Wed., Sept. 1, 1999
"The movie 'The Wizard of Oz' is sometimes mistaken for a documentary. It is not. For one thing, the Wicked Witch of the East wasn't flattened by a house. She was flattened by a school - just like the rest of us." - From
the introduction to "How Hollywood Distorts The American Educational Experience"
So, ding dong, the month is dead. Which old month? The August month. So, ding dong, the August month is dead. I personally believe that Prof. Plum did it in the kitchen with a lead condom, but enough about my irrelevant fantasies. The fact that August is indeed dead now and already stinking up the summer can only mean two things:
A quick inventory of my symptoms (horrible phantom images, coupled with horrible phantom sounds, followed by horrible whole-body quaking and a horrible compulsion to throw freshly chalked erasers at horrible film strip projectors) convinces me that the horrible school flashbacks really have started again - or at least that all the chalk dust has mucked up the film strip of my life. It happens every year, even though the September school bells haven't tolled for me in actuality since 1977. I'm beginning to believe that my mind has been condemned to suffer in Hell's own special afterschool detention hall forever....
It's the same thing every year. At 12:01 a.m. every September 1st,
I suddenly find myself back in kindergarten, learning the hard way all
over again that fingerpainting and nose-picking don't mix.
The coma-like faint that follows these first flashbacks sometimes leads
my addled brain to believe that they're at an end. Of course
they are merely enjoying a temporary recess which studies commissioned
by the maker of nightmares have shown allows them to come back fresh and
reinvigorated.
The second grade flashbacks usually kick in around 10 a.m. - sometimes
earlier if faux summer school tortures materialize to rush things along.
But enough for now. My waiting room is filling up with sick flashbacks
forced to cool their heels well past their appointment times as I write
this instead of ushering them into my office, one by one, so that they
may once again play with my mind while breaking my heart. They seem
to be becoming increasingly irate, judging from the audible reddening of
their imagery, and who can blame them? The TV I have blaring out
there is permanently set to C-SPAN.
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