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.