And so next week, the new semester begins for me again. Besides peas, school probably made my list of least appreciated things until now. I know I never liked school as a kid, be it grammar, middle and especially high school. Now in my twilight years, I am attending college and I am an honor student. Go figure… but don’t get me wrong. I had great friends and times in school. From the hippies, to the greasers and the rah- rahs, I believed in diversity even back in the 60’s and I was definitively myself without incident or bias. I was lucky in that respect. Also, who in their right mind would try to bully me?
Back in those days, the problem was really the teachers I had. They were one- note purveyors of illogical nonsense and historical fantasy. Today, teachers can teach the truth or at least try to when not prevented by some ignorant group of people. Besides, the truth is in our faces via the media, social networking, iPhones, iPads… all in real time. Kids today should really appreciate the education they are offered instead of making some poor kid’s life miserable who will then in turn, shoot up the place or concoct some heinous act to be perpetrated against fellow classmates. Back in the day, I was probably the most “dangerous” kid in school and that was preposterous. Why? Just because I hated gym class and stole the little record player that our gym teacher, (the first lesbian I ever knew) used to play her awful records on and made us dance to “Moonlight in Moscow”? One day I had finally had enough, so I took it when she wasn’t looking and I dumped it over a fence. Or I’d play my kazoo in study hall just to get thrown out so I could go hang out with my friends at the local soda shop. Innocuous acts of annoyance, but hardly a threat.
I was also classified as a habitual truant. One day while I was home, the truant officer actually came to my house. She was an elderly woman with a bowl haircut. She’d be about 150 years old now. True to form, I managed to scare her away and she never came back. Anyway, my hippie friends and I would cut school and hop the bus to New York City. We’d take the A train down to Greenwich Village to “hang” in Washington Square Park.
The park was brimming with street performers and shady characters hustling a little something something. There were also the lunch time suits lurking around- indulging and inhaling- we loved it. There was so much color and life and the magic of it all gave birth to the best music ever. We grew up listening to the true architects of popular music. Eventually we would make our way around the corner to The Red Witch, a seedy little bar whose owner stood outside saying” Hey kids, you wanna drink?” What 16 year old not in their right mind says no? So, for a buck we’d get blottoed on a pitcher of Tom Collins as we watched the roaches race across the cheap, tattered red and white checked tablecloth. When we were able to stand vertically we would walk it off by heading uptown to 42nd Street- then the porn capitol of the East Coast. For ninety-nine cents, we could see two X-rated movies (there was no rating system then) while listening to the perverts moan and groan while the homeless winos threw empty wine bottles at the screen. We would roll with laughter and a good time was had by all.
We always made sure we caught the bus at Port Authority back to Jersey before our parents got home from work. We needed to let the alcohol breath dissipate and wash off the grimy city dirt. On this one particular jaunt we were too early for the bus, so we decided to loiter outside the terminal until it was time. There we sat on the sidewalk, dressed in our bell-bottoms and fringe, smoking the last of our shared Newports…except for Harold. We had brought this kid named Harold with us and he looked just like his name. He wore a short sleeved, white buttoned down shirt like a McDonald’s manager. He had shiny plastered down short hair and black thick glasses. When he sat on the ground, his high water chinos exposed his white socks and black loafers. There were so many people coming and going, we just silently people watched and tossed each other cigarettes. We were lost in our individual worlds of thought. Then, all of a sudden, this old woman in hat and gloves, toting an umbrella, sees us and is disgusted at the sight of us. She approached us with her umbrella in ready to strike position. As it comes down, she intentionally aims for none other than Harold, swatting him while yelling, “You dirty hippie, get a job!” Of all people, she refers to Harold as a hippie, the junior accountant look-a-like. Hilarious.
Although the assault on Harold cannot be explained…an explainable good time was indeed …had by all.
Back in those days, the problem was really the teachers I had. They were one- note purveyors of illogical nonsense and historical fantasy. Today, teachers can teach the truth or at least try to when not prevented by some ignorant group of people. Besides, the truth is in our faces via the media, social networking, iPhones, iPads… all in real time. Kids today should really appreciate the education they are offered instead of making some poor kid’s life miserable who will then in turn, shoot up the place or concoct some heinous act to be perpetrated against fellow classmates. Back in the day, I was probably the most “dangerous” kid in school and that was preposterous. Why? Just because I hated gym class and stole the little record player that our gym teacher, (the first lesbian I ever knew) used to play her awful records on and made us dance to “Moonlight in Moscow”? One day I had finally had enough, so I took it when she wasn’t looking and I dumped it over a fence. Or I’d play my kazoo in study hall just to get thrown out so I could go hang out with my friends at the local soda shop. Innocuous acts of annoyance, but hardly a threat.
I was also classified as a habitual truant. One day while I was home, the truant officer actually came to my house. She was an elderly woman with a bowl haircut. She’d be about 150 years old now. True to form, I managed to scare her away and she never came back. Anyway, my hippie friends and I would cut school and hop the bus to New York City. We’d take the A train down to Greenwich Village to “hang” in Washington Square Park.
The park was brimming with street performers and shady characters hustling a little something something. There were also the lunch time suits lurking around- indulging and inhaling- we loved it. There was so much color and life and the magic of it all gave birth to the best music ever. We grew up listening to the true architects of popular music. Eventually we would make our way around the corner to The Red Witch, a seedy little bar whose owner stood outside saying” Hey kids, you wanna drink?” What 16 year old not in their right mind says no? So, for a buck we’d get blottoed on a pitcher of Tom Collins as we watched the roaches race across the cheap, tattered red and white checked tablecloth. When we were able to stand vertically we would walk it off by heading uptown to 42nd Street- then the porn capitol of the East Coast. For ninety-nine cents, we could see two X-rated movies (there was no rating system then) while listening to the perverts moan and groan while the homeless winos threw empty wine bottles at the screen. We would roll with laughter and a good time was had by all.
We always made sure we caught the bus at Port Authority back to Jersey before our parents got home from work. We needed to let the alcohol breath dissipate and wash off the grimy city dirt. On this one particular jaunt we were too early for the bus, so we decided to loiter outside the terminal until it was time. There we sat on the sidewalk, dressed in our bell-bottoms and fringe, smoking the last of our shared Newports…except for Harold. We had brought this kid named Harold with us and he looked just like his name. He wore a short sleeved, white buttoned down shirt like a McDonald’s manager. He had shiny plastered down short hair and black thick glasses. When he sat on the ground, his high water chinos exposed his white socks and black loafers. There were so many people coming and going, we just silently people watched and tossed each other cigarettes. We were lost in our individual worlds of thought. Then, all of a sudden, this old woman in hat and gloves, toting an umbrella, sees us and is disgusted at the sight of us. She approached us with her umbrella in ready to strike position. As it comes down, she intentionally aims for none other than Harold, swatting him while yelling, “You dirty hippie, get a job!” Of all people, she refers to Harold as a hippie, the junior accountant look-a-like. Hilarious.
Although the assault on Harold cannot be explained…an explainable good time was indeed …had by all.