The woman had just left the Harland Township, Michigan, Wal-Mart when a waste of a human soul assaulted her.
Seeing the attack, Wal-Mart employee Kristopher Oswald, 30, thought, no, this isn't going to go down on my watch. He intervened and fought with the argument for post-partum abortion until sheriff's deputies arrived.
After the kerfuffle, Kris walked back into his store. He ascertained right away that something was amiss. His fellow employees would not make eye contact, putting out a "don't bother me; I'm busy" vibe. His boss intercepted him and invited him into his office. My ubiquitous bugbot, in spite of my explicit programming to avoid Michigan at all costs, was taking a shortcut as it returned from another mission and happened to record the conversation.
"Kris, have a seat."
"What's up, boss?"
"Say, that was something out there in the parking lot, huh? I mean, jumping into the middle of an assault like that. That scrub could have been packing. You could have been shot!"
"Tell you the truth, I didn't even think about that. I just saw him manhandling some woman, and instinct, or reflex, or whatever just took over."
"Don't know if I would have had the balls to do what you did."
"I don't think anyone does, until they're in that situation. Hell, I surprised myself! I"m still asking myself how I reacted that way, what was I thinking, now that it's all over with."
"Well, you sure saved her butt. You can be damn proud of yourself, Kris. Damn proud!"
"Thanks, boss. Can I go now? I really should get back to work."
"You don't need to worry about that, Kris."
"What do you mean?"
"You're fired."
"Excuse me?"
"You violated company policy, Kris. Wal-Mart specifically prohibits workplace violence. When you rescued that woman from her assailant, you broke the rules. Sorry, but you've got to go."
"What the hell was I supposed to do, boss? Let him pound her into the pavement? Maybe carjack her? Throw her into her car and rape her?"
"Not your business, is it? Can't go around saving the world, Kris. You just need to worry about saving your job."
"So I should just have let it happen? Just turn my back and walk away?"
"I don't know. Maybe grab a scarf and wrap it around your face? Maybe tie a towel around your neck like a cape? I mean, anything so no one knew it was you. Then I wouldn't know whom, if anyone, to fire, would I?"
"So you're saying it's my fault."
"Well, I can't really fire the perp, now, can I? He doesn't even work here. I think we're done. Congrats on saving the day, and good luck finding a new job!"
Note: Wal-Mart, bowing to crushing public pressure, has since offered Kris back his job. If I were Kris, I'd tell Wal-Mart what they could do with it. He can get a job anywhere, now.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Trans-genre Art
By now you've probably read that "Breaking Bad" is being made into an opera. An opera!
Can't you just envision Heisenberg ripping off his filter mask after cooking his meth and bursting into a rousing, basso rendition of "Twilight Zone"? Or Jesse skying to "Life in the Fast Lane"? How 'bout "Better Call Saul" Goodman channeling Billy Flynn by singing "Razzle Dazzle"? Pre-orders for the soundtrack will pour in!
But let's not stop with "Breaking Bad". There are many other great stories out there just wanting for reinterpretation. Here are my pitches:
"Saw, the Musical": Victims regain consciousness to find themselves in straitjackets and locked in padded cells. "Let's play a game," croons the puppet. "You must sing 'MacArthur Park', word for word, within half an hour or you will be forced to listen to Yoko Ono, Joan Baez and Pete Seeger until you die!" This'll be bigger than "Springtime for Hitler"! Boffo box! SRO!
"The Walking Dead on Ice": Hapless couple is skating hand in hand on a forest pond. Suddenly they are beset by zombies! Picture dead bodies in various stages of decay skating with Frankenstein's monster awkwardness! The perfect vehicle for an Ice Capades production!
I called my favorite Hollywood power broker to sell this next flash of sheer genious directly:
"Clint, I've come up with a treatment for turning 'Streetcar Named Desire' into a movie."
"Already been done."
"No, no. Not like this. Are you ready? We film the ballet version!"
"Ballet? Seriously?"
"Why not? Ballet is the hot ticket, now. The Scottish Ballet Troupe is already selling out their take on this all over the country. I'm telling you, Clint, this is smokin'! I see Best Picture Oscar! You know how the Academy loves this kind of flick!"
"I don't know. Where we gonna find a Marlon Brando-type who can squeeze into ballet tights and twirl on his toes?"
"Stay with me on this, Clint. We don't! We go a whole different direction. Picture Johnny Weir as Stanley! Is that brilliant, or what. He's already a figure-skater; who better to bend his wrist, point his toes, and do all those delicate hand and arm gestures?"
"But he's a pouf! No one's gonna believe him married and raping some woman!"
"I know, right? But get this--we do Stella and Blanche in drag! I see Ross Matthews as Stella and Ru Paul as Blanche. Do you see it? Does it 'make your day?'"
"So what you're proposing is a movie about a gay who's married to one transvestite and banging another? And all this is going on in tights, tutus and toe shoes?"
"Works for me. Does it work for you? I'm so sure about this I'm making my reservations for Cannes right now!"
"Swell. I know in this biz you have to improvise, adapt and overcome. But you also have to know your limitations. Call me when you learn yours."
(Click)
Can't you just envision Heisenberg ripping off his filter mask after cooking his meth and bursting into a rousing, basso rendition of "Twilight Zone"? Or Jesse skying to "Life in the Fast Lane"? How 'bout "Better Call Saul" Goodman channeling Billy Flynn by singing "Razzle Dazzle"? Pre-orders for the soundtrack will pour in!
But let's not stop with "Breaking Bad". There are many other great stories out there just wanting for reinterpretation. Here are my pitches:
"Saw, the Musical": Victims regain consciousness to find themselves in straitjackets and locked in padded cells. "Let's play a game," croons the puppet. "You must sing 'MacArthur Park', word for word, within half an hour or you will be forced to listen to Yoko Ono, Joan Baez and Pete Seeger until you die!" This'll be bigger than "Springtime for Hitler"! Boffo box! SRO!
"The Walking Dead on Ice": Hapless couple is skating hand in hand on a forest pond. Suddenly they are beset by zombies! Picture dead bodies in various stages of decay skating with Frankenstein's monster awkwardness! The perfect vehicle for an Ice Capades production!
I called my favorite Hollywood power broker to sell this next flash of sheer genious directly:
"Clint, I've come up with a treatment for turning 'Streetcar Named Desire' into a movie."
"Already been done."
"No, no. Not like this. Are you ready? We film the ballet version!"
"Ballet? Seriously?"
"Why not? Ballet is the hot ticket, now. The Scottish Ballet Troupe is already selling out their take on this all over the country. I'm telling you, Clint, this is smokin'! I see Best Picture Oscar! You know how the Academy loves this kind of flick!"
"I don't know. Where we gonna find a Marlon Brando-type who can squeeze into ballet tights and twirl on his toes?"
"Stay with me on this, Clint. We don't! We go a whole different direction. Picture Johnny Weir as Stanley! Is that brilliant, or what. He's already a figure-skater; who better to bend his wrist, point his toes, and do all those delicate hand and arm gestures?"
"But he's a pouf! No one's gonna believe him married and raping some woman!"
"I know, right? But get this--we do Stella and Blanche in drag! I see Ross Matthews as Stella and Ru Paul as Blanche. Do you see it? Does it 'make your day?'"
"So what you're proposing is a movie about a gay who's married to one transvestite and banging another? And all this is going on in tights, tutus and toe shoes?"
"Works for me. Does it work for you? I'm so sure about this I'm making my reservations for Cannes right now!"
"Swell. I know in this biz you have to improvise, adapt and overcome. But you also have to know your limitations. Call me when you learn yours."
(Click)
Saturday, October 5, 2013
When Accidents Aren't
The word "accident" and its derivatives have, over the years, become synonymous for "mistake," "careless," "irresponsible," and "negligent," among others. All of these have negative connotations. "Accident" implies excusable, blamelessness, no-fault, all helpful when rationalizing miscues.
Even dictionaries seem to allow for wiggle room when defining "accident." My jiffy Oxford American Dictionary defines the word thusly: "an unexpected or undesirable event, especially one causing injury or damage." I can just see "Better Call Saul" Goodman salivating like a Rottweiler over a raw New York strip steak at the prospect of invoking this definition in defense of Heisenberg:
"Gee, your honor. It wasn't my client's fault that fumes escaped from his cook house and sent half the neighborhood skying. It was an accident!"
I prefer my definition. As you can see, it removes the wiggle room: "An accident is the unpredictable result of an action or behavior." In other words, if you do something that has a predictable result, and that result occurs, the result, then, cannot be called an accident. For example: If you speed through a school zone, there is a reasonable probability that you may run over one or more kids. If you do hit a kid, you cannot therefore claim it was an accident.
On the other hand, if you are window-shopping on Chicago's Michigan Avenue and a chunk of ice falls off an eave and hits you in the head, that may be legitimately called an accident. Why? Because there was no predictability that such an occurrence would happen.
It's easier to rationalize a total screw-up by claiming that what happened was an accident than to admit that you, well, screwed up. That's human nature. My favorite example for the misuse of the word "accident" is when someone uses it to explain an unwanted, unexpected pregnancy. Pregnancy is NEVER an accident. It may be unplanned, the result of a spur of the moment act of lust or a contraceptive of one sort or another having failed or not been used properly, but it is never an accident.
Which brings us to the case of one Alan Osterhoudt, Jr, of Spring Hill, Florida.
Alan called 911. "I just shot my wife," he told the operator.
"Why did you shot your wife?" asked the operator.
"We had an argument, and.... I'll be outside. I'm not going to resist or anything."
The shooting and the phone call occurred on the night of February 25, 2012. Between then and September 25, 2013, when he finally took the stand at his murder trial, his story evolved from a straight-out shooting, complete with motive, to an accidental discharge of a firearm.
In his latest version of events, Alan was asleep when he heard the dog barking and then a thump in the attached bathroom. He grabbed his gun and went to investigate. "I got startled," he testified. "The weapon discharged and I realized it was my wife."
Ah, those pesky weapons. They do tend to discharge, don't they? Especially when you PULL THE TRIGGER!
Alan is 63. I mention that only to provide you a frame of reference. I would think that he is too old to act out of the thoughtlessness and carelessness of youth, and not so old that he is a man in his dotage who was rousted confused from his sleep and scared witless to the point where he turned to his firearm for solace.
The jury bought Alan's revisionist version, sort of. When he aime a gun at the back of his wife's head and pulled the trigger, there was a predictability of result that she would end up dead. But in the jurors' minds, this did not necessarily constitute murder. On September 26 the convicted him of manslaughter.
"My life is over," Alan had told police when he was arrested. No, Alan. Even if you receive the max of 30 years, you could be out in ten. You'll still be only 73. So your life isn't over. Only life as you knew it.
However, your wife's? Hers is most definitely over. But, hey--c'est la vie, huh?
Even dictionaries seem to allow for wiggle room when defining "accident." My jiffy Oxford American Dictionary defines the word thusly: "an unexpected or undesirable event, especially one causing injury or damage." I can just see "Better Call Saul" Goodman salivating like a Rottweiler over a raw New York strip steak at the prospect of invoking this definition in defense of Heisenberg:
"Gee, your honor. It wasn't my client's fault that fumes escaped from his cook house and sent half the neighborhood skying. It was an accident!"
I prefer my definition. As you can see, it removes the wiggle room: "An accident is the unpredictable result of an action or behavior." In other words, if you do something that has a predictable result, and that result occurs, the result, then, cannot be called an accident. For example: If you speed through a school zone, there is a reasonable probability that you may run over one or more kids. If you do hit a kid, you cannot therefore claim it was an accident.
On the other hand, if you are window-shopping on Chicago's Michigan Avenue and a chunk of ice falls off an eave and hits you in the head, that may be legitimately called an accident. Why? Because there was no predictability that such an occurrence would happen.
It's easier to rationalize a total screw-up by claiming that what happened was an accident than to admit that you, well, screwed up. That's human nature. My favorite example for the misuse of the word "accident" is when someone uses it to explain an unwanted, unexpected pregnancy. Pregnancy is NEVER an accident. It may be unplanned, the result of a spur of the moment act of lust or a contraceptive of one sort or another having failed or not been used properly, but it is never an accident.
Which brings us to the case of one Alan Osterhoudt, Jr, of Spring Hill, Florida.
Alan called 911. "I just shot my wife," he told the operator.
"Why did you shot your wife?" asked the operator.
"We had an argument, and.... I'll be outside. I'm not going to resist or anything."
The shooting and the phone call occurred on the night of February 25, 2012. Between then and September 25, 2013, when he finally took the stand at his murder trial, his story evolved from a straight-out shooting, complete with motive, to an accidental discharge of a firearm.
In his latest version of events, Alan was asleep when he heard the dog barking and then a thump in the attached bathroom. He grabbed his gun and went to investigate. "I got startled," he testified. "The weapon discharged and I realized it was my wife."
Ah, those pesky weapons. They do tend to discharge, don't they? Especially when you PULL THE TRIGGER!
Alan is 63. I mention that only to provide you a frame of reference. I would think that he is too old to act out of the thoughtlessness and carelessness of youth, and not so old that he is a man in his dotage who was rousted confused from his sleep and scared witless to the point where he turned to his firearm for solace.
The jury bought Alan's revisionist version, sort of. When he aime a gun at the back of his wife's head and pulled the trigger, there was a predictability of result that she would end up dead. But in the jurors' minds, this did not necessarily constitute murder. On September 26 the convicted him of manslaughter.
"My life is over," Alan had told police when he was arrested. No, Alan. Even if you receive the max of 30 years, you could be out in ten. You'll still be only 73. So your life isn't over. Only life as you knew it.
However, your wife's? Hers is most definitely over. But, hey--c'est la vie, huh?
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Mainstreaming Mongo (A Play in Four Acts)
Act IV
Scene: Mark and the principal are talking in the principal's office.
Principal: What's got your tighty-whities in a knot today, Mark?
Mark: I got this new kid in my class, this Mongo goof. First thing he does is rip the desk apart. He's actually sitting in the seat with no desktop. Then I give him a book, he chews the cover off of it. I try to find out how much he retained from his last school, and he grunts with one-word sentences.
Principal: I know you hate jocks, but is the kid really that bad?
Mark: You wait. I told him to meet us here. Where is he? Probably got lost walking here from the other end of the hall, for chrissakes. I mean, wait till you get a load of this moose.
(John enters stage left)
Principal: John Mongostovich, isn't it? Come on in and sit down. Do you know why you're here?
John: Only that Mister Sengles told me to skip lunch and meet him here.
Principal: Mister Sengles tells me you chewed the cover off of one of his textbooks.
John: What? Sir, this is the only book he gave me in class (pulls out intact book from bookbag).
Principal: I see. John, why don't you wait out in the secretary's office a minute?
John: Yes, sir. Oh, and Mister Sengles? The cause of WWII was the Treaty of Versailles; the military-industrial complex created jobs and provided state-of-the-art weaponry for our military, and we became involved in Vietnam because we misconstrued a nationalist movement as the spread of communism. Those are simplistic answers to your questions, of course, but I think they adequately belie their premise, which is that you think I'm an illiterate Neanderthal. (John exits stage left.)
Principal: Mark, have you thought about what you'll do when you're finished with teaching?
Mark: That was a setup. I'll fix their asses. Besides, you can't fire me. I've got tenure and a union.
Principal: No, but I can excess you. How does day-to-day subbing sound? You know, not knowing where you'll be one day to the next, running around all over the city. And kids just love subs. I give you six weeks, tops.
Mark: Okay, okay. What do you want?
Principal: I want no more complaints from parents of athletes about your grading methods. I want you to send me every assignment and test paper of John's that you grade. And I want to see your mark period grades before you turn them in. We're done here. Send John in on your way out.
(Mark exits stage left; John enters.)
Principal: I bet if I walk down to your classroom I'll find all the desks in perfect working order.
John: Far as I know, sir. I mean, why wouldn't they be?
Principal: You're a smart kid, John. Maybe too smart. I'm gonna be watching you. Now get out of here. Go see the coach and sign up for football.
John: Yes, sir! And, sir? I'd appreciate it if you called me...Mongo!
(Final curtain. Wild applause and cries of "Author! Author!" fill the theater.)
Scene: Mark and the principal are talking in the principal's office.
Principal: What's got your tighty-whities in a knot today, Mark?
Mark: I got this new kid in my class, this Mongo goof. First thing he does is rip the desk apart. He's actually sitting in the seat with no desktop. Then I give him a book, he chews the cover off of it. I try to find out how much he retained from his last school, and he grunts with one-word sentences.
Principal: I know you hate jocks, but is the kid really that bad?
Mark: You wait. I told him to meet us here. Where is he? Probably got lost walking here from the other end of the hall, for chrissakes. I mean, wait till you get a load of this moose.
(John enters stage left)
Principal: John Mongostovich, isn't it? Come on in and sit down. Do you know why you're here?
John: Only that Mister Sengles told me to skip lunch and meet him here.
Principal: Mister Sengles tells me you chewed the cover off of one of his textbooks.
John: What? Sir, this is the only book he gave me in class (pulls out intact book from bookbag).
Principal: I see. John, why don't you wait out in the secretary's office a minute?
John: Yes, sir. Oh, and Mister Sengles? The cause of WWII was the Treaty of Versailles; the military-industrial complex created jobs and provided state-of-the-art weaponry for our military, and we became involved in Vietnam because we misconstrued a nationalist movement as the spread of communism. Those are simplistic answers to your questions, of course, but I think they adequately belie their premise, which is that you think I'm an illiterate Neanderthal. (John exits stage left.)
Principal: Mark, have you thought about what you'll do when you're finished with teaching?
Mark: That was a setup. I'll fix their asses. Besides, you can't fire me. I've got tenure and a union.
Principal: No, but I can excess you. How does day-to-day subbing sound? You know, not knowing where you'll be one day to the next, running around all over the city. And kids just love subs. I give you six weeks, tops.
Mark: Okay, okay. What do you want?
Principal: I want no more complaints from parents of athletes about your grading methods. I want you to send me every assignment and test paper of John's that you grade. And I want to see your mark period grades before you turn them in. We're done here. Send John in on your way out.
(Mark exits stage left; John enters.)
Principal: I bet if I walk down to your classroom I'll find all the desks in perfect working order.
John: Far as I know, sir. I mean, why wouldn't they be?
Principal: You're a smart kid, John. Maybe too smart. I'm gonna be watching you. Now get out of here. Go see the coach and sign up for football.
John: Yes, sir! And, sir? I'd appreciate it if you called me...Mongo!
(Final curtain. Wild applause and cries of "Author! Author!" fill the theater.)
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Mainstreaming Mongo (A Play in Four Acts)
Act III
Scene: Mark Singles' history classroom. Mark is passing out textbooks to several students who are occupying all but one desk. An office monitor enters stage right, leading a huge, lumbering student.
Monitor: Mister Sengles? This a transfer student, John Mongo...Mongo...uh....
Mark: Mongo. Yes, of course he is. Lead him to that empty desk over there. I doubt he could get there on his own; he looks like he could get lost in a box.
(John follows the monitor to the desk. One of the students surreptitiously motions him to the occupied one next to it.)
John (looks menacingly at the oblivious student): Grrrr! (The student quickly moves to the empty desk. John looks perplexed at the vacated desk, trying to determine how he will squeeze into it. Finally he seizes the desk top and, with feigned effort, removes it from its supports, tosses it into a corner and sits down.)
Mark: Oh, great. Another lummox jock. There's a textbook on the floor by your desk, Mongo. It has pretty pictures in it, yes, but it also has words of more than one syllable. Good luck understanding it.
John: Unnnnh. (He picks up the book, turns it over and back, then bites off a corner of its cover. He chews a bit, makes a face, and spits it out. Several students snicker and giggle.)
Mark: Alright, get quiet. Tell us, Mongo, did you learn anything at your last school?
John: Huh?
Mark: I mean, you had to have learned something.
John (trying to remember): Uh, hmmm....
Mark: Oh, you seem confused. I see. Let me try to help you recall. What caused World War I?
John: (shrugs):
Mark: Okay, how about the military-industrial complex--why was it seen as a threat?
John: Uh....
Mark: Well, surely you can tell us why we became involved in Vietnam. Come on, Mongo. Amaze us with your understanding, your ability to recall facts about this country's great issues.
John (clearly frustrated and becoming angry): Pick. On. Someone. Else.
Mark: See, class, this is what happens when allowances are made to accommodate jocks. I have no doubt that Mister Mongo, here, can wreak havoc on the sporting field. Perhaps he'll become a professional wrestler, pounding men as big and as brain dead as he, breaking chairs over heads, and cutting his own with hidden razor blades to lend a little blood to the mayhem in a pathetic attempt to create realism. Tell me, Mongo, did you manage to dress yourself this morning, or did you require help?
John (starts to rise): Leave. John. Alone.
Mark: Oh, do sit down, Mongo. You will skip lunch next period, and you will meet me in the principal's office instead. Get one of these other zombies to help you find it.
(Curtain)
Scene: Mark Singles' history classroom. Mark is passing out textbooks to several students who are occupying all but one desk. An office monitor enters stage right, leading a huge, lumbering student.
Monitor: Mister Sengles? This a transfer student, John Mongo...Mongo...uh....
Mark: Mongo. Yes, of course he is. Lead him to that empty desk over there. I doubt he could get there on his own; he looks like he could get lost in a box.
(John follows the monitor to the desk. One of the students surreptitiously motions him to the occupied one next to it.)
John (looks menacingly at the oblivious student): Grrrr! (The student quickly moves to the empty desk. John looks perplexed at the vacated desk, trying to determine how he will squeeze into it. Finally he seizes the desk top and, with feigned effort, removes it from its supports, tosses it into a corner and sits down.)
Mark: Oh, great. Another lummox jock. There's a textbook on the floor by your desk, Mongo. It has pretty pictures in it, yes, but it also has words of more than one syllable. Good luck understanding it.
John: Unnnnh. (He picks up the book, turns it over and back, then bites off a corner of its cover. He chews a bit, makes a face, and spits it out. Several students snicker and giggle.)
Mark: Alright, get quiet. Tell us, Mongo, did you learn anything at your last school?
John: Huh?
Mark: I mean, you had to have learned something.
John (trying to remember): Uh, hmmm....
Mark: Oh, you seem confused. I see. Let me try to help you recall. What caused World War I?
John: (shrugs):
Mark: Okay, how about the military-industrial complex--why was it seen as a threat?
John: Uh....
Mark: Well, surely you can tell us why we became involved in Vietnam. Come on, Mongo. Amaze us with your understanding, your ability to recall facts about this country's great issues.
John (clearly frustrated and becoming angry): Pick. On. Someone. Else.
Mark: See, class, this is what happens when allowances are made to accommodate jocks. I have no doubt that Mister Mongo, here, can wreak havoc on the sporting field. Perhaps he'll become a professional wrestler, pounding men as big and as brain dead as he, breaking chairs over heads, and cutting his own with hidden razor blades to lend a little blood to the mayhem in a pathetic attempt to create realism. Tell me, Mongo, did you manage to dress yourself this morning, or did you require help?
John (starts to rise): Leave. John. Alone.
Mark: Oh, do sit down, Mongo. You will skip lunch next period, and you will meet me in the principal's office instead. Get one of these other zombies to help you find it.
(Curtain)
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Mainstreaming Mongo (A Play in Four Acts)
Act II
Scene: Teachers' lounge. Four teachers are drinking coffee at a table when another, history teacher Mark Sengles, enters stage right.
Teacher 1: Morning, Mark.
Mark: This place sucks.
Teacher 2: Geez, Mark, it's only the first day of school. Homeroom hasn't even started yet.
Mark: I don't care; this place blows.
Teacher 3: What is it, now? Get tapped for cafeteria duty again?
Mark: No. No, they keep sticking brain-dead jocks in my class. They're dumber than dirt, and they expect me to teach them anything?
Teacher 1: But you're the one who's always ranting about mainstreaming.
Teacher 2: Yeah. How many times have you said it's not right to put the handicapped in special classes apart from the regular students, that it stigmatizes them and takes away their self-esteem.
Teacher 4: I remember you saying it was as bad as tracking, leading kids into areas where their aptitudes indicate they could succeed, instead of giving them equal access to whatever they wanted to pursue.
Teacher 1: I never understood the problem with tracking, myself. I mean, why push a kid into something he couldn't possibly master? Seems to me, if a kid is into something, and shows an aptitude for it, why not give him a shot at success?
Mark: This is different. Jocks aren't handicapped. Jocks are just stupid.
Teacher 3: And wasn't it you who led the big push to make our college-prep curriculum mandatory? Didn't you say that all kids should be prepared for college when they graduate, whether they have any intention of going or not?
Mark: That's exactly right. We don't need to be turning out any more blue collar workers. Hell, anyone can drive a truck or use a monkey wrench. We need more philosophers, more social workers, more teachers, for chrissakes! But these dumb jocks, all they think about is making it to the bigs. They think because they can run a football up and down a field, swish three-pointers, or hit baseballs over the fence, they don't need to study. So they take up space in my class, sit there half asleep, shrug when I call on them, and turn in barely legible assignments that I have to spend time grading.
Teacher 1: Well, what do you propose? We segregate all the jocks, assign them all tutors, schedule classes for them that are easy As? That hardly seems fair.
Mark: No, I know how to deal with them. I either flunk them or give them such low grades that they lose their eligibility for sports. That way, they have nothing left but academics, and they have to hit the books to try to get back on the field.
Teacher 2: Yeah, but by the time they do, their season is over.
Teacher 3: Besides, they'll just drop your class and take something else.
Mark: Ah, but see, my class is required. They flunk History this year; they have to repeat next year. And guess who their teacher will probably be? (Exit stage right.)
Teacher 1: Jerk.
(Curtain)
Scene: Teachers' lounge. Four teachers are drinking coffee at a table when another, history teacher Mark Sengles, enters stage right.
Teacher 1: Morning, Mark.
Mark: This place sucks.
Teacher 2: Geez, Mark, it's only the first day of school. Homeroom hasn't even started yet.
Mark: I don't care; this place blows.
Teacher 3: What is it, now? Get tapped for cafeteria duty again?
Mark: No. No, they keep sticking brain-dead jocks in my class. They're dumber than dirt, and they expect me to teach them anything?
Teacher 1: But you're the one who's always ranting about mainstreaming.
Teacher 2: Yeah. How many times have you said it's not right to put the handicapped in special classes apart from the regular students, that it stigmatizes them and takes away their self-esteem.
Teacher 4: I remember you saying it was as bad as tracking, leading kids into areas where their aptitudes indicate they could succeed, instead of giving them equal access to whatever they wanted to pursue.
Teacher 1: I never understood the problem with tracking, myself. I mean, why push a kid into something he couldn't possibly master? Seems to me, if a kid is into something, and shows an aptitude for it, why not give him a shot at success?
Mark: This is different. Jocks aren't handicapped. Jocks are just stupid.
Teacher 3: And wasn't it you who led the big push to make our college-prep curriculum mandatory? Didn't you say that all kids should be prepared for college when they graduate, whether they have any intention of going or not?
Mark: That's exactly right. We don't need to be turning out any more blue collar workers. Hell, anyone can drive a truck or use a monkey wrench. We need more philosophers, more social workers, more teachers, for chrissakes! But these dumb jocks, all they think about is making it to the bigs. They think because they can run a football up and down a field, swish three-pointers, or hit baseballs over the fence, they don't need to study. So they take up space in my class, sit there half asleep, shrug when I call on them, and turn in barely legible assignments that I have to spend time grading.
Teacher 1: Well, what do you propose? We segregate all the jocks, assign them all tutors, schedule classes for them that are easy As? That hardly seems fair.
Mark: No, I know how to deal with them. I either flunk them or give them such low grades that they lose their eligibility for sports. That way, they have nothing left but academics, and they have to hit the books to try to get back on the field.
Teacher 2: Yeah, but by the time they do, their season is over.
Teacher 3: Besides, they'll just drop your class and take something else.
Mark: Ah, but see, my class is required. They flunk History this year; they have to repeat next year. And guess who their teacher will probably be? (Exit stage right.)
Teacher 1: Jerk.
(Curtain)
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Mainstreaming Mongo (A Play in Four Acts)
Act I
Scene: High school athletic field, before start of first football practice. Five players in uniform are talking when a transfer student approaches them.
Jock 1: Holy...look at what's coming!
Jock 2: My god! What do you think? Six-five, 225?
Jock 1: At least!
Jock 3: That guy's huge! His biceps are as big as my quads!
Jock 1: Hey! New guy! Come here!
New guy: Okay, let's get this over with.
Jock 1: Get what over with?
New guy: You know, first day in the 'hood, you're gonna show the new guy the pecking order. So, who's first?
Jock 1: First for what? Oh, I get it. You think we're gonna gang up on you, is that it?
New guy: Isn't that what this is about?
Jock 1: Nah, man. We're just wondering why you aren't in uniform.
New guy: Not playing football. Just passing by.
Jock 3: Not playing? Why the hell not? I mean, look at you. Coach'd kill to have you on the team. You scared of getting hit, or something?
New guy: Played JV at my last school, till they kicked me off the team. The other schools' teams felt it wasn't fair, me being so big. I kept throwing their center into the quarterback. They could never get a play off.
Jock 4: That why you transferred over here?
New guy: That, plus there was an incident I was involved in.
Jock 1: What happened?
New guy: I don't like talking about it. Just that two seniors missed graduation because they were in body casts, and I transferred. That's all.
Jock 1: Oh, here comes the coach now. He must have seen you, 'cause look at him running! Man, I ain't never seen him move that fast!
Jock 2: And here's a heads up for when you start classes. This one jerk history teacher likes to flunk students who are into sports so they lose their eligibility. He'll probably pick on you just because you look like a jock. Just yes, sir, no, sir him to death. Should be okay.
New guy: I know how to deal with him. Maybe you can help?
Jock 1: Sure! I mean, what can he do? Flunk all of us? Coach'd have his balls in a nutcracker!
New guy: Good. Here's what I have in mind....
(Curtain)
Scene: High school athletic field, before start of first football practice. Five players in uniform are talking when a transfer student approaches them.
Jock 1: Holy...look at what's coming!
Jock 2: My god! What do you think? Six-five, 225?
Jock 1: At least!
Jock 3: That guy's huge! His biceps are as big as my quads!
Jock 1: Hey! New guy! Come here!
New guy: Okay, let's get this over with.
Jock 1: Get what over with?
New guy: You know, first day in the 'hood, you're gonna show the new guy the pecking order. So, who's first?
Jock 1: First for what? Oh, I get it. You think we're gonna gang up on you, is that it?
New guy: Isn't that what this is about?
Jock 1: Nah, man. We're just wondering why you aren't in uniform.
New guy: Not playing football. Just passing by.
Jock 3: Not playing? Why the hell not? I mean, look at you. Coach'd kill to have you on the team. You scared of getting hit, or something?
New guy: Played JV at my last school, till they kicked me off the team. The other schools' teams felt it wasn't fair, me being so big. I kept throwing their center into the quarterback. They could never get a play off.
Jock 4: That why you transferred over here?
New guy: That, plus there was an incident I was involved in.
Jock 1: What happened?
New guy: I don't like talking about it. Just that two seniors missed graduation because they were in body casts, and I transferred. That's all.
Jock 1: Oh, here comes the coach now. He must have seen you, 'cause look at him running! Man, I ain't never seen him move that fast!
Jock 2: And here's a heads up for when you start classes. This one jerk history teacher likes to flunk students who are into sports so they lose their eligibility. He'll probably pick on you just because you look like a jock. Just yes, sir, no, sir him to death. Should be okay.
New guy: I know how to deal with him. Maybe you can help?
Jock 1: Sure! I mean, what can he do? Flunk all of us? Coach'd have his balls in a nutcracker!
New guy: Good. Here's what I have in mind....
(Curtain)
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