Like most high schools, mine had an honors student program. I swung head-first into that prison of a building in full gear, taking courses geared towards the intellectuals and the kids with no social lives. By the time I captured the diploma, I had long since dropped them all and joined the ranks of the average. Man, did I ever hate the smart kids. They had no mojo.
Statewide, the requirement is three years of history classes. The typical curriculum at our school meant that the freshmen got a year off from wars and the industrial revolution; for the smart kids, they would take the World History during their first year, and the second year was a special bonus course called Global Issues. I had always liked history as a whole, cruised effortlessly through the World course, and eagerly anticipated the smarty pants course. Sadly, only six other students in my entire class of about 450 were on that same track, so this left Global Issues to be a class full of approximately four times more participation than I cared to muster.
I hated my teacher. Almost all of my classmates were stereotypically preppy, children raised in a country club environment, well-traveled, and never short of an upper-crust opinion. There was a girl who was more of a laid-back hippie type, and then there was me, the K-mart clothed wretch who lived in a rather unwelcoming neighborhood. Considering my teacher was the girls’ tennis coach and rather openly gravitated toward “his kind”, this educational environment simply was not pleasant.
When I wake up in the morning and absolutely hate where I’m headed next, I tend to stop caring or trying. Thus led to the lone interaction I remember with that bastard of an instructor, all in the name of good tunes.
See, one of my friends from the “normal” classes was playing with his band in the gym over the lunch periods. It was a quarter to get in, if you wanted to skip eating or come up afterwards to watch the band play. I didn’t have a class during the period which comprised our lunch period, so I was psyched up to go chill with the band for nearly two hours. My last class before this was the dreaded Global Issues, and upon arriving for the course (and managing to stay awake the entire time), I discovered I only had fifteen cents in my wallet. So, I sucked up my pride and actually asked my teacher if I could borrow a dime.
“You haven’t been doing your homework,” I get in return.
Gee, one almost has NOTHING AT ALL to do with the other. Thanks for the reminder that I’m a failure! Now, please, pity the poor chick and donate a dime, a’ight?
“I will give you this dime on one condition,” he relented. “If you promise to turn in your homework for the rest of this week, the dime is yours.”
“Sure,” I nodded. He plunked the dime in my hand. Bang pow kablaam, I was off.
Once I hit the gym, I was more than awed. Being as I had always been such a music nerd my entire life, it was beyond my comprehension that any of my friends would actually play guitars and drums and lead a real rock band. I really never considered that people had to start somewhere, as it’s not like school programs teach Hendrix; it really wasn’t until years later that I really comprehended that there were private lessons available in our own little town and that musicians do actually live in Iowa.
The name of their band was Burnt Toast. From what I understand, this was probably their third name and they changed it several times afterward. But for now, I could look up at my friends and say, “hey, my buddies are in BURNT TOAST!” It was also pretty obvious that I wasn’t the only other awestruck teen, as a good chunk of the kids that came to watch were bragging amongst each other as to who they knew in the band.
For over an hour and a half, I sat through a giant pile of cover songs, all of which I recognized, considering the reason these guys were my friends in the first place was because we talked about music all of the time. It was the heyday of alternative rock, and Alice In Chains’ “Man In The Box” is the only one I remember to this day, as they had to edit the “shit” out of the lyrics and substitute the MTV-friendly overdubs present in the video. The lead singer/guitarist was there all with his hair down to the middle of his back, the bassist with his poofy ‘do and black leather jacket, and the scrawny blonde drummer rounded out the bunch. Looking back, it was utterly adorable, and quite honestly, a rare treat that the school was gracious enough to provide, both for the band and for us students.
Of course, I still didn’t do any of my homework for Global Issues. I dropped that course like soap in the shower.
As for my band buddies? I had seen all of them around town, here and there, for some time; the singer/guitarist had left for California, traveled a bit, was supposedly in some band that opened for Candlebox on tour, and eventually ended up back in Iowa. I ran into him and we had a few more good times; he lamented on his stereotypical musician’s drug habit, we got drunk, and he played old Skid Row while I sang. He’s out and about again. I mean, after all, you really can’t be a serious musician and hang around Iowa forever.
As for my former teacher, one time I saw him grocery shopping and literally ducked down and ran the opposite direction. It was either that or cross fingers and toes that I wouldn’t be cornered and forced tell him how have I aced every other history class I have ever taken, then pelt him with dimes.
It still could happen, I guess, if I go to my ten-year reunion next year. Sadly, I don’t think Burnt Toast will be secured as the band for the gala. I would certainly scream like a cracked-out groupie if they got up and played “Man In The Box” anyway.
Shove my nose in spit,
–gloomchen
BONUS TRACK!
While I’m pretty steadfast about answering emails, I would also like to invite everyone to liven up our forums or, perhaps, share your own “tune tale.” I have nothing better to do than read them all, so if nothing else, dance like a monkey and entertain me.
I also just wanted to take a moment off the beaten path of my column to pimp everyone on the entire damned website; seriously, the feedback I have gotten just from fellow staff members alone has been beyond flattering. Every single columnist in music is BEYOND rad and it’s been a while since I have worked with a group that I can respect this much. NY Slayer is rad (and should have a new column up today). Hatton is rad. Lucard is rad. Laflin, Liquidcross… I know I’m forgetting tons of excellent folks. Oh yeah — it’s safe to say that most of the wrestling zone has been MORE than gracious to me, in both pimpage and in hilarious conversation (and getting me in trouble with my boyfriend, but that’s another story). Just run around and read everything that looks remotely interesting — chances are, it will exceed your expectations.
And now the karma is much better balanced.
Until the next time.
