When I wrote earlier this week about doing well in elementary school, I credited my memory for doing well in things like history and spelling. Thinking back on it, it actually served me well in other aspects of school as well that didn't come to mind at first. That, my friends, is irony. I forgot about times when I had a good memory. By the way, I'm now doing everything in my power to refrain from turning this post into one long critique of "Ironic" by Alannis Morissette. Trust me, I've already thought about every line of that song and why they're almost all stupid. I'll save that for a time when I can't think of anything else to write. But damn it's a stupid song.
Back to my memory! Outside of the classroom but still within the walls of the school (that is, extracurricular but intramural), my memory proved to be a great tool for excelling. For example, it helped me land kick-ass roles in our school plays. Oh sure, my rugged good looks and innate ability to convey an inner monologue to adoring crowds with even the smallest of gestures helped as well, but my memory got my foot in the door. In third grade, we did a play filled with the poems of Shel Silverstein. When the time came to choose someone could handle the awesome responsibility of reciting the 25-lined "Kidnapped" poem, the teacher knew who to turn to. She knew I would be able to memorize the poem/monologue, and I didn't disappoint. Naturally, I still know it and I bet my mom still does too.
A couple of years later, I was rewarded again for being able to memorize lines. The play was called "Pablo the Reindeer," and I see by searching online that its genius is known by many. There were only three or four actual parts in the play with the others playing the blob-like "chorus." My friend Adam and I each snagged prime roles as Pablo's homies. As such, we sang such family hits as "Christmas on the Beach at Waikiki." I realize how stupid that play sounds, and you're right. Chances are you don't know the half of it though. The premise is that Santa needs a translator when he goes to Mexico, so he employs one special reindeer named Pablo. Since Pablo obviously speaks Spanish, he's invaluable to Mr. Claus. "Without him, Santa would not know where he's going/Ay yay yay yay/Without him, he wouldn't know if it was snowing/South of the border?" See what I mean?
Actually, I just thought of something that I never questioned before. Why were we singing a song about Christmas in Hawaii when the play was about a reindeer-of-color needed for trips to Mexico? Maybe the play just needed an extra song to lengthen it and our teacher conveniently threw in a classic set-up line like, "Before we do that, let's stop by our favorite vacation spot of Hawaii!" I don't know, and while I could do some research on it, I just don't feel like it. If it didn't bother me the 17 or 18 years since I was in the play, I shouldn't let it bother me now.
When I wasn't basking in the glorious limelight of the cafeteria/playhouse, my memory was helping me climb the ladder in other extracurricular activities. Namely, I speak of the world of sports. If you were standing in front of me right now, you might ask something like, "But Peter, how would having a good memory help you in sports?" I would say, "Good question, my friend," and you would beam with the satisfaction of knowing you had just earned my respect. We're quite a team, you and me.
Here's the answer: In his infinite wisdom, the 6th grade basketball coach announced to the team that I would be our starting point guard. Having watched the same practices that I did, I knew he wasn't bestowing that honor on me because of my ability. Rather, it was simply because I was able to memorize all of the plays in the booklet of photocopies he gave us. There were two important problems with that assignment. First, I didn't dribble well enough to be the point guard. In fact, I clearly recall dribbling the ball off my leg and out of bounds at least twice without a defender within five feet of me. If you're not a fan of basketball, I'd like to point out that that's not what the player is supposed to do.
Second, and perhaps most important, if I was the only one who knew the plays, that meant by definition that no one else knew the plays. I would be dribbling up the court (concentrating hard not to dribble the ball off my leg again), and hold up two fingers to indicate a play. None of my teammates would move a muscle. Yep, that's an efficient offense right there; I was virtually the Steve Nash of the Van Nuys private school circuit.
Back to my memory! Outside of the classroom but still within the walls of the school (that is, extracurricular but intramural), my memory proved to be a great tool for excelling. For example, it helped me land kick-ass roles in our school plays. Oh sure, my rugged good looks and innate ability to convey an inner monologue to adoring crowds with even the smallest of gestures helped as well, but my memory got my foot in the door. In third grade, we did a play filled with the poems of Shel Silverstein. When the time came to choose someone could handle the awesome responsibility of reciting the 25-lined "Kidnapped" poem, the teacher knew who to turn to. She knew I would be able to memorize the poem/monologue, and I didn't disappoint. Naturally, I still know it and I bet my mom still does too.
A couple of years later, I was rewarded again for being able to memorize lines. The play was called "Pablo the Reindeer," and I see by searching online that its genius is known by many. There were only three or four actual parts in the play with the others playing the blob-like "chorus." My friend Adam and I each snagged prime roles as Pablo's homies. As such, we sang such family hits as "Christmas on the Beach at Waikiki." I realize how stupid that play sounds, and you're right. Chances are you don't know the half of it though. The premise is that Santa needs a translator when he goes to Mexico, so he employs one special reindeer named Pablo. Since Pablo obviously speaks Spanish, he's invaluable to Mr. Claus. "Without him, Santa would not know where he's going/Ay yay yay yay/Without him, he wouldn't know if it was snowing/South of the border?" See what I mean?
Actually, I just thought of something that I never questioned before. Why were we singing a song about Christmas in Hawaii when the play was about a reindeer-of-color needed for trips to Mexico? Maybe the play just needed an extra song to lengthen it and our teacher conveniently threw in a classic set-up line like, "Before we do that, let's stop by our favorite vacation spot of Hawaii!" I don't know, and while I could do some research on it, I just don't feel like it. If it didn't bother me the 17 or 18 years since I was in the play, I shouldn't let it bother me now.
When I wasn't basking in the glorious limelight of the cafeteria/playhouse, my memory was helping me climb the ladder in other extracurricular activities. Namely, I speak of the world of sports. If you were standing in front of me right now, you might ask something like, "But Peter, how would having a good memory help you in sports?" I would say, "Good question, my friend," and you would beam with the satisfaction of knowing you had just earned my respect. We're quite a team, you and me.
Here's the answer: In his infinite wisdom, the 6th grade basketball coach announced to the team that I would be our starting point guard. Having watched the same practices that I did, I knew he wasn't bestowing that honor on me because of my ability. Rather, it was simply because I was able to memorize all of the plays in the booklet of photocopies he gave us. There were two important problems with that assignment. First, I didn't dribble well enough to be the point guard. In fact, I clearly recall dribbling the ball off my leg and out of bounds at least twice without a defender within five feet of me. If you're not a fan of basketball, I'd like to point out that that's not what the player is supposed to do.
Second, and perhaps most important, if I was the only one who knew the plays, that meant by definition that no one else knew the plays. I would be dribbling up the court (concentrating hard not to dribble the ball off my leg again), and hold up two fingers to indicate a play. None of my teammates would move a muscle. Yep, that's an efficient offense right there; I was virtually the Steve Nash of the Van Nuys private school circuit.
So there you have it, folks. Additional tales of Peter's memory that he had forgotten. Way, way more ironic than a black fly in someone's chardonnay. That's just sucky and possibly symbolic, but not irony. If the winery was called Flyless Wines and then a fly flew into your glass, then we might be in business. I'll stop there. Have a great Thursday, gentle readers. Please write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything. I have a Follow Up Friday tomorrow before taking off for a week, and I'd love to come back with an inbox full of tales, Car Watch items, and ideas for future posts. See you tomorrow.
1 comment:
Is Alanis' Black Fly in the Chardonnay the same Black Fly that your kid wears while he bones my Honor Student?
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