out to a raft in the middle of a lake, or go canoeing, or hike up some godforsaken peak only to turn around and come right back down, although I did participate in the campâs arts ânâ crafts program. The camp directors, for all their backwoods, backwards thinking, were ahead of their time in this one area. They offered a class in body art, so we all got tattoos. Unfortunately, there wasnât a lot of artwork to choose from, so we were encouraged to burn our camp identification numbers into our forearms as a means of expressing ourselves. Plus, they had that nice mountainfolk raping activity, so we could experience the wilderness in all its splendor and express ourselves in nature. I think I even came home with a nice case of poison sumac on my sphincter, but thatâs a whole other story.
(Technically, this still counts as an extension of that second Deliverance joke, delivered just a few paragraphs earlier. Itâs just that sometimes, in the comedy business, you can wring an extra few drops of funny from a routine a beat or two after the punch line, which is what Iâm trying to do here.)
School offered its own brand of childhood trauma. There was no ass raping that I can recall, but I was upbraided on more than one occasionâand, trust me, you havenât suffered until youâve been upbraided by a representative of the Board of Education of the City of New York. Speaking personally again, and once more from the heart, I would have much preferred an upbraiding from the Catskills mountainfolk to the special brand of interaction they offered instead, and possibly even to the special brand I had to stamp onto my forearm, but I canât really complain. After all, I did get that T-shirt out of the deal. And I still have all of my old report cards, to memorialize my extra-efforts in the classroom. (This is another one of those âtrueâ parts, Iâm afraid.) I donât know why I saved them, but I take them out from time to time, and reconsider my options. Someday, I suspect, Iâll donate them, along with my other important papers, to some institution of higher learning. Itâll probably be to one of those schools that advertise on late-night television, but still â¦
One of my elementary school teachers, Mrs. Coulborn, wasnât too impressed with my work ethic. She wrote, âGilbert exerts very little effort and concentration. He seems to dream in class and does not review the necessary information.â
On another report card, a teacher named Mrs. Sobel wrote, âHe is not doing well. Please come in to see me.â
(Those two words, see me , were perhaps the most dreaded two words in the annals of public schoolingâand if I had to make an uneducated guess, which Iâm afraid is the only kind Iâm equipped to make, Iâd say annals ran a close third.)
One of the best things about these old report cards was the âParent Commentâ section on the back. At the time, I probably didnât think it was so wonderful, but after all this time itâs nice to have a record of my mother interacting with my teachers. (Itâs also useful for legal purposes, Iâm told, to be able to produce even this meager paper trail to demonstrate that my parents took an interest in my education.) Most parents simply signed the report card, which we underachieving children had to return to the school the next morning to prove to our teachers that our parents had been given the full measure of our underachievements. However, there was also a section for the parent to share a note or a comment. Remember, this was back in the stone age of two-way communication between parents and teachers. Parents couldnât e-mail their childâs teacher, or leave a voice mail, or post threatening messages on their Facebook page. They could only write a short note or comment in the tiny space on the back of the report card ⦠and my mother certainly did
(Technically, this still counts as an extension of that second Deliverance joke, delivered just a few paragraphs earlier. Itâs just that sometimes, in the comedy business, you can wring an extra few drops of funny from a routine a beat or two after the punch line, which is what Iâm trying to do here.)
School offered its own brand of childhood trauma. There was no ass raping that I can recall, but I was upbraided on more than one occasionâand, trust me, you havenât suffered until youâve been upbraided by a representative of the Board of Education of the City of New York. Speaking personally again, and once more from the heart, I would have much preferred an upbraiding from the Catskills mountainfolk to the special brand of interaction they offered instead, and possibly even to the special brand I had to stamp onto my forearm, but I canât really complain. After all, I did get that T-shirt out of the deal. And I still have all of my old report cards, to memorialize my extra-efforts in the classroom. (This is another one of those âtrueâ parts, Iâm afraid.) I donât know why I saved them, but I take them out from time to time, and reconsider my options. Someday, I suspect, Iâll donate them, along with my other important papers, to some institution of higher learning. Itâll probably be to one of those schools that advertise on late-night television, but still â¦
One of my elementary school teachers, Mrs. Coulborn, wasnât too impressed with my work ethic. She wrote, âGilbert exerts very little effort and concentration. He seems to dream in class and does not review the necessary information.â
On another report card, a teacher named Mrs. Sobel wrote, âHe is not doing well. Please come in to see me.â
(Those two words, see me , were perhaps the most dreaded two words in the annals of public schoolingâand if I had to make an uneducated guess, which Iâm afraid is the only kind Iâm equipped to make, Iâd say annals ran a close third.)
One of the best things about these old report cards was the âParent Commentâ section on the back. At the time, I probably didnât think it was so wonderful, but after all this time itâs nice to have a record of my mother interacting with my teachers. (Itâs also useful for legal purposes, Iâm told, to be able to produce even this meager paper trail to demonstrate that my parents took an interest in my education.) Most parents simply signed the report card, which we underachieving children had to return to the school the next morning to prove to our teachers that our parents had been given the full measure of our underachievements. However, there was also a section for the parent to share a note or a comment. Remember, this was back in the stone age of two-way communication between parents and teachers. Parents couldnât e-mail their childâs teacher, or leave a voice mail, or post threatening messages on their Facebook page. They could only write a short note or comment in the tiny space on the back of the report card ⦠and my mother certainly did
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