE BOX MAN by George Carlin
THE HOCKEY SONG by Warren Zevon
Now when I think of Warren Zevon, “Wererwolves of London” is the first song that pops into my mind. “The Hockey Song,” however, is a much lesser known ballad, but even more creative and humorous in my own humble opinion. I’m always surprised at how many tell me they’ve never heard it.
But you know, even if you’re not into hockey, I’m betting this one will score a smile on your face…
But now for something completely different:
THE SONG OF THE SEWER by Art Carney
The actor, Art Carney, played Ed Norton, Ralph Cramden’s (Jackie Gleason’s) city sewer-cleaner sidekick on the 1950s sitcom, The Honeymooners. This one-hit wonder of his however surprisingly climbed nearly to the top of the charts back in 1955. Novelty songs can sometimes do that.
(I apologize for poor quality of the algorhithm-generated captions in many of these videos. Right from the start, “I work in a sewer” gets displayed as “I wake in a sewer.” But whatta you gonna do?)
This next one is absolutely insane. It was recorded in Mr. White’s hometown of Lynn, Massachusetts, which you’ll be able to quickly recognize by his Massachusetts accent and by the story itself.
Don White is an award-winning American folk singer/songwriter, comedian, author, and storyteller from Lynn, Massachusetts. I once performed a cover of this one at an open-mic, and because of the lyrics… suffice it to say it was a big hit.
THE BALLAD OF LIJAH THE PRECOCIOUS ORCHARD QUEEN by Don White
(Ditto on the poor captions.)
THE MUSHROOM STORY by Todd Snider (a football story??)
According to a Rolling Stone obituary, Todd Snider was a witty, sarcastic, and sometimes dark singer/songwriter whose genre was labelled alt-country. He wasn’t the most successful artist to come out of Nashville, but he had the knack for becoming the favorite artist of hardcore music fans.
And now, Happy Halloween:
DINNER WITH DRAC PT. 1 by John Zacherle
When you think of Halloween music, very like it’s “The Monster Mash” that automatically comes to mind. I’ve always found The Mash entertaining, but “Dinner With Drac” is a close second, in my humble opinion. Take a listen.
FLUSHED FROM THE BATHROOM OF YOUR HEART by Johnny Cash
Old Johnny Cash needs no introduction whatsoever. But he did put out a handful of well-known novelty songs in his lifetime. Like “Boy Named Sue” (written by Shel Silverstein). and “That Dirty Old Egg Suckin’ Dog.” But this one I actually found useful each year when I was teaching my freshman classes about similes and metaphors. I always referred to this one as The Metaphor Song.
IN SPITE OF OURSELVES by John Prine and Iris Dement
OK. here’s a perennial hoot, on the slightly risque side. John Prine himself explains this one in his introduction.
BLACK DENIM TROUSERS AND MOTORCYCLE BOOTS by Vaughn Monroe
OK. And long before “Leader of the Pack,” this old badass motorcycle ballad hit the top 100. This is the one that back in ’55 inspired me to clothespin an ace of spades card straight into the spokes of my bicycle to produce that desirable revving motorcycle roar as I pedaled. Yep. On the sidewalks of Dover-Foxcroft, I would “transform” into The Terror of Highway 101.”
By the way, if you like my stuff and might be interested in a little bit more, type your email into the space below in order to get a text notifying you of any future posts on the horizon.
So, whatta you think??? Please leave me a comment in the field below, if you’re so inclined. I always respond.
(This song was composed and performed by an actual gas station attendant, albeit one with a creative and humbly self-deprecating sense of humor at times. One who lived with a big monkey of a MUSEon his back that relentlessly compelled him to compose and record songs all about 75% of whatever might come down the pike of his experience. And what had come down the pike in the case of the goofy smile was a trip to a dentist and, consequently, an embarrassing gap-toothed grin.)
All my life I’ve been an observer, discoverer, and sharer of what appears (to me) as the interestingly unusual. Such finds entertain me, teach me a little more about the world I live in, and make for intriguing conversation with others. I’m a storyteller after all, so interesting and unusual tidbits are my bread and butter. But see, in this blog it’s my job to share with you a motley variety of “roadside attractions” I’ve picked up along the turnpike of my own journey. Basically I suppose that makes me kind of a local yokel version of one of those washed-up History Channel celebrities, like William Shatner hosting The Unexplained.
And this particular singer/songwriter is just one more subject of my many episodes of Tom Lyford’s The InterestinglyUnusual.
Joel was nothing if not an amazingly indefatigable songwriter. The good, the bad, and the ugly? All of it was fodder for the imaginings that would inlay their way into his various rock and roll, blues, folk, patriotic and/or protest songs, country and western ballads, and tributes. And this guy conjured up hundreds of songs. Literally. I would know, because I was the friend who voluntarily recorded a library of most of his output. On CDs.
Not the complete discography
I’m talking CDs you’ve never seen nor even heard of though, CDs featuring a singer/songwriter who’s “as unknown as they get” (to use the artist’s own words). How’s this for odd: pouring a lifetime of effort into productions destined to be sampled by exactly noone! Well, except for the same old baker’s dozen of his very few close friends (which you could count with the fingers of one hand) and family.
Despite the fact that Joel’s output was industrious, he viewed much of his talent and work with humility.
(Please click on the link below, and follow along)
Joel, the singer/songwriter. I was his biggest fan. I’ve selected here a variety of what I consider to be among Joel’s best. I realize his music may not be for everyone. But I’ve always felt it was a shame that his stuff never really got to see more of the light of day. So… I’m just here to give him his due. Posthumously.
Some Odds and Ends About Joel’s Life
The Beginning
Hanging out in the band room (at the expense of his English, math, science, and social studies) was the only thing that motivated Joel in school. In the music department’s classrooms he took piano and guitar lessons, and this led to music becoming an integral part of his life. The idea of becoming a lifelong musician was suddenly all he could think and dream about.
At some point in high school, he made the rash decision to drop out. He was going to put together a band. And he did. More than one. But the very idea of a rocker’s exciting lifestyle, even in middle school back in the 70’s and 80’s, invited rock musicians to take certain risks.
I sold my record collection just for dope and cash
Must have cost a new car into smoke and ash
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
First time I ever got drunk was on a bottle of wine
It cost me 99 cents and almost made me blind
Next mornin’ I had a head felt like a medicine ball
That’s been bounced up and down and around the hall
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
At fifteen I thought I was hip
Dancin’ around in my very first acid trip
First time I tried cocaine I got a wicked good buzz
It became one of my favorite loves
More than once I was snorting to a pile
Spillin’ it all over the bathroom tile
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
I did a lot for a long time to my brain
Now it looks like I might never be the same
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
And consequently Joel ended up having a dark and wildly adventurous past. He got drafted into the Army. But of course the fact that he’d never had any patience with authority figures didn’t bode too well for him militarily. So duh, that didn’t end well.
He went A.W.O.L.
He took off on one of those rite-of-passage cross-country odysseys with little but his guitar and backpack, all by his lonesome. And when his bus fare cash ran out, he hitch-hiked and took up some odd jobs along the way. He made it a good three quarters of the way to the Pacific Ocean before some grifters who’d offered him a ride just drove off with both his guitar and backpack while he was in a convenience store.
He turned himself in at a nearby Air Force base. Was arrested and returned to the Army. Where he convinced his superiors that he was never going to be a soldier, and was (I imagine dishonorably) discharged. And then he was right back in his little old hometown of Dexter, Maine where there were few prospects, and even fewer for a hopeful musician. He got a job at a shoe factory and made enough dough to eke out a life. Got a new guitar and joined a band or two. And composed songs.
Joel married, had a daughter he loved dearly, and got divorced. And time passed
I met him back in the early 90s. Turned out he and I both had one friend in common. Ever hear of him? Some old guy named Bill W. We didn’t hit it off right away. We were from different worlds. I was the high school English teacher, and 50+% of America’s population ends up notliking English teachers. Joel was one of those in the negative 50. He had a kind of gaunt, scruffy look about him, always showing up in an old beat-up Army field jacket. He never spoke much. Kept to himself a lot. His appearance (to me) cried outlaw. And I made him out to be a stoner. And I was right.
We were two different kinds of cat. We had little in common. At least not until I discovered his favorite musicians were exactly the same as mine! Bob Dylan, The Stones, Neil Young, The Beatles, Tom Waits, Bruce Springsteen, Steve Earle, John Hiatt, Tom Petty, Eric Clapton, Warren Zevon, Townes Van Zandt, and Willie Nelson. And then lo and behold, it turned out that he was into poetry too, especially the Beat Poets and Outlaw Poetry. Hey, so was I. And then on top of that I discovered he was literate! Not just literate. Very literate.Sure, he was a drop out, but over the years since high school he’d gone on to become a life-long reader, an aficionado of the great classics, the poets, the histories, and the philosophers. He had a library card and used it. He’d become a knowledgeable, self-educated soul. I mean, he was only one of two guys I ever knew who’d actually read War and Peace cover to cover. And no, I wasn’t the other one.
I found myself wondering, Who IS this guy?
Well for one thing, he was this counter-culture freak deep into Jack Kerouac. And when I heard him perform his “Jack Kerouac” at an open-mic one night, I had to sit up and take notice.
And then? And THEN…? Well, it turned out that like me, he was also a big fan of the sleaze bag novelist and poet, Charles “Hank” Bukowski! I couldn’t believe it. One of my underground favorites. And when I heard him sing his very own “Bukowski” at an open-mic, I was knocked for a loop for a loop.
Charles Bukowski lived a life of drunken, squalid raunch
With pitted face and tiny hands and alcoholic paunch
Writing the tales of a dirty old man was Charlie’s bread and butter
Lived on whiskey, wine, and beer– his mind was in the gutter
Hot damn, Bukowski, I woulda had a drink with you
A literate kind of scoundrel who wouldn’t turn down a screw
Hot damn Bukowski, a novelist and a cad
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
About the lowlife laureate of American literature
So worthy and jaded his poetry was pure
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He wrote a screenplay called Barfly, based upon his youth
Drinkin’ and fightin’ in alley ways, man, he tells the truth
Hot damn, Bukowski, I woulda had a drink with you
A literate kind of scoundrel who wouldn’t turn down a screw
Hot damn Bukowski, a novelist and a cad
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
And they called him Hank
And he always drank
Loved many a skank
Took it to the bank!
He worked for a while sorting mail, post office in LA
Hanging out with whores and gambling all his blues away
He became the darling of the LA underground
And ended up in Hollywood, the Toast of Tinsel Town
Hot damn, Bukowski, I woulda had a drink with you
A literate kind of scoundrel who wouldn’t turn down a screw
Hot damn Bukowski, a novelist and a cad
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
And they called him Hank
And he always drank
Loved many a skank
Took it to the bank!
Well, hot damn, Bukowski, I woulda had a drink with you
A literate kind of scoundrel who wouldn’t turn down a screw
Hot damn Bukowski, a novelist and a cad
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
So we started visiting each other. And then we did it. We became frends. Good friends, though strange bedfellows for sure. We spilled our guts to each other about our long, often unhappy lives.
Joel was many things. A member of a pretty sketchy looking rock band, The Breakers. He was an admitted alcoholic. Plus he’d experimented and gotten hooked on and off every drug known to man, plus a few others. Even acid. I was way out of his league. Overall he’d striven to live a life as raunchy as his patron saint himself and, like Bukowski, he was no stranger to the occasional jail cell or two. Plus from what I learned, his life had also been one long, dangerous, sexually permissive adventure. Half the songs he wrote were rife with wild women who’d populated his life.
I don’t know how successful he actually was at the dating game, but he’d outgrown that part of his life by the time I met him. He still missed it of course. Because Joel had been, and still was, a Don Juan wannabe. His songlist was laden with a prurient and randy nostagia.
I know Joel was feeling betrayed by the aging process.
When I’d gotten to know him, he was a loner who kept himself squirreled away in his little rented apartment with his pencils and notebooks, his guitar, his stereo, his cassette tape recorder, and a cat named Crash. There he worked his craft like a monk in a monastery, writing day after day. Rewriting. Recording his rough drafts. Listening to the playbacks booming out on that megawatt stereo (and how the apartment dwellers in that building didn’t call the cops with noise complaints I’ll never know). And then going back to the drawing board all over again. For more.
The solitary life took its toll. I know he preferred to be alone, but at the same time missed company.
He was constantly taking inventory of himself in is songs. He was good at that, stepping outside of himself and doing self-exams. His lifestyle may’ve been unhealthy, but his habits inspired his dark, razor sharp lyrics. Joel was nothing, if not a lyricist.
The man wrote and wrote and wrote. And I feel privileged to have been welcomed to spend so many hours, days, weeks, and months of his life– me, sitting at his kitchen table while he, sitting across from me with guitar in lap, played me some brand new one he’d just started working on maybe, or one he felt and hoped was a done deal. And he allowed me to be a tiny part of his process, using me as a soundboard now and then.
I’ll tell you what I love about Joel’s songwriting. His lyrics. In so many of his songs it’s the imagery, and the way he’d string well-chosen words together for the greatest effect. I would loved to have had him as a student in one of my English classes.
I’ll also tell you what I love about Joel. His honesty, his humility and his courage. He was one of the most honest men I’ve ever met.
He was a best friend. And yes, our relationship was one of opposites, The “strange bed fellows” thing. Butit was a soul adventure for me. And our friendship spanned more than a couple of decades.
When I was a high school freshman, the dramatics coach tried to recruit me to audition for a play he was doing. The very thought of thatterrified the hell out of me. I’d had stage fright all my life, and I’d never even been on an actual stage.And I told him so. He said not to worry. I told him I freeze whenever I even have to do an oral book report in front of the class. He told me not to worry. I told him it wasn’t even possible for me to memorize anything. Again, not to worry. So, I flat out told him I didn’t want to be in a play.
He told me to meet him in the library right after school that afternoon. And back then, we were all pretty much duty-bound to do whatever a teacher told us to do. So… I showed up.
But in the meantime though, dumb-ass little me got to stupidly wondering, What would it be like to be… a stage star? And then I got to thinking that… maybe this coachactually could, no— that he obviouslycould, get me over the terror that always gripped me whenever any number of silent eyes were locked onto me. That his job, after all. So yeah, it occurred to me that just maybe my life could be about to change. BIG-time. Because I’d always been a dreamer.
I’d begun imagining the glory of the thunderous cheers and applause while I, standing alone up there on the stage, was taking my final bows. It felt… good. Exciting. Where might it l all lead? I was asking myself. Hollywood? It made sense. Because I assumed that many a Paul Newman might likely have begun their super-star careers on humble high school stages just like ours. After which… well, one thing had just naturally led to the next thing which could just as naturally lead to… well, being a heartthrob eventually. And getting to sign thousands of autographs. I was getting excited.
So right after school I strolled my way to the library with as confident a smile as I could paste onto my face.
A sign taped to the door sternly warned, AUDITIONS. NO ADMITTANCE.
I stepped inside. “Close the door,” I was told, rather curtly.
He in a bad mood or something? I wondered.I closed the door behind me, but suddenly, once inside, I was unexpectedly overtaken by a slightly creepy, ominous feeling. I’d been expecting droves of my classmates being there, all clamoring for the big part I was probably going to walk away with. But instead, no, it was only me. Only me and the director. One on one.
I would’ve preferred the door left open…
Then, checking his watch like we’d already run out of time, he slapped a dog-eared script into my hands, turned on his heel, and headed off for the opposite far end of the long library. “Page 36!” he called over his shoulder. Well, the script was already opened to page 36, so… “Read the highlighted passage!”
For some reason, my chicken-livered little heart had begun to worm its way up about three inches in my chest. I tried swallowing, but it didn’t want to go back down. Looking down at his own opened copy, he barked, “Begin reading!”
I cleared my throat a few times first, but then managed it. I read the passage. And looked up to find him contemplating me with a puzzled look on his face.
“What?” I asked.
“I couldn’t hear what you said, is what. I couldn’t hear a thing you just read. You know, if I can’t hear you… in here, with just me and you, how’s even the first row of the audience evergoing to hear you? So OK. Once again, once again. From the top! Louder this time. Project your voice!”
Well, I’d thought I’d read the words exceedingly well, but…
His terse manner was crushing me like a cigarette butt under his toe. Yes, I know. I can easily see it now. I cringe to admit it, but I was one exceedinglyfragile little wuss back then.
Anyway, I took a deep breath and bellowed out the lines.
“OK. I did hear you that time. But there was no emotion. None whatsoever. You’re not reading telephone book listings, you know. I mean, look at what you’re reading. Look at it. What’s the character feeling there, do you think? Happy? Sad? What??”
Jeez. I didn’t know there was gonna be a quiz. I looked down at the words. “I dunno,” I said. “Mad?”
“Bingo! Angry! But not just angry. Angry as hell! Can you show me angry as hell?”
Well, I knew he wasn’t ready for the honest answer to that. “I dunno,” I mumbled. “I’m not sure.” Inside I was dying for some reason. Fading fast. Becoming the deer in the headlights.
“OK OK OK,” he said. “Lemme show you. Watch me…. OK?”
So… yeah. I watched him. He began by looking down at his feet for a few moments. Taking a couple of deep breaths. And then… whoa! His head snapped up so suddenly, I recoiled! His face was flushed. And his eyes? They were locked on me, and he was seething! And before I knew it, he’d started pacing, back and forth, in a rage that seemed just too great to contain, and needed more damn room!
Wham!He launched into a loud, raving tirade! He started going nuts right there in the library where you were only supposed to whisper!And even though yes, I realized intellectually that this was just a demonstration… I was feeling a scold stab of guilt anyway because emotionally… I couldn’t unconvince myself that it was really mepersonally he was raging at because he’d simply just had it with me and my little chicken-shit hesitation! I mean, Jesus, I was watching a temper tantrum growing right before my eyes! An all-out Jeckyll and Hyde!
And when he was finished (well, whenever he was finished), the only proof that I’d ever even been there was a dog-eared script I’d left dropped on the library floor and the click of the door closing behind me!
Little Elvis had fled the building! And from now on, Little Elvis was gonna be content spending the rest of his spineless little life cowering somewhere off in the shadows where it’s gonna be safe…
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So. Guess what happens. Five-plus years later and drenched in nervous perspiration, I’m seated before a school superintendent, having just inked the very first contract of my future thirty-four-year high school English-teaching career life.
Wow. Quite daunting for little ol’ shrinking-violet me; however it’s done and dusted. I heave a big sigh of relief. I’m rich, for cryin’ out loud. I’m making $5,618 bucks a year! I’m gonna buy me a new car!
But… as the super is shaking my hand, sealing the deal as it were, he hits me with this: “So. You’ll be teaching four English classes, two speech classes, and taking over as the new dramaticscoach. Again, welcome aboard!”
“Excuse me?” My blood is running cold! “What was that?”
“I said, ‘Welcome aboard…’”
“No. Not that. ‘Dramatics coach?’”
“Yes. And congratulations.”
“Oops. Uh-oh! Wait wait wait. Uhmmm, look, I’m sorry. I thought I was just signing on to teach English. Right? I mean… OK, honestly? See, I’ve never even been in a play in my life. I’ve hardly ever even been to any plays. I mean, I don’t know the first thing about dramatics. So… I guess what I’m saying is… I don’t think I can possibly…”
“And yet…” and here he’s studying me over the top of his glasses, “you just signed a contract agreeing to be doing exactly that.”
I do the old double-take here. “What? I did?”
And while my eyes crazily careen down through the words and lines and paragraphs on the top page lying before me, I hear him say, and with an ice-cold, razor-sharp edge… “I must say… this is odd, because I definitely thought you’d just told me… that you wanted to teach here this year…”
Yikes!
(If I’d had any of my wits about me, and any amount of courage at all (which I hadn’t), I suppose I could have told him, “Why no. Says here I just signed up for ‘DRAMAGICS,’ whatever the hell THAT is.” Truth is, though, I was so nervous I’d missed the misspelling and only right now just noticed it.)
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Long story short? I did “become” the dramatics “director.”
I lucked out somewhat, though. I inherited a student army of thespians known as The Footlights Club.
And more fortunately, those kids, unlike moi,really knew what they were doing, thank God.
So, throughout that year I ended up surviving co-directing one syrupy, patriotic, three-act play titled This Is My Country, which gave me two or three heart attacks on a weekly basis;
“directing” one two-act comedy (ditto on the heart attacks); and then “directing” three one-act plays, one of which would be required to compete in the Maine State Principals’ Associations Area One-Act Play contest. For that one, I chose a stodgy, dry, classic British drama titled “The Rocking-Horse Winner” by D. H. Lawrence. It was a clever little thing.
But get this, and wouldn’t you just know it— somehow (much to my chagrin) the damn thing actually won!
For me, this meant two more long weeks of rehearsals, and then a bus-trip over to Bowdoin College for the State level competition where, thankfully, our play earned nothing more than an Honorable Mention.
And by the way… the administration was oddly flabbergasted by the surprise of us winning. It was like… they didn’t know how to take the news. The school had apparently never ever won at the drama competition before and, being so totally baseball, basketball, football, wrestling, and golf oriented, it had apparently never even occurred to them that such an event might conceivablybe a thing. I mean… it was almost as if I’d done something wrong. You know, like… nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!
So you see, this fiasco turned out to be one of what I call the many “successful-failure stories” of my life. I’ve had a slew of them. I mean, look: without even a stinkin’ clue as to what I was doing, I came out of it a first-time winner. Not that coming out of it a winner was what I wanted, mind you. All I wanted was for it just to be over. But no. Beginner’s luck. Now I had to keep on having rehearsals every day until it was time, two weeks later, to load up the bus and take the show on the road to Bowdoin College for the States..
Why ME?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Anyway, I couldn’t wait to bail on that town after only a year (for tons of reasons). And I immediately lucked out, landing a position at a school that not only had an amazingly successful drama program already in place, but one that was manned by a simply incredible drama director. Phew! And so, for the decade I spent there, I was able to just sit back and enjoy his (not my) productions from the comfort and safety of an audience seat, right where I wanted to be. It was great. Ten years without having to “direct” a single play. I was living the dream.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
But after that, I ended up moving back to my old hometown. Took an English-teaching slot at my old alma mater, Foxcroft Academy. It felt good to be home. Yeah, I did have duties of course. I ended up being the advisor of the school newspaper for one thing. But as long as it wasn’t coaching drama, that was OK with me…
But before long, alas… the need for a high school drama coach once more raised its ugly head and began looming over me. And I was not happy about that. I sure as hell didn’t want it.That was the last thing I wanted, my mantra being, Let somebody else do it! I tried fighting off the pressures the administrative mafia was putting on me, using any and all the excuses I could come up with.
I mean sure, I get it, the headmaster didn’t realize that, deep down inside, I was that same, mousey-little, neurotic, post-traumatic-stress-disordered ‘high school freshman’ who’d once actually run for his life from the library of this very same school! I mean… I guess I looked like a normal human being and all.
Anyway, they finally got me box-canyoned-in between a rock and a hard place. I caved.
But you can’t imagine not only the cruel irony, but the stress of being the so pathologically self-conscious, stage-frightened, shrinking violet who’d never even been in (could never have been in) a frickin’ play in his whole damned lifetime! Finding myself back living in the same nightmare all over again? The nightmare of being lashed to the helm of the Good Ship Foxcroft Drama Club? The nightmare of the large crowds. Moms and dads and their families! School board members and (shudder!) administrators! Colleagues! And, I dunno, just… random people walking right in off the street. And to do what? Gawk at me and my pathetic little productions with their cold, glassy, and judgmental Medusa stares!
And me backstage, sweating it out with… What if one or more of my kids suddenly gets a lethal case of stage fright (like I would have) and just freezes right up in place? What could I do then?! How could I ever help them?! Or… What if my slapped-together little “opuses” happens to turn outreally really bad?! I’m talkin’ a major flop! I’m talkin’ tanked!I’m talkin’… stink, stank, stunk here! What then?
Talk about feeling naked! You know, if anyone ever decided to make a biographical movie of my early drama-director life, they’d hafta steal Don frickin’ Knotts out from under The Andy Griffith Show to play me.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
OK, so obviously one of my standard drama duties was again going to include co-directing the annual musical, like before. I had no idea then it then, but we were destined to eventually pull off Fiddler on the Roof, The Music Man, Oklahoma, Carousel, and Guys and Dolls, before I was through. And again, my task would only be to handle all the speaking parts (as opposed to the choral). But I was fortunate there, as the musical director was more way than competent as the real guy at the helm, so each one of those plays were going to come off a success with, or without, me.
And on top of that, I was also expected to choose and direct either a two- or 3-act drama, plus the usual two or three one-act plays, one of which would again be expected to compete in the Maine State Principal’s One-Act Play competition.
So there I was once, a decade later and once again, wallowing in the same utter dysfunction again as did Catch-22’s lost soul, Major Major Major Major…
Long story short, I just had to make myself put my big-boy pants on, bite the bullet, and man-up. Just get on with it. Despite the fact that things would, and did, go wrong sometimes, of course. Well… actually, practically all the time.
Oh, I’ve got lots of war stories. Stories that’d make you cringe. But, we’ve only got time for one here. Maybe if I can pull off a Part II, I can torture you with two or three more. But anyway, here goes:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
One of the one-act plays I selected very early on was “The Zoo Story” by Edward Albee.
I chose that one because (A) lazy me back then, there are only two characters in it (easier to get two kids to show up for practices at the same time), (B) it required only a minimal set, simply a single park bench (easy peasey), and (C) I wanted to do something a little avant-garde and “relevant” (I mean jeez, Albee wrote the shocker-classic Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, didn’t he. So by going with this one, I suppose I was sorta praying that this particular play might just make me look… (alright, dream on) somewhat cool, probably.
The play is a little existential slice of the Theater of the Absurd… and dark. Right up my alley.
So this very odd duck of a play was to be performed for two nights (thank God, not three!). It ends with the two characters getting into a nasty argument wherein one of them whips out a switchblade knife. And during the ensuing tussle, one of the guys gets stabbed in the abdomen and dies. (See? Dark. I know.)
So the thing obviously was… I needed to procure a switchblade. But from where? They were illegal.
Well as fate would have it, I’d been to Boston a couple of times as a kid. And each time I’d gone, I’d made sure to visit the rare and wondrous, Ray Bradburian emporium, Jack’s Joke Shop. Which is where I ended up blowing most of my vacation money, both times.
That store was a mid-1960s preadolescent boy’s dream! It stocked every thinkable novelty imaginable! You know, the realistic looking fake ice-cube (with the housefly frozen in the center) to casually drop into somebody’s ice tea glass! The fake boutonniere with the flower designed to ‘squirt-gun’ water right into the faces of anyone you could con into trying to give it a sniff! Professionally marked cards to cheat your friends with!! Electric joy-buzzers! Those very realistic-looking ‘puke pads’ to drop on somebody’s clean carpet! Itch powder! And something else. Some very realistic looking “switchblades,” only instead of an actual blade, it was a little steel, fine-toothed comb that would pop out of them when you pushed the button on the handle. That seemed to be just the ticket! I’m tellin’ ya, that place was a play-props heaven.
And luckily, I discovered they still had those switchblade-combs for sale. Two types, actually: the chintzy inexpensive ones, where the comb would ‘jack-knife ‘out from the side,
and the much more expensive model where the comb would telescope forward right out of the handle. And OK, the latter seemed just the ticket. I was craving realism. For with that one, you could (1) after menacingly brandishing the knife under the stage lights, keeping it deceptively moving so that the lights flashing off the steel would not allow the audience to focus on it sufficiently to see that it was actually just a comb), (2) craftily push and hold the release button which acted like a clutch, and then (3) ram your guy right in the guts with it, thereby ‘sending’ the “lethal blade” right back up inside the hollow handle (presto change-o!) instead of burying it deep into the ‘victim’s’ dramatic intestines! At which point the ‘victim,’ feigning obvious ‘pain,’ would conveniently grab and hold the handle in place there (to make it appear embedded, but more honestly to keep the little contraption from [boing!] accidentally launching itself (on its tightly-coiled spring) right off his belly and flying right into the first row of the audience, possibly poking someone’s eye out!
So anyway, we had our little “switch-comb” to practice with for two whole weeks, my two of actors going through the numbers (1,2, and 3) over and over, in slow-motion at first, and then speeding up the action. Simple choreography.
(And by the way, let me just say that that was one of the few things that was actually turning out to be fun about play preparation: playing with fun props. Even for me. Oh, the little boy in me…).
Consequently, the switchblade scene, then, was becoming the least of my worries. What was keeping me up nights was the nightmare what-if-specter of one or both of my actors forgetting his lines on stage! I mean, I’d have nineteen nervous breakdowns if I were an actor and that happened to me! But jeez, just what the hell does one do if and when that horror ever goes down? Other than simply throwing in the towel, looking out at your audience, and saying, “Hey, we’re sorry, but at this point, the show will not go on. You may all collect your money back over at the ticket table at this time. Thank you. Thank you all for coming…”?
No. Somehow I had to come up with a way to insure that I could bail my kids out and not leave them (and me) in the lurch if they did forget their lines. And the best thing I could come up with was… just lying on my belly on the stage floor, stage-left, just barely out of sight of the audience behind the edge of the curtain with script in hand, and me on hair-trigger-tenterhooks staying at-the-ready to hiss their forgotten lines out to them.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“The Zoo Story,” Opening Night…
Here’s a little basic, bare-bones synopsis of “The Zoo Story”:
PETER, a publishing executive in tweeds, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, smoking a pipe, and reading a book, is seated on the park bench near the zoo. Then, JERRY enters stage-right, charging right up to the bench and insinuating himself into Peter’s serenity by first beginning to tell Peter a story about his visit to the zoo, and eventually starting to ask Peter some unwanted personal questions about his life. Before long, things between them go downhill. Jerry wants Peter to move over and give him room to sit, which Peter prefers not to do. Jerry, just the kind of stranger you don’t want to meet alone, by yourself, begins poking Peter, demanding he move over. When that gets no results, Jerry begins punching Peter harder, telling him he now wants the entire bench for himself. And finally, Jerry just outright challenges Peter to a fight. Peter finally agrees to fight Jerry. Jerry pulls out a switchblade, and throws it at Peter’s feet, to give Peter a fighting chance. When Peter picks up the knife in a defensive position, Jerry rushes him— thereby impaling himself on his own knife. Jerry staggers, the knife embedded in him, and falls onto the bench. After a brief exchange of bizarre words from Jerry, Peter grabs his book and runs off screaming “OH MY GOD!” as Jerry dies on the bench.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
So OK, it’s a thirty-minute play approximately, but it’s rapidly drawing down to the climax now. Thankfully, not a single line has been forgotten. Plus the play has gone very well so far. You can’t imagine the relief I’m feeling.
And as the end draws near, I begin doing a little play-by-play, in my head:
OK. Here it comes! The fight scene.
Good! They’re tussling!
And voila! Jerry pulls Jack’s-Joke-Shop knife-comb out of his pocket! Snick! Out flicks the blade! Perfect!
He drops it intentionally at Peter’s feet as the initiative for Peter to grab it up.
Now, with Peter holding the blade defensively, Jerry charges him, and impales himself on it!
…WHOAthere!
They freeze! And remain frozen, as in a dramatic tableau, for six, maybe seven, long and silent seconds!! Longer than in our rehearsals!
And you can hear a pin drop in the gym!
It’s genius! So… why didn’t I think of this?
And then they fall apart, with Peter fleeing off-stage bellowing his final line, “Oh… my… God!“
And Jerry, now bleeding to death on the bench, delivers his last:
“Could I have planned all this?
“No… no, I couldn’t have.
“But… I think I did.”
Long silence…
He slumps.
(dies)
La Fin.
Curtains starting to close!
THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE FROM THE AUDIENCE!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Wow. While I, so deliriously relieved and crazy with emotion now that everything’s gone off without a hitch, have struggled myself dizzily up onto my feet, I see Peter marching toward me across the stage.
“My GOD!Wonderful job!” I exclaim. “You nailed it! Flawless, you guys! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better death scene. You… outdid yourselves! Congratulations!”
But something’s off. Standing before me now, in place, Peter isn’t smiling. No, that’s an understatement. His face is a mask of horror…
And Jerry, still collapsed over on the bench, is positively glaring up at me. But… why?What is it I’m missing here? “What?!”
Looking down at Jerry, I see that he’s slowly beginning to hike up the front of his shirt.
“Well… I’m confused. I mean, what the hell, guys…? You’re scaring me here!”
But then I see it!
Oh my God!
Jerry has two navels!
No,of course he doesn’t have two navels. The “navel”-navel, the one a little higher up and off to the right of his real one, isnot a navel at all. It’s… a dent! A deep… dent in his belly! A hot, reddening, sore-looking, deep, little dent!
“Oh my!” I say.
The stage crew is shouting, “Curtain call, you two! C’mon! Let’s go!”
Peter leans in closer to the both of us, and moans, “Jeez! I’m SO,SO sorry!! My God, I just… I panicked! My thumb just… slipped right over the button, Mr. Lyford!! It slipped! And I didn’t manage to get it pushed down in… the button…so…”
“Curtain call! Come on!”
I’m thinking, Omigod, as the two back away, turn, and head over to center stage. The curtain fully opened now, they take their bows, soaking up the applause and whistles. Stupidly, I even get called out to join in.
But after the curtain closes, I see Peter picking up the switchblade from the floor. “You got a replacement for tomorrow night?” he asks, handing it over to me. Jerry joins us from behind.
“Whatta you mean?”
“I mean this,” Jerry whispers, nodding down at it.
Oh jeez, the blade is still locked in the ‘out’ position. And the once proud and straight little comb is now bent, snaked into what I can only describe as three wide little S-curves!
Peter’s face is a mask of horror. “I’m sorry,” he whines. “So sorry. I panicked and froze! My thumb slipped off the damn button! It… It never collapsed back in! It stayed locked in place! I pretty much stabbed him, Mr. L…”
“Pretty much?” Jerry growls. “I mean… look at my stomach!”
“You can’t believe how sorry I am!”
I’m studying Jerry’s wound. “God, that looks painful!”
“Ya think?!“
And here I’d thought all along that the thing was made of steel. Thank God it wasn’t!
“Wow. Well, at least there’s no blood. But damn, no wonder it looked so real out there! You think you’re gonna be OK?”
“I guess. It stings like hell though.”
“Look, I mean it! I’m so sorry!“
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”
I shake my head, looking at my crumpled prop. “And that’s a big No on a back-up knife,” I say. “I wish to hell I’d bought two, but…”
“So… what’ll we do about tomorrow night’s production,” Jerry asks. “How’s that gonna work?”
“I have no idea, guys. I have no idea whatsoever.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Next morning what I did do was rush the “knife” over to the shop, looking for any help I could get. “Can you put this in a vise or something,” I asked the shop teacher. “You know… straighten it out? Flatten it out somehow?”
The shop teacher scratched his chin, tsk-tsked over it, hmmm’d and hawed over it a bit and finally said, “I dunno. I guess we’ll find out.”
Well, they did manage to straighten the comb out… somewhat. But not nearly enough to get it to slide back and forth in and out of the handle. It was still too bent for that, alas. But you know what they say… “The show must go on.”
Next night, as I’d instructed, Jerry pulled the pathetic, no-longer-a-switchblade “knife” out of his back pocket and kept it in motion all the time under the lights, us hoping nobody would notice what it was really looking like. I really missed that dramatic, switchblade SNICK! from the night before though.
But we got through the play. And from all the accolades, we were pretty much a success. There was a larger teenage crowd on the second night. I guess that’s because the word got out in school that there was a pretty realistic, friggin’knife fight in it. Something probably never seen in an Academy play before.
I believe we even broke even, or better, on admission fees. That, in itself, was seen as remarkable…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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My free period unexpectedly got blown out of the water this morning. Thanks to me having to round up three senior girls, escort them to the Guidance Office to meet with their parents and counselor, and deal with the ugly allegations that this trio’s bullying has been seriously making some freshman girl’s life not worth living. And without said free period, I’ve been running behind six ways from Sunday all day
The copier in the teachers’ lounge’s gone belly-up again. Murphy’s Law. Par for the course, what with all thirty-four of us desperately champing at the bit for the printer, semester exams needing to be ready to go by Monday morning.
I’m on the second day of an at-least-two-day headache, and this one a real doozy. The ringing of the bells the bells the bells out in the hall keep setting my teeth on edge. Can you say “frayed nerves”?
KOTTEER & “SWEATHOGS”
And the icing on the cake? It’s my week for manning after-school detention-hall duty. Yeah. So here I sit, once again, locked in the cage with a tiny tribe of Welcome-Back-Kotter’s sweat hog and yahoos.
And wouldn’t you just know it, here he is, God’s little freshman gift to teachers, loitering before my desk with some wrinkled notebook page in hand that might’ve just been fished out of my wastebasket.
And he’s smiling. Smiling like a car salesman.
Someone should clue him in: Warning, Will Robinson! This teacher is a powder-keg with a short fuse this morning...
Ah. I don’t really mean that. That’s just the headache and the stress talking. I’m especially fond of the freshmen. Even Wes, here. I like to think of myself as the freshman welcome committee here at the Academy. Because, I mean they need some teachers who aren’t nazis too, right? And besides, Freshmen are new here, meaning they haven’t already heard my dad jokes, bad puns, and stories. My kind of audience.
Although as I focus on the paper in his hand, I realize I need to put on my Tough Man Persona, at least for a while.
“It’s late, Wes,” I point out. “Due yesterday.”
“Here now, though.”
“Ah. Yes. Now.”
“A day late and a dollar short,” he adds, smiling winningly. “But. See, I did do the assignment.”
“And… I’m guessing that’s it?” Me, nodding toward the fist holding the paper.
“Yep. And I think you’re gonna like this one.”
“You… think. Hmmm. OK. Lay it on me then, I guess.”
Dutifully he does. Lays the “essay” before me on my desk, face-up.
F-
I eyeball it for all of four seconds, return my gaze to him and, then with the eraser tip of my pencil, push the page three or four inches back across the desktop toward him. The same way murder squad detectives on TV always ‘suggest’ that their prime suspects take a hard second look at the photo of some victim’s corpse.
“Do it over,” I say simply, knowing it sounds harsh but you know what? I’m just not in the mood today.
His face, gone from smiling now to… kind of beaming for some reason (which is a little maddening) asks, “OK, but…why’s that? I mean, you didn’t even read it.”
“Nor will I… until it’s rewritten.” Doing good here as Bad Cop…
“But … it’s good. I even used irony in it.”
“Which you’ll have to wait for me to… ‘appreciate’ it, once it gets rewritten.”
We look at each other for a few moments. The hairy-eyeball I’m trying to give him ought to be making him turn tail and scamper away. God, why does he all the time hafta keep that smile on high-beams like that? Why can’t he just be pissed off like any normal kid would, for crying out loud? I mean, that Howdy Doody mug of his!
Since he’s not saying anything, I do. “Oh come on, Wes. Do I really have to spell it out for you?”
No answer.
“Oh. Sure.Right, of course I do. OK. I’ll tell you why. The assignment sheet (hey, you remember the assignment sheet, don’t you?) lists four specific criteria you had to follow on this one. And, as I told you yesterday, no more getting away with your lazy sloppiness.”
“Yeah but the irony...”
“Stop!” (I mean, listen to this guy, right?)“Don’t you be yeah-butting me, Wes, OK?Man, you’d think I would’ve tape-recorded this speech years ago. That way every time you guys claim to have lost the assignment sheet, I could just send you back to your seat with a cassette player and say, ‘Sit down. Press Play!’”
“Hah. and ‘Be kind. Re-wind.’ Yeah.”
“1: Final draft of essay to be written on white composition paper.”
“Check,” he says.
“Right. You did do that. Moving right along.”
“2:Essay to be written in ink. Not in pencil.”
“Check again.Oh-oh-oh... but not in crayon, either. Hah. See? I remember you saying that in class.”
“Bully for you.” Gawd, he’s so good-natured?
“3: Essay will be neatly written in cursive.”
“Check, check, and… TRIPLE- CHECK! Hey, see? I’m acing it. Well, I mean I will be, especially when you read my irony.”
“4: Final draft will employ ONE–INCHMARGINS.”
“That one sound a little familiar?”
“Oops.”
“Yeah. Oops. I’m not seeing any margins here.”
“I guess you got me, boss,” he says.
“Right. I got you. Now… there’s your paper. Take it. Go and do it over. With… the one-inch margins this time. Then, and only then, will I read… will I enjoy… your captivating irony. Capiche? Now— go, and sin no more.”
“You got it,” he says. With a nod and a wink, he picks up his paper, turns, and shuffles off toward back his desk (thank God), leaving me pitying his parents.
Phew! That’s over. Oh, my head!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
But… as little as five minutes later, here he is again. Back. And with what looks to be that very same damn shabby page still in hand.
“Done,” he says with obvious pride.
“Wait just a darn minute,” I say. There is no way, absolutely NOway you’ve re-done that essay this quickly!”
“Hey I really did. Check it out.” And with that, he once again graces my desk with his allegedly ironic opus. So what else can I do? I look down at the thing. And man, I can’t believe it! Because yeah… it is the exact same damn shabby piece of writing that it was five minutes ago!
“LOOK at this! I told you I re-did it!”
“You did. And hey! I fixed the margins. See?”
“NO! What youdid w…”
But then, what I’m actually looking at fully registers. Jesus. On each the left-and-right-hand sides of the page, this wise-ass little weasel has Scotch-taped a long, one-inch-wide, ten-inches-long strip of paper! I mean… he taped-on frickin’ margins!!! So immediately, I start trying to pump myself up to properly muster all the deadly venom of my… chagrin… in order to lay him out good in lavender!
(See, I had to say ‘trying’ there because… well, something’s wrong. Blowing my stack just isn’t coming as easily as I want it to! I mean, I dunno, it’s kind of like my wannabe-aggressiveness is… stuttering or something! Even though I’m surprisingly impressed with this kid’s surprising brass, what I want to do is let this kid have it with both barrels, but… what’s going on with me? I mean, something’s bubbling up inside me that’s… well, something that’s bubbling up autonomically… like what happens when you’re seconds away from vomiting and you just KNOW there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it, nothing you can do to keep it down!
I try to muscle this down anyway, but it’s like I just felt my frickin’ diaphragm burst like Mount Vesuvius! And God help me…up the autonomic belly laugh COMES!)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Uhmmm…? Mister L? …Mister L??? Are you…alright? You’re not… cryin’, are you?”
My face, hidden beneath convulsing shoulders (down upon the hide-away pillow of my crossed arms) comes jack-in-the-boxing straight up from my desk so suddenly he recoils! “Of course not! I’m laughing my butt off here is what I’m doing!” And I tack on a quiet little “…damn you!” just for him.
But God, it’s frustrating when you’re mad as a wet hen and… and laughter just comes barreling right out of you without your permission. Your self-control just gets kicked to the curb and runs rampant for just about however long it wants. You can want to will yourself to be steamingly pissed-off but, no, your body’s in control, isn’t it— not you! So you just have to ride it out.
But oddly, after you have been so out of control like that, for some reason when it’s over you just end up feeling so free and fresh and good. I mean, it feels like this outburst just breached some flood-stage gate inside of me or something, punched a hole in it, and released an out-gushing of all my silly, uptight, Ichabod Crane hang-ups of the day in a wonderful, though violent-as-a-sneeze, catharsis.
Human behavior. Go figure, right?
And even though I have finally ridden it out, my mouth is still stretched in its autonomic, idiotic grin— I can feel it. Apparently, I’m having a good time
But something’s happened here. And I’m left pondering what the hell’s this kid just done to me, the little jerk! Up-ended me, that’s what. Caught me right off guard, big-time! Because… well, that whole thing was just so unexpected… and so damn funny! I mean, it hit me right between the eyes when I wasn’t even looking….
“So… you OK now?”
“What, me?” I’ve gotten myself pretty much under control now. Enough so I can communicate again, at least. “Not entirely,” I tell him. “Because something really weird and back-assward just went down here.”
“Man, I’d say so!”
“Because me and you? We just had us a moment, didn’t we. I mean, there I was, going to war with you practically! About to wrestle you down, pin you to the mat, and shove the importance of margins down your throat. Even if it killed us both to do it.”
“Jeez. OK…???”
“And then you went and yanked the mat right out from under me! Had me body-slammed and pinned before I knew what hit me! And I mean, look at how you did that! You didn’t even use force! You just did it with… nothing but your unusual off-the-wall humor! Oh! yeah! And with irony.“
“Really?”
“Really. And hey, how ironic is that, huh?” But no, what you just did? It really got my attention there. Big time. I’m serious. I mean, in the blink of an eye, you… my outwardly mediocre student… just taught your high school English teacher, me, something I’ve really needed to take a serious look at. My priorities.”
“If you say so, man. But…. hey. You’re not… like, off your meds or something are you?”
“No! I’m on my stupid meds. But you know, it’s like you just gave me a refresher course… well, refresher lesson… on Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.
MARGINS ARE BOTH RELATIVE AND CONTROVERSIAL
See, that’s what I can’t get over. Because… well, after all, everything is relative, isn’t it. And I mean, margins? Hell yeah! They’re relative. Of course they are. And so over-rated. And you just practically toilet-plunger-ed the honest absurdity (the sheer and utter ridiculousness of margins being thought of as so all-that-important) down my throat! Well done.”
“Er… so, what, does that mean... margins are out? From now on? No more one-inch-margins?”
“No, of course not. But it does mean I have to go back and recalibrate how much weight I put on them when it comes to grading.”
“But… why keep them at all? If they’re so relative and all. Why not do the class a favor and just dump’em altogether…?”
(click!) (that’s me, doing the classic double-take right here) “Whoa whoa whoa!” And then, looking him straight in the eye until I know I’ve got his full attention focused squarely and seriously on me. “Just a darn minute here, kiddo. No.” And I say that with a weak laugh. (heh heh)
“Yeah. That’s what I figured. Sure. But why not, though?”
“But anyway… just NO! OK…?”
“ That’s what I figured. Sure. Surprise surprise. So much for the Theory of Relativity.”
“Well Wes, there’s also something called Chaos Theory, you know? (You should know. I mean, from what I’ve observed, in some ways chaos seems to be part of your lifestyle.) Now, we don’t want the world to descend into the Dark Ages Void of Chaos, do we.”
“What, I’m getting a vote then?”
“Which is pretty much what might happen if we start whittling away, one at a time, all these little rules that keep us in check as a civilized society. You need to look at The Big Picture: Get rid of margins today. Then complete sentences tomorrow. Next thing you know, we’ll be back to living in caves and painting the stories of our lives in pictograms on the walls.”
“Can you also say windbag?”
“Yeah. I can. I majored in Windbagology in college.”
“I can believe it. How about hypocrisy? Can you say that?”
“Me? Hypocrisy? What’s that? Never heard of it.”
“Well you should’ve, Mister Relativity. Mister margins-are-no-longer-important-but-we’ll-keep’em-anyway.”
“Hey. Don’t forget.This English teacher who needs to keep his job.”
“Oh yeah. Mister sell-out.”
“Or Mr. Lyford who… oh gimme a break, Mister Lazy, Mister I-Don’t-Care-About-My-Future.”
“Well, I don’t.“
“Well, I do. I really do! So. Let me tell you what I am willing to do. I’m going to cut you a deal.”
“Big deal, yeah? OK, let’s hear it.”
“Yes, but first of all, tomorrow… when I wake up, shower, get dressed… this conversation never happened, OK? One-inch margins will still go on ruling the world as they always have. And one-inch margins will, as always, be regarded as crucial absolutes, not the secretly-acknowledged relative entities we’ve acknowledged and agreed on this afternoon, you dig?”
“Ooh. An offer I can’t refuse! Right. What I figured.”
“Hey. There’s a Part 2 in this deal, which I’ll get to in a minute. OK?
“But… let’s be clear. You and I? As people?Not as teacher and student? Sure, yes, we both know that what’s written in between those margins is the main thing. But as teacher and student, we both have to realize that how you learn to present yourself in the future job market is going to become very important. And that presenting yourself with a wrinkled, messy, sprawling jumble of unreadable writing spilled all over the page is something you need to practice NOT doing. Bad habits tend to stick.”
“Blah blah blah. Save it.”
“Alright. I’ll save it. But OK. Here’s the deal. Guess what: you just scored yourself an A on this paper. Sight unseen. (Although I will read it and get back to you.) You also get (…wait for it) my respect today, having shown yourself to be a lot brighter than you’ve previously been letting on. I hope that means something to you.”
“Well, I won’t be saying no to the A at least…”
“Whereas… on the other side of the coin, when the next assigned essay comes around, you not only will have those absolute one-inch margins in place, but the paper? The physical paper it’s written on…? It will not be some wrinkled or food-stained scrap you stole from my waste basket, you dig? It’ll be pristine. You dig? The paper will come in on time, or suffer the consequences. You dig? And as far as your grade on the next essay is concerned? I honestly can’t imagine it’ll end up being an A; however I can easily imagine it being a big fat zero.So, you’re on notice.
“And by the way, the worst thing you’ve done today is let it slip that the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz actually has had a brain all along. And that, dear friend, is something that can, and will, be used against you in a court of… I dunno… of English Grammar and Composition.”
THE BOOK WE THROW AT YOU
“Well… that’s harsh,” he says with a sarcastic grin.
“And in the meantime, gimme your essay back. I do intend to read what you’ve written. And I’m curious about your use of irony as well. But whatever I find in it, the A is written in stone. We’ve just jump-started a winning streak where your grade in English is concerned. Don’t. Blow. That. Off. OK?”
A few moments go by in silence.
“Hey Wes. I’m waiting for my thank-you over here. Once given and received, and what with your detention sentence just now officially adjudicated as ‘time-served,’ you will hereby be ordered to take ownership of your sleazily-weaseled A and vacate the premises. Any questions? No? OK then. Go. And sin no more?”
“Uhmmm… well, thanks.”
At the door, he turns and says, “Next essay? I’m writing it in crayon on a brown paper bag!”
“Beat it, Freshman!”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~
Man, how do these damn kids keep getting me to like them so much???
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