Back when I was a kid, a bunch of teachers at my school got together and decided that we sixth graders were the last best hope for mankind. Vietnam had been a huge bummer for all concerned and the Watergate scandal had just about killed off whatever respect anybody still had for the system. It was up to them, these educators reasoned, to instill in us kids the proper ideals to build a better tomorrow before we left for the cold, cynical world of junior high.
They tried to convince us that Joan Baez songs didn't suck and wanted us to pick up trash that other people had thrown on the ground, but their crowning achievement was organizing a student art fair called "Visions of Hope." Participation was compulsory and no prizes were to be awarded because we were supposed to "all win together."
Well, the teachers quickly changed their tune after a bunch of us turned in peace signs scrawled on construction paper, showing our solidarity in not giving a shit. So they sweetened the deal. The winner and a parent or guardian would get free tickets to Knott's Berry Farm. Peace-sign scrawlers got their work handed back to them and were told to try harder.
That was good enough for me. My parents were always too busy yelling at each other ("having a discussion," they called it) to take me anyplace fun. I hadn't been to an amusement park in years so the closest thing I got to a thrill ride was vandalizing construction sites and then hauling ass when a builder showed up in his beat-to-fuck pickup truck.
I did not know much about the world at the time, but figured that things were going to get a whole lot worse before they got better and I wanted to be around for all of it. Now what was needed to win this contest was a depiction of humanity in a pretty sorry state but with a message that we can redeem ourselves. Fortunately, even as a youth, I was a visionary.
The idea for my art project came to me quickly. Using my GI Joe, a Barbie doll I stole from my sister, and a tee snagged from Dad's gold bag, I was ready to get to work. I jammed the point of the golf tee into Barbie's eye and glued the other end to GI Joe's crotch. GI Joe was standing with his little plastic M16 raised by one hand above his head and Barbie was down on all fours with her clothes removed because I thought she would look sexier that way.
To comply with the "Visions of Hope" theme, I ripped off my teacher's label maker to create this message:
THERE'S GOT TO BE A BETTER WAY
My work of art was unbeatable, or so I thought.
The contest was held in the playground on a hot spring afternoon during a first-stage smog alert. Kids stood near their projects, checking to see if the judges were nearby, and hoping to win. Parents stood by their children, checking their watches, and hoping to get out of there soon. My folks did not come because the note from the teacher went straight into the trash. I knew if they saw my artwork, they'd send me back to that child psychologist with bags under her eyes and cottage-cheese legs.
The entries were, by and large, pretty lame. There were watercolor rainbows galore, paper mache doves holding little leafy twigs in their beaks, clay figurines of Snoopy and Charlie Brown hugging each other, and flowers fashioned from dipping napkins in Easter-egg dye spelling "love," or worse, "luv." One kid from the retard class apparently pulled a "If you love something, let it go free" poster from the wall stapled a photo of himself in the upper left-hand corner.
As far as I could tell, I was the only only one who dared to remind the world that we the people had a higher calling than eye-socket rape.
And then the unthinkable happened. The award went to Myron Thorness and his unrecognizable mass of Popsicle sticks, glitter, and melted crayons. Earlier on, I noticed Myron's mother gently reminding the judges that her son has terminal cancer and wouldn't be nice if he could be as happy as possible in the time he had left.
I honestly thought they would see right through her bullshit. After all, the whole point of this art contest was celebrate a better future, so why would you crown a champion who was going to drop dead before got his first boner?
When I saw Myron standing there beaming with his bald head and baseball cap, I just couldn't take it anymore and decided to wipe that smug I've-got-six-months-to-live look right off his face. There was a lump of dog shit on the grass nearby, dried in the sun to make an excellent projectile. I walked over, picked it up, and let fly.
Unfortunately, I threw like a girl so the turd hit Denise Braunschauer instead, making her cry. I felt really bad about that. Denise was beginning to grow tits and I had just blown my chances of her ever letting me get close enough to give one of them a twist.
They tried to convince us that Joan Baez songs didn't suck and wanted us to pick up trash that other people had thrown on the ground, but their crowning achievement was organizing a student art fair called "Visions of Hope." Participation was compulsory and no prizes were to be awarded because we were supposed to "all win together."
Well, the teachers quickly changed their tune after a bunch of us turned in peace signs scrawled on construction paper, showing our solidarity in not giving a shit. So they sweetened the deal. The winner and a parent or guardian would get free tickets to Knott's Berry Farm. Peace-sign scrawlers got their work handed back to them and were told to try harder.
That was good enough for me. My parents were always too busy yelling at each other ("having a discussion," they called it) to take me anyplace fun. I hadn't been to an amusement park in years so the closest thing I got to a thrill ride was vandalizing construction sites and then hauling ass when a builder showed up in his beat-to-fuck pickup truck.
I did not know much about the world at the time, but figured that things were going to get a whole lot worse before they got better and I wanted to be around for all of it. Now what was needed to win this contest was a depiction of humanity in a pretty sorry state but with a message that we can redeem ourselves. Fortunately, even as a youth, I was a visionary.
The idea for my art project came to me quickly. Using my GI Joe, a Barbie doll I stole from my sister, and a tee snagged from Dad's gold bag, I was ready to get to work. I jammed the point of the golf tee into Barbie's eye and glued the other end to GI Joe's crotch. GI Joe was standing with his little plastic M16 raised by one hand above his head and Barbie was down on all fours with her clothes removed because I thought she would look sexier that way.
To comply with the "Visions of Hope" theme, I ripped off my teacher's label maker to create this message:
THERE'S GOT TO BE A BETTER WAY
My work of art was unbeatable, or so I thought.
The contest was held in the playground on a hot spring afternoon during a first-stage smog alert. Kids stood near their projects, checking to see if the judges were nearby, and hoping to win. Parents stood by their children, checking their watches, and hoping to get out of there soon. My folks did not come because the note from the teacher went straight into the trash. I knew if they saw my artwork, they'd send me back to that child psychologist with bags under her eyes and cottage-cheese legs.
The entries were, by and large, pretty lame. There were watercolor rainbows galore, paper mache doves holding little leafy twigs in their beaks, clay figurines of Snoopy and Charlie Brown hugging each other, and flowers fashioned from dipping napkins in Easter-egg dye spelling "love," or worse, "luv." One kid from the retard class apparently pulled a "If you love something, let it go free" poster from the wall stapled a photo of himself in the upper left-hand corner.
As far as I could tell, I was the only only one who dared to remind the world that we the people had a higher calling than eye-socket rape.
And then the unthinkable happened. The award went to Myron Thorness and his unrecognizable mass of Popsicle sticks, glitter, and melted crayons. Earlier on, I noticed Myron's mother gently reminding the judges that her son has terminal cancer and wouldn't be nice if he could be as happy as possible in the time he had left.
I honestly thought they would see right through her bullshit. After all, the whole point of this art contest was celebrate a better future, so why would you crown a champion who was going to drop dead before got his first boner?
When I saw Myron standing there beaming with his bald head and baseball cap, I just couldn't take it anymore and decided to wipe that smug I've-got-six-months-to-live look right off his face. There was a lump of dog shit on the grass nearby, dried in the sun to make an excellent projectile. I walked over, picked it up, and let fly.
Unfortunately, I threw like a girl so the turd hit Denise Braunschauer instead, making her cry. I felt really bad about that. Denise was beginning to grow tits and I had just blown my chances of her ever letting me get close enough to give one of them a twist.
Leave a comment