I was a sensitive kid. Took things to heart. Had a tendency to sit alone and ponder things way too much for my own good. School was living hell for me from day one of kindergarten.
I was just never cut out for it. I couldn't get with the whole institutionalized, prison-esque atmosphere. I wanted to be home with my huge, stuffed-animal snake (Snakey), alternately playing FETCH with my best friend (which was our next-door neighbors' amiable German Shorthair Pointer dog, Petey), and munching peanut butter sandwiches while engaging in marathon, solitary games of hopscotch in our little driveway.
But of course, I had no choice but to get with the program and buckle down. And I did okay. I really took to reading and drawing - yea yea yea, the 'artsy type'. I remained quiet and introspective until about the 4th grade, when to my utter mortification, I began growing tits. Yes, I was one of those unfortunate EARLY DEVELOPERS. By the end of 4th grade, between the re-distribution of baby fat and blooming boobage, I found myself sporting a B-cup. NOT FUN at that age, my friends - FAR FROM FUN.
Suddenly, attention was coming my way - AND HOW - in the form of 4 or 5 of the most obnoxious boys in class finding extreme hilarity in SCREAMING OUT such lovely odes in my honor at the quietest classroom moments: "Lynn has TITS!" or "I-WUUUUV-WOOOOOU, WYNNIE!" or, probably the most popular and economically succinct, simply: "LYNNIE'S TITS!"
I began to withdraw further into my own world. As far as I was concerned, this was just about the most horrible thing that ever could have happened to me. I was well aware of the fact that I was far from womanhood, from the time when I could actually appreciate these bazoombaz o' mine. The thought of having to endure this crap from these pre-pube dopes for the remainder of my grammar school imprisonment was beyond unacceptable.
It was right around this time that we got a new music teacher, one Mr. Izzo.
Mr. Izzo played the piano and sang. He was soft-spoken, with moist, soulful brown eyes, a neatly trimmed moustache and a little goatee. Between his musicality and his facial hair, I think I may have been a little bit in love with Mr. Izzo. He also had one of the largest noses in creation. It was really quite something, poor fellow. Obviously, Mr. Izzo was a soul who knew plenty about the pain and suffering inflicted by the relentless tauntings of thoughtless idiots.
But for the hour a day spent in Mr. Izzo's class, the chorus of goading shit-heads was suddenly directed 100% of the time on Mr. Izzo. For that hour at least, I was "safe". One would think I'd be grateful and leave it at that. But no.
One day, during Mr. Izzo's class, I doodled a cartoon likeness of him in my notebook with a little balloon caption over his head, saying something retarded like: "Nose-body nose the trouble I smell." Something ridiculous and mean but a little funny, too, I guess. Well, Mike Catalano, the biggest buffoon and class clown going, happens to glance over and see this doodle of mine. (I'm sensing a pattern here....) And he just about hits the deck - falls off his chair, nearly in tears thru gales and hiccups of insane laughter. And damned if I don't feel more than a little pleased with myself.
Voila!! I have become "Entertainer" rather than "EntertainMENT"! I quickly take my new position to extremes. I don't seem able to help myself. I begin feverishly generating full-length comic strips featuring MR. IZZO. They are clever and well-drawn, without a doubt comical, but essentially mean-spirited. (Hey, I may be a kid but I know my audience and these guys are major fuck-heads in training.)
I briefly (and not a little guiltily) enjoy my newfound popularity based on these organic little comic strips, until the dark and mournful day that Mr. Izzo gets his hands on one of them. Time stands still for me as he leans against his piano at the front of the class, peering at my creation in hurt disbelief. He looks up: "Whose is this?" All hands in the classroom point to me unanimously.
The way Mr. Izzo looks at me fills me with a sick feeling I can't quite describe. The way he looks at me says: "YOU, I had some hope for out of all these morons. YOU, I found somewhat gifted. And THIS is what you think of ME."
Oy, the shame. I want to cry, beg him for his forgiveness. I want to scream: "PLEASE!!! I LOVE YOU, MR. IZZO!!! THESE OTHER BASTARDS DROVE ME TO THIS!"
But instead, trembling, I try to hold my face frozen in a mask of indifference. I am sent to the principal's office, clutching my comic strip, having been told by Mr. Izzo: "SHOW it to him. YOU can show this to the principal YOURSELF." It doesn't help much that when the principal looks at my handiwork, he can barely conceal a snicker OR a furtive glance at my boobs. Gee, seems HE'S an even bigger asshole than ole' Mike Catalano or any of the other boys in class for that matter. Wow! Life's only gonna get BETTER!
Yes, the Universe has been throwing crap at me left and right for as long as I can remember. And to this day, I can't think of dear Mr. Izzo without feeling a twinge of sadness and self-loathing. So I learned a lesson that day, too, and to put it as simply as possible, that lesson is: NO MATTER HOW TEMPTED I AM TO DO OTHERWISE, TO ALWAYS USE MY POWERS FOR 'GOOD'.
Believe me, with the state of the world being what it is, and all of the jackasses I'm constantly exposed to on a daily basis, I'm always being tempted to use my words as weapons. It's sometimes TOO EASY and just plain difficult to censor myself. But ultimately, it's really lousy karma to do so in order to get yourself off the hook or for the mere sake of venting.
And the BLOG thing can be dangerous, I see that more and more. Many times I've been tempted to blast off about something or somebody that wouldn't be able to properly defend themselves. There's a responsibility and a required self-censorship involved here, and thanks to this little "Mr. Izzo" memory of mine, I intend to observe, monitor and edit myself with the utmost respect for my fellow human in mind. No matter how big an asshole I think they are.
Because as Mr. Izzo would probably tell you, I'm also very capable of being quite the Connoisseur in the asshole department.
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