Tuesday, March 14, 2006

The 57th Level of Hell

We are still in some respects newish parents. Our eldest is only in first grade. We are still learning the vagaries of the local public school culture. For instance, I learned that it is wise to keep on hand a full "farmer's costume" so when demanded to drop and produce attire so one's offspring can "dress like a farmer" for Future Farmers of America Day or some-such nonsense, you can.

But sometimes, when thrown a curve-ball, you are comfortably on the same playing field as all the other parents.

As we were when Colin brought home his Friday Folder on, yes, one Friday, a week or so ago. It announced that on Monday there was to be a concert. A SPECIAL concert. An artist-in-residence concert.

We should have up and moved. Moved to one of scads of districts with completely decimated arts programs. Where the music programs are lucky if they consist of some thug named Butch singing off-color limericks at the back of the bus.

Hey. I signed up for one concert a year. At Christmas. I went and sat on the bleachers. I didn't even leave early, dammit.

I actually rather like the Christmas (not 'Holiday', not in this district, remember) concert. One of every 3 songs is familiar and they keep things moving. The whole damn thing lasts no more than about 45 minutes, including kindergarteners, and moving the masses on and off stage. It is beauty to behold.

So, Charles and I resign ourselves to this. Colin, dressed as instructed in "dark", is deposited at classroom and we slug down to the auditorium. As we trudge, we run into our neighbors, who are almost as antisocial as we are. I like them lots. We never do things together. No pressure. We wave at a distance. Sometimes. Occasionally, we carpool each other's kids. Occasionally. If one of us lost a limb, the other neighbor would be happy to drive us to the emergency room and feed our kids junk food. That sort of wonderful neighbor. Turns out they have no idea what the hell this is all about. Judging from the overheard conversations around us, none of the other parents do, either. Feeling less stupid by our collective unenlightenment, we hold on to our sole hopes: We will be out of there in about a half hour (stupid, stupid, vane, unrealistic hope) and we will be able to snag a folding chair with a back rather than huddling on the bleachers.

Nope. Bleachers for all. Our backs begin to burn before the kids even file in. I dangle an escape plan in front of Charles, "Psst. Honey. If we just snuck out now, we could go to a bar and have a drink and come back in time to collect our beloved son." Oh, how Charles rued turning down what was in retrospect a brilliant plan.

In the little urchins come. Actually, they are a rather well behaved bunch, all looking like they are showing up for a funeral or becoming Future Goth Farmers of America. Colin is in head-to-toe navy, rather than black. The rebel.

The Artist is introduced by super-happy-organizer-woman, who we quickly come to despise and soon wish to lock in a spidery cellar so we can torture her at will.

This is all her fault.

The artist-guy is a seedy looking character, who is sadly probably about our age. He wears a head-mic and a guitar. We still have some shreds of hope as we learn that the kids helped write the songs (Hey! kids write little short stuff, right? After all, they are little and short, themselves.) Then our hopes are toppled as we learn that, as the program is "short" (huzzah!) he will be performing a set of his own songs afterward (nooooooo!)

Were we near the fire alarm, we'd have pulled it.

So, off they go. Song after song (nine of them) are sung. They are all really fucking long. There is no way the kids made them up. As we don't know the words, we can't even sing along in our heads, counting down the verses until they are done.

Our backs go into tetany; our butts numb; our knees seize.

We realize that had we gone for drinks, this would not be a problem as the chairs would have backs and alcohol is a muscle relaxant.

Charles vows to become State superintendent of Schools so this guy will never work again. He will then fire super-happy-organizer-woman and burn her car.

Finally, it ends, after 45 minutes. Well, the kid performance does. The kids all form an audience on the gym floor at his feet (we are trapped in the bleachers, miles and miles away from any fire alarm pull. He begins to sing. He sings folksy kid-songs that he has written. The kids love it. Little bastards.

Charles realizes how lucky he is to have a building of middle school students who, as he points out, would riot if subjected to this. The police would then be called and the parents could escape in the fracas.

But, no. Our polite little rural kids sit and eat it up. And he sings. And sings. And adds hand motions. And explains the very self-explanatory hand motions, stopping the songs to do so. After several songs, he tells us that THIS is the LAST ONE! We weep with relief.

He is one lying son of a bitch.

He sings another. Oh, yes. And another.

I look around expecting to see mutiny and, perhaps, someone knotting a rope to string his pudgy white ass up from the nearest bare, but soon to be re-snow-covered tree, as not only was it a school night, a Monday night, and after 7:30, but supposed to snow along with the wind storm a-coming in.

But no. Everywhere I looked was a placid face with a half-smile and glazed eyes. Then, I noticed that everyone was a bit too placid. And I learned another lesson. All the parents were pre-medicated. Had to be. Either that or they are pod people.

God, I hope it's the former. I just don't have the energy to spread the alarm and marshall the forces to fight and invasion of body snatchers.

As he finished singing his Last of the Last, Last songs (entitled, creatively, "Bye-bye"), he announced that, if we really loved his songs, and wanted to hear them over and over, well, we were in luck! He would be selling tapes and CDs after the concert.

Charles decided that he should buy one just for the pleasure of destroying it in front of him. Then he thought he'd really buy two, so he could smash them together, messily, in front of him. No, wait, lets get 3: One to drop from a great height, one to run over repeatedly, and the third...well, he wanted a bit of time to decide what to do with the third. Something to really make a statement about how he felt about the whole thing.

We collect our enraptured son, who spent the car trip riffing on his favorite song, something about "don't pull your pants down when there's an alligator in town".

[I want to end this by saying that I really do support the Arts in schools. Hell, I sang in school choirs straight through the end of high school. Several of my relatives are very musical. One of my beloved uncles, as I recall, was even an Artist-in-Residence. It's just the sheer pain of this experience clouded it all. A Monday night, I ask you. Monday night, after a long day at work, when all you want to do is curl up some place warm and comfortable and not have to fantasize about messily offing annoying people who inflict their dreadfulness upon you.]

I'm not wrong about this.

Labels:

29 Comments:

Anonymous Gerah said...

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!!

I dub this your best post ever. Good times. And I love it when other moms swear.

Hehehe.

Oh, by the way: Ditto on your last post, too. I was a yard nazi all day Saturday. It was GLORIOUS. I will share photos sometime, when the hostas start poking their horns out of the soil. It was 70 yesterday here in Michigan. In the morning. By 5 pm it was 30. Today there is snow.

Someone is playing an evil, evil trick on us.

2:31 PM  
Blogger Rozanne said...

Oh. My. God. What a dreadful ordeal.

This reminds me a bit of David Sedaris's story "The Drama Bug" in which a talent-free "Visiting Actor" comes to town. The "Visitin Actor" wore tights (with a tangerine sized bulge in them) and rainbow suspenders.

I picture this guy you endured as being similarly endowed and attired. Or maybe he was wearing one of the aforementioned "farmer's costumes"?

I hope you have recovered by now.

2:42 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Now, why did I not want to teach elementary school??? Just wait till you have to sit though several evenings of violins playing the "Theme for M*A*S*H." These are the times when you get even with the child by grounding him/her forever.

Save the 3rd CD and play it for Charles whenever he has an urge to recreate such an evening at his school.

The Ole RF-er

2:48 PM  
Blogger buffaloon said...

Hey Diana - it's me... your former colleague, friend, classmate and fellow micro-brew enjoyer.
For some reason I feel the need to be anonymous in the world of bloggers. I have resisted responding to your entries as one must have their own blog site to do so... But I finally gave up.
I have been reading you for months. It's a wonderful way to utilize my lunch hour here at PMG (Oh, NOW do you know who I am?).
I LOOOVE your comments on the Artist-in-Residence concert. Greg is doing that exact thing at Leighton's school as we speak. Of course he would NEVER have a concert on a Monday. And NEVER play his own music (for free?, hell no!).
Actually he just got back from Nashville - big things a-happenening down there...
Bye for now. I suppose I'll get used to this blogging thing. I may even have to start putting in some of my own entries - just for you, as no one else knows, or cares, about my new site!

4:51 PM  
Anonymous Colleen said...

Only you can take a lame school program and turn it into a hilarious story. About all those other parents with the half smiles and glazed looks---are you sure you don't live in Stepford, WI?? Great story!

5:29 PM  
Blogger listmaker said...

LMAO!!!!

The best part of leaving elementary school behind was: NO.MORE.MUSIC.NIGHTS!

Ask any parents in our district what they think about their last child leaving grade school and instead of tearing up in nostalgia, the first thing out of their mouths is, "Thank god, no more damn music nights!"

5:31 PM  
Anonymous Christie said...

That is the funniest thing I've read in forever.... And thanks for giving me something to dread in about 4 years when the boy ventures off to school. I just can't wait...numb butt, aching back, and all. But thanks for the warning! Anytime I'm beckoned to school for anything other than a parent-teacher conference I may very well premedicated with a xanax or 2(or, say, an even dozen)! (Oh hell, I'll probably pre-medicate for the parent-teacher conferences too...it's my 1 chance to embarrass the kid right?)

You are hysterical.

10:04 PM  
Blogger Cagey said...

wiping tears from my eyes. Just one minute......

I love that your "Future Goth Farmer of America" was "riffing" on his favorite song.

10:46 PM  
Blogger Teri said...

This reads like Dante's inferno, revised.

Only I think he only had 9 levels of hell.

11:25 PM  
Blogger brooksba said...

Oh.my.God.

You make a good case for home schooling... Now I understand my parents desire to drop me off and pick me up from concerts. Choir and band teachers should tell students the truth - the audience is only here because they love you, not because this is exciting.

5:46 AM  
Blogger Babs said...

Haaaaaaaaaaa!!

That was BRILLIANT!!

I must say, however, I may be forced to send you a dry-cleaning bill.

I'm still pissing myself laughing here :)

6:53 AM  
Blogger Diana said...

Gerah- You make me blush. Wasn't that little bit os spring lovely? We're supposed to get about 6-8 inches of snow tonight and Thursday. Bah. As I recall, you have one lovely shade garden, right?

Rozanne- It was truly awful. We had to go have our taxes done last night and both decided that it was a hot, fun time compared to the previous night. Let's see if I can paint a picture of The Artist. Roundish. Balding with a sparse comb-over. Shaven. Ruddy complexion. Wearing blue jeans, navy buttoned shirt over a navy t-shirt. I'm thinking rubber-soled cloggish shoes but may be wrong on these. I'm guessing an olive rather than a tangerine, although thankfully he was a baggy sort of dresser rather than the other. I need to read Sedaris. I've been meaning to but there's just so much. Maybe for the car trip! Then we can discuss.

Dad- Even I knew those school concerts featuring 70s TV themes were horrible, as a kid taking part in them. They should spike the kool-aid at those things.

Honey!- You had me at Buffaloon! I even remember who came up with it, who created the song around it, and will happily listen to the singing of it this summer, if Greg remembers it. Oh, blogging is so very seductive. Just ask any and all of us. Come for the snark, stay for the friends. Everybody! This is my very dear friend whose name is not Honey but I will dub her so unless she releases her real name as we always started our conversations with a "Hi Honey". We've known each other since med school, did our internship and residency together and practiced together until I fled for a saner life. The only person to see me look worse after a rough night of being barfed and bled on, is Charles. Her husband, Greg, is an amazing musician. His CDs we play with loving care. He is also a really great guy. (Ok, now you must send me an e-mail detailing the whole Nashville thing as I can't wait 3 months to hear it in person) Now, we must all prevail upon her to blog as she is freakin' funny.

Colleen- Stepford, indeed. It was just that sort of thing. The sad thing was that the show was so blatantly about HIM, the kids singing softly in the background.

Listie- You and I are so much alike. I fear that living in this little farming community, for which this was a Big Social Event, puts us in the minority. Well, us and our anti-social neighbors.

Christie- I think the only thing that saved both of us was Charles muttering, "You WILL blog this," and me composing the post throughout the ordeal. Can't wait to read your future takes on such. Will be even better (ahem) relaxed and ready. Just don't go alone. Ever.

Cagey- In the minivan, strapped in the carseat. Poor, poor rural goth kid. Just you wait...your time is coming.

Teri- Dante must have either lived in much simpler times or not been a parent.

Beth- You know, this may be the real reason behind the whole home schooling push. Sure, they SAY they want more control over their kids education but what they REALLY want is to not have to go to school-sponsored events. Smart thinking.

Babs- A day without a little urinary incontinence is like a day without sunshine. In your words: Ta for that.

9:51 AM  
Blogger moegirl said...

Okay, I just about died laughing at this, just like everyone else. Truly hysterical. I can picture you both.

Tonight is my lucky night- orchestra concert night- Allie is playing. They've decided that 4 elementary schools the middle school and the high school need to have one long mega concert. Joy. Except Allie gave me a preview- her school will be playing "Eye of the Tiger"- Rock on!

2:02 PM  
Blogger Diana said...

Stacy- NO! All together into one loooong concert of hell? Sheer evil. Please, sit by the door so you can sneak out and save your sanity! You have my sincere sympathy in this.

2:37 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Too bad Sara was at home and is now too old to demand an exit. You needed her to shout "TURN ON THE LIGHTS!!!!!! LIGHTS ON!!!!!" or some such thing once again to allow you to collect Colin and make your escape. Or would she have been as entertained by the guitar geek as the rest of the kids and been as content as Colin to hear him out?

For me, the worst of the musical nights happened in junior high. Besides the various choirs, the bands and orchestras, both beginning and "advance," also performed. And of course we had to stay to the end, but we did have folding chairs -- with backs.

Mum

3:32 PM  
Blogger Diana said...

Mum- The only thing I could think of, while sitting there, was that at least the band and orchestra were not playing. See, always a bright side. Plus, they kept the lights on. The Sara ploy wouldn't have worked. Pity.

9:38 AM  
Blogger CarpeDM said...

Oh, this was fantastic. Bloody fantastic. The post, I mean, not what you went through.

My God, you are so brilliant.

Although Beth and I went to a concert for a small child we knew and it wasn't horrific, I can certainly understand why this would be so annoying. Because, really, you're there for your kid, not some balding, olive equipped freak.

I'm kind of looking forward to when Josh starts having "concerts." The kid is going to be in both sports and music. I can tell now.

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